Best Urban Poems
*Murder most foul. Rod Serling, Stephen King or Ellery Queen?
Picturesque place on the edge of nowhere, small town American life.
Suddenly subject to media glare, reports of the mayor's missing wife!
Search parties, rescuers, all on the scene with rumors of mischief afoot.
People keep asking, "What does it all mean?" Some lock their doors and stay put.
“Over here,” someone yells, as a spotted owl hoots, “There’s something here under the brush."
The ground shakes and rumbles heavy with boots, the now gathered crowd in a hush.
As I cower in fear and stare at the scene, the victim's head's there on the ground.
The body is searched for until it is clear, they'd covered the whole flippin' town.
The mayor of the burg remarries so soon, suspicion’s on everyone's mind.
But with nary a witness except for the moon, the law stops pursuing in time. Ten years have passed and the story's still told, the horror of what we had seen. I was a kid just eleven years old, yet the images still haunt my dreams.
To this very day I've never gone back, avoiding those woods at all cost. Something transpired unholy and black, our innocence on that day was lost.
But what they don't know and perhaps never will, is the way that my stepmother died. With hatchet in hand and a thrill for the kill I swung true, and never once cried. Eleven I was and a daddy's girl too, together we made such a team. And I'm happy to say, no one has a clue- as for me, I'm livin' the dream. And if you should ask where the body's been hid, I'll tell you, but don't tell a soul...
The shell remains
picked clean by hungry vultures
ravenous with greed.
Gouged-out eyes
now bare hollow sockets
vacant in their stare.
Morsels of choice parts
deftly stripped or torn away—
and gutted vitals, furtively devoured,
have filled the wanton needs
of scavengers who shared the feast.
The carcass rests
flat on bony frame
supported once by plump, round legs
on which it mightily ran.
There it lies—
a brittle, empty shell—
the poor abandoned Chevy
on the Harlem River Drive.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Bring To Life
Sponsor: Shadow Hamilton
Judged: 04/14/2018
~3rd Place~
Contest: East Jesus
Sponsor: Roy Jerden
Judged: 01/02/2015
Note: Inspired by my many trips years ago in the late 70s, to visit my father in a hospital there. I would see so many abandoned cars lined up as 'empty shell carcasses' along the Harlem River Drive in New York City.
A babbling stream, a peaceful lane
These are the things that I enjoy
As I walk on a summers day
With a warm gentle breeze upon my face
A cottage in a field, with swirling smoke
A family sitting round ready to eat
Rich chicken soup and freshly baked bread
Then five little children all snug in their bed
A flitting bird upon the nest
Protecting her brood from unknown harm
A cow chewing cud all gentle and calm
Then sheep and one dog in one accord
Oh what a beautiful land we have
If we would take the time to see
Instead of rushing through the day
Let’s sit for a while and take it all in
Friends and trouble go hand in hand.
Legends of the neighborhood.
Like statues and vacant buildings still stand.
A crime in plain view no one ever saw.
Held hostage in fear.
The mouse sturggles to escape from
cats claw.
Blood on the bricks that stains my mind.
Time takes me away.
Yet never leaves the memory far behind.
Summers in the city nights run into days.
We turn are backs to the truth.
But in this game everyone plays.
Heros are villians depending
on who you are.
Stories told bout the other night.
Hidden truths like the bat under the bar.
The players are future tombstones
Men glorified beyond there name.
the citys children caught within her confines.
Forced to play a different game.
The cruel streets I walked made me sad
I looked not at him, nor at her
Those who passed me by, gutter grads
I felt at home among the curs
We were outcasts from hearth and home
Over the land our kind did roam.
Looking here and then searching there
As many as stars in the sky
By foot, by car, sometimes by air
We wanted to understand why
We couldn't go back where we'd been
Burned our bridges and that's a sin.
Some were poets within their hearts
A killer or two in the crowd
And some were like me; a la carte
Doing what it took to be proud
Some chased women, some ran from them
And in the melee some lost a gem.
