The glimmering streets that burned dreams
I can’t grasp its greedy shade
The creep, the rage, and the imbibing crowd
Where do they sleep?
Mist thirsting upon bare and decency
And I refuse to stride with the walls of shame
Where is the promontory beyond this city?
An ecstatic land blowing warm pleasure
Where beneath is a pile of beautiful sunstone
Refracting the translucence of abundance and ebullience
Somewhat hues of the golden hour
Besides its spangled appearance
The independence of my mind
Where water whirls the echt-hands I chase
And love itself shall crash sweetly
Beyond the salty encounters I mourned
And the hymn of the birds
Would bewitch my barely living soul
He No Window
In this piece of art
Work
Send it out
In his ark
It's shut
Filled in over wars
A budget
Send it out
Arts out of phone piece time
Been begun in trains?
Speaker of a house?
If a subway can't prevail
I exit words
Birds visit
Nearby, buy nearer the trial
Improve the station
As I begin duty on leave
Always deprive my arrival
Beyond satisfaction
Request inquisition
Dramatize the surrender often
Often surrender opens upon lies
The mourning regrets it's opposite
Buy mid days breadth, talling the
Tomorrow
In the crowded bus of Lusaka,
I met Camila —
her smile shone like the brightest star
torn from the American sky.
“I am from the USA,” she said,
“we were told Africa is backward—
no roads, no lights,
only savages wandering in dust.”
I laughed, yet sorrow weighed my chest.
“Behold these streets, these markets,
these souls full of fire.
Your world hides the truth from you.”
She listened, but with hollow eyes.
Her words betrayed her breeding:
“Our parents say you have lower minds.
Yet as I hear you speak,
I wonder if it is the opposite.”
She asked, “Would you not stay in America?”
“No,” I answered, “I have walked your cities.
I saw no paradise there—
only gilded prisons of glass and steel.”
She leaned closer, whispering,
“We lack moral intelligence.
We look down upon those greater than us.
I like you… yet I cannot love you.”
I told her:
“The soul has no color.
I do not hunger for flesh,
I am drawn to the mind—
I am sapiosexual.”
As I left the bus,
she called after me:
“When I return home,
I will tell them—
Africa is Heaven on Earth,
and America…
is Hell dressed in light.”
NICKELS AND DIMES
Senseless life
Value null
Homeless Man
Streets my home
Alone in roam
No Bed just a pavement in the corner
Passer by pennies dropped
Other times nickels and dimes
Life being bitter
My name I don’t even remember
Societies outcast
The unfortunate
A life that was once striving
Now not having
The forgotten
Family that turned its back
It’s beyond fact being reality
Weathered my own storms
Sunny days living in darkness
No one knows the trouble I am in
Tears that no longer fall
Words no longer expel
My own unbreakable chains
Despair moment
The street my education
Wearing clothes all I have
Sadness with no smiles
A homeless man stuck on still
Virtues no more
Just an image decorating the pavement
The fortune of nickels and dimes
Dreadful story
There you have it
Homeless man morse.
The red sunset
sends its ubiquitous rays
to cover everything
within its encircling embrace.
The silhouette of lovers
on a park bench
appears to burn with love,
setting passion's scene aglow.
Towering skyscraper windows
reflect the sunset's crimson stare
like a thousand glaring eyes
red from sleepless nights.
A fountain's slow trickle
oozes from glowing garnet angels
like blood from broken hearts,
bleeding away the sense in life.
Passers-by appear angry,
the sun inviting their innermost thoughts
to sear through bone, flesh, and skin
and silently shout their fears.
The world on fire, set ablaze
by heaven's fury, burns with the intensity
of love's pure passion, man's volcanic thoughts
and life's consuming relentlessness.
And the day-star of time,
the poet of placid skies and lucid scenes,
steps behind the world and leaves it
to put yet another day into perspective.
Thousands of miles above water
Lies a marvel too holy
To name
And too beautiful to deny
Carved from rock, a city of faith
Where hands of devotion shaped stone
Each church a whisper of eternity
Each alley a hymn in shadow and light
Pilgrims tread the worn paths
Their prayers rising like incense smoke
Windows frame the sun’s gentle kiss
On walls that have held centuries of hope
Lalibela, where earth meets heaven
Where history sleeps in quiet majesty
And every stone speaks of a people
Who dared to dream with their hands and hearts
Here, time bends,
And the soul remembers
That beauty is both sacred and human
And wonders are born from belief.
