Best Urbanold Poems
OLD CURLY IS BURLEY
I’m telling you dude, the man is as wily as they come
He’ll leave you wishing you were dead or numb
His name is Curley and I don’t know why
I just know he’ll sell you dope and watch you die
I learned years ago about Curley’s way
As my pace slows down and my hair grows gray
Whom so ever raised old Curley should be in jail
And this ain’t no made up fairy tale
He’s a living and breathing son of a b***h
And his momma must have been a witch
Because old Curley casts specious spells
And he does so with each dime bag he sells
Okay, I dare you dude, turn your back on the mother
And you’ll swear to Christ he’s Satan’s brother
When you cop from him there’s always a doubt
And for sure one of his hot shots will take you out
So go ahead and deal with that which the devil designs
But when he boasts about his dope you’d better read between the lines
Selling dope is okay but beating junkies is no way to behave
And if you don’t heed my words I vow to visit you at your grave
© 2011.….Poefree
White-brilliant-dazzling,
limestone houses in the morning light
between cypresses and laurels,
the fragrance of the East
passing through narrow lanes of the Old City.
The Arab merchants
praising their goods -
over there carpets, there Bedouin-dresses,
Christian devotional objects
between the smoke of water-pipes.
Hawkers and tourists hurrying through Damascus Gate.
Sun and dust are tinting the air.
At the bus station are shovering passengers
between Israeli soldiers with shouldered guns,
observing the crowd, omnipresent.
A small group of Orthodox Jews are hurrying with
their fluttering caftans towards Mea Shearim,
their home - a piece of the Middle Ages
embedded in the New City of Jerusalem,
there is the Shtetl vivid.
Children are playing, laughing, with their temporal locks dancing.
Today is not Sabbath,
no roadblocks are hindering the quickly flowing traffic.
There, close, a Falafel-stall,
spreading its scent.
Near the Old City, at the Arabic Bus Station,
an industrious coming and going.
There leave the old and rattling buses for Hebron and Jerico.
I am going back to the Old City,
her walls surround me like stony guards
of a long and lost age.
Near the Wailing Wall I am awaiting my friends.
Above me the shiny roof of the Dome of the Rocks,
towering up into the deep blue sky.