I sit here writing words of mine
Wondering how many are left
Who write words and sell for a dime
I have escaped death's cold, cold theft
I have fought the fight and I've won
I'm old yes, but I've just begun
1.
they say everything here is
somewhere in the middle of the road
where names get bleached and keys forget about their doors
and there is something we should dig our coated nails into;
the layers of regret and anger
that our mothers tell us to peel off
2.
but the sun bakes us too hard and rancid
laying down on styrofoam mattresses
where someone pokes their thumbs through the plastic
watching nothing but empty bubbles reflecting
and life is faded, glossy pages of a magazine
with a worn bar stool with cigarette burns thrown in between
3.
and we all carry this restless, tormented beauty
that gets up and leaves
as soon as they say
it will settle down
© Gry W Christensen
Above, the shrill of neon lights portend
a promise of new love in garish hues,
but for a broken life yet on the mend
the darkness of the scape brings only views
of solitude when memory accrues
as strangers unimpassioned eyes peruse.
The music wafts from grottoes down below,
blue jazz and candles in a shadowed room,
while up here floodlights cast necrotic glow
as wind gusts and the drops of rain resume.
Cold luminance is all that they exhume
just as my mind expects a rose to bloom.
Your recent death keeps looping in my mind,
no passing faces in the crowd are yours.
I walk the night, imagine you in kind
emerging through the uninviting doors
like Cathy to go dancing on the moors.
I rush beneath an eave as now it pours,
your white reflection standing in the rain,
come back to haunt the neon night again.
1/23/18
Brown eyes so deep with anger and pain yet, so hypnotising and sweet they
tempt my soul.
Lips so soft and warm, such harsh words for such gentle lips. Kiss me so I can
feel your pain.
An embrace so safe and secure that could crush you and destroy that which is
oh so pure- hold me closley.
I feel your heart,
I hear your breath,
I know there is love inside.
A sculptured body, skin of a king, I see you in my dreams-I feel you when you are
away.
If only you loved me with a heart that's pure.
If only you'd let me in so I could love you,
forever and ever,
my strong black man...
$hawty Got $wag
Shawty got swag,
Shawty mad dope.
Face all cheesin’,
She real turned up.
Goin’ to da club,
She steppin' wit her peeps,
Lookin’ so ratchet,
She’s straight up hoochie.
No racks in her pocket,
No stacks in her wallet,
But she all into bubbly
Slurpin’ and burpin’.
Lookin for a big baller,
Who’ll give her wat she wants,
Wildin’ on the dance floor,
Tweakin’ an’ freakin’,
Shawty actin' so cra cra!
She just like da rest a dem,
But Shawty real fly,
Sure likes a lotta ice,
Bling bling, and Benjamins.
Shawty creepin’ to hook up
Coz she needs a boo wit finesse,
Who’ll give her Yves St. Laurent,
5-star hotels, and 5-star restaurants.
Shawty off the chain,
Shawty off the hook,
She got game and she’s aight!
Shawty da bomb - fuh real!!!
08-18-2014
Contest: Ebonics – Let’s Do Some Slang
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Placement: 1st
Some Terms and Definitions:
shawty – a young attractive female; dope – cool, nice, awesome; swag – style;
turn up – excited; mad – really a lot; peeps – friends, close pals; baller – a
thug that made it in the big time; racks/stacks– lots of money; aight – alright;
wildin’– to go crazy, acting out of control; cra cra – crazy; tweakin’/freakin’ –
dancing provocatively and moving around out of control; cheesin’ – smiling;
finesse – man who has swag and can spend a huge amount of money; ratchet
– ghetto diva; creepin’ – sneaking about; bubbly – champagne; bling bling –
expensive flashy jewelry; Benjamins – hundred dollar bills; boo – one’s lover;
da bomb – the best of the best; game – skills; ice – expensive flashy jewelry
usually diamonds or jewelry with diamonds; off the chain/off the hook –
excellent, fantastic, awesome; fly – cool, in style; hook up – getting together
with someone romantically; hoochie – a female who dresses trashy; straight up
– absolutely, really.
Here I go again, focused on myself.
Remembering, analyzing,
Memorializing tragedy.
Thinking, endless thinking.
Suicides, death of grandmas, past loves.
Pining about passions and losses.
The condo I had to let go.
The jobs I left behind.
And the cemetery lots.
My mind wonders around in circles.
From darkness to darkness, city to city,
Job to job, decision to decision
My children, I embrace with love.