What can I write
Of Denmark’s streets?
I choose the sight
Of spotless floors, clear signs.
Through Copenhagen’s corridors
Houses stand in color and order
Landscapes trimmed with care
Like hair freshly cut.
Oh, those drains
Flowing like streams
Running downhill
A quiet kind of beauty.
The waters of Odense River
Clear as crystal
Unlike my own backyard
Choked with plastic and bottles.
Alligators break the dark circular water,
later, a guy with a big belly and low belt
will grandstand while throwing half-frozen
chickens at them.
This early I’m still surfacing,
last night my legs got jailed
behind lidless dreams; the back of my neck
tingles now, as old sweat refries itself.
I’m waiting for the ‘man’.
A breeze combs damp hair
while I make-out with a Michelob
inside a soda bottle.
He’ll show-up in sockless Crocs,
baggies bulging
from the pockets of
his camouflage shorts.
I and Frick and Frack over there
fake an interest in the egrets
as the morning sun flickers through
snowy spread out, translucent wings.
The ankle-deep mist rises
revealing clearly
that we are simply here
as another form of park life,
waiting to be fed
one more far-out evening.
Drained by urban ramblings
Bang of noontime workload
Nails all calm from my soul.
Through grass bed on woodland
I sink into nothing
Wrapped by cushion of leaves
Tamed, new vigor finds me
Thanks, this scribe must say,
Grateful we woke up today,
Let's rise with joyful smiles,
God blesses us across the miles,
Seeking God's wisdom, no less,
Trusting divine plan, no stress,
God, hope we can all still pray,
Guide Earth's city of God someday,
Sent us Jesus, holy preacher,
Holy Spirit, our best teacher,
Grace sparks us, staying alive,
Thanks, God, our faith can thrive,
God loves His mortals anyway,
Even when the flock turn away,,
Praising His power, no need to fret,
Thanking awesome God, our best bet.
I found a shortcut and I was excited beyond belief
My husband was horrified, this shortcut gave him grief
I was taking a trip right through the most dangerous place in Chicago
But I am not a prissy, frightened stuck-up woman, I do not do Mar-a-largo
My husband begged me to never take this shortcut again.
Naturally, I ignored his craziness, but kept my secret in.
We left home behind,
hearts full of hope,
dreams draped on backs,
dust dancing on shoes,
the city ahead —
calling us forward.
Tall towers took time,
but so did costs.
Bread was a bill,
air wasn’t free
Even sleep stung —
priced in pressure of thoughts.
Coins clattered too soon,
pockets pressed dry.
We chased light,
found cold steel.
Time ate dreams,
tangled and true.
We counted months,
but gained grief.
Rain mocked us,
so did noise.
Home hung farther,
each city night.
Plans pooled into prayers,
hope huddled, thin.
We worked wide,
waged just peanuts —
enough to stay stuck
in survival’s spin.
Still, we hold
that first fire's flicker.
Not lost but paused,
not failed just finding.
We left home to build home.
An eerie stillness enshrouds,
the street I lodge in,
lone shadows loiter and lounge,
dark ink creatures peep
wet croak from a gaunt hermit,
slumped on granite bench,
faint cry from flitting figures
estranged by night chill
What if the King of the World were accessible
What would you ask Him to do
Would you ask Him for Love, for wealth
for peace on earth, for good health
Would you ask Him to grant you three wishes
as if He were a genie
Would you ask Him to clean up your city
or on filthy scoundrels take pity
What if the King of the World was so close to you
that you could whisper in His ear
Would you give Him some good advice
or just let Him roll the dice
Think about this question
and what you might do
For He stands ready and able
right next to you
Veranda Bombs
Read as Heading per Naval incident
"Now This!"
"Now This!"
As paragraph goes out of style
"Sue Anne the stars won't gather."
Veranda pan up too you
"Waking to a World in Peril?"
"Hopefully big things to come in our report"
Tell 'em what? Country
Special effects guys live on the trolley.
Tatas? Tatas.News?Tons.Coffee? Sugar? Happening!
Kendall as Kevin
In a West End Town Expose
Specific Types of City Poems
Definition | What is City in Poetry?
Poems Related to City
civic, civil, municipal, urban, burghal, citified, interurban, intraurban, megalopolitan, metropolis, center, municipality, downtown, place, capital, port, burg, borough, megalopolis, conurbation, apple, boom town, metropolitan area, polis, urban place, urbs,