City Life
City life is not my thing
It’s too hard to survive
If I move from point A to B on foot
People think that I’m a tram
Irrespective of the fact that I tell them that
In the rural part, that is routine
They just brush it aside
I think city living is for those who were born there.
When I recount life in the country
To them, it sounds so strange
I’m so out of place
In the city, conflicts are the norm
Too much bloodletting without reason
Reasoning is their second language
Almost everyone is armed in some way
out to do bodily harm
I made a cut
This place is a living hell
City life is not my kind of thing.
My knuckles are raw from the cold subway pole,
and the guy next to me smells like damp wool and cheap coffee.
He’s staring at a cracked phone screen,
his thumb scrolling past headlines, dinners, divorces.
We don’t talk.
Nobody talks here.
But under his heavy black winter coat,
somewhere behind his lint-covered tie,
a small fist of muscle is