Those years riddled with joys and pains.
Trying, always trying,
Yet, still disappointed.
Clinging to religion, remembering God.
Accepting –
Then, the child in me curls up
Safe in my warm cocoon,
And I think of you in the next room.
Life made new, fear subdued.
The touch of your hand, my confidence renews.
That forever love so long wanted, found at last.
The pressures I once knew moved to the past.
To the outside world I say adieu.
I was lost in the hollow of myself.
Outside of myself, I found peace.
Memories blot out urban chaos
And focus on woodland happy days.
Struggles not so painful anymore.
Peace found its hope in you.
…And then, we spoon.
Copyright January 15, 2014
Written for Poetry Soup member contest: Contemporary Figurative Artiste Stephanie Deshpande in Contemporary Free Rhyme Free Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Cyndi MacMillan.
Inspired by Stephanie Deshpande’s portrait of a Sleeping Child http://www.stephaniedeshpande.com/porfolio/
The Urban Jungle
Where trees once stood, oh so proud
Now a tower, hosts a crowd
In a place, where water flowed
Now a lawn freshly mowed
Once a cry from Tarzan heard
Now a car horn blasts a nerd!
Wildlife teemed in wood and bogs
Only now roam packs of dogs
A safe place for frog and toad
Now a highway overload
Bird song filled the air aloud
Now we have a toxic cloud
Wild cats hunted for prey in vain
Now we bathe in acid rain
NOW all wildlife in distress
In the name of OUR progress!
#MyLifeMatters
My hands are up don't shoot!!
I'm a black man, with feelings and a valued life,
Please, I've done nothing wrong, point the gun the other way.
At my home, it holds the love of my valued wife,
There's no kids, but we talk of having children one day.
Is my tail light busted, was I speeding too fast?
If so I apologize, may not have been paying attention.
So what made you suspicious sir of me through the dash?
Tell me now, in the future I can maybe prevent it.
Don't want to be a statistic, I will soon be forgotten
After my brief CNN mention of me being shot.
Of me being SHOT, dash cam flashing non stop when
The masses see another man dead by the hands of a cop.
My hands are up DON'T SHOOT I didn't kill 9 members
Of a church, I don't even have a weapon to cause hurt.
My hands are up DON'T SHOOT I'm 3 credits away from my degree
Check my I.D. no history of batteries or felonies.
At my home, it holds the love of my valued wife,
There's no kids, but we talk of having children one day.
#MyLifeMatters
Written on 12/7/2015 @ 6:10am EST
This city demands to be explored
It aches with the yearning of a living metropolis
The broad masses of the people
take sustenance from it
One cannot help but believe that
the city is a living organism
Does time tell everything?
Time is a manic relative of this city
If you know this you can survive in this urban homeland
You can thrive when
you know that
the swift pace of life here
keeps you on your toes
You can survive
when you realize
that the millions pounding the pavement
are searching for the peace you seek
The bright lights which shine in the shadows
are reflected in a million eyes
Every time you see a smile in this city
Treasure it
for the hectic pace of this asphalt homeland
allows for only brief moments of love
In the asphalt homeland
I lay down to sleep
In the background
a saxophone wails
and relaxes tired muscles
Streetlights cut through the darkness
The day has passed
as days do
This city dweller
wishes to head off to
dreamland
Jazz in the background
lets his mind wander
through sweet pathways
not created
by the hands of man
My heart beats with a rhythm
stolen from the heart of the city
Sax wails, drums beat
pianist plays lovely riffs
My dreams will be filled with joy
tonight
for I know
there are plenty
of
others
in
this
city
who will join
me in the jazz fantasia
which awaits us
(The final utterance and testament
of a fallen comrade. Belfast 1979)
He
never knew
till he laid there naked.
(A withering heap of travesty.)
How blue the sky
how green the grass,
each tiny blade reminiscent
of a gentle touch from a bygone age.
Each wound on fire,
yet a confound complement
to a burning passion
of a love he was about
to leave behind.
He
saw formidable clouds
begin to threaten
the moment,
yet gently
refreshing droplets
tantalize the mood,
blend with a body
and it’s blood, before
washing a mind
free of it’s pain
forever!
© Harry J Horsman 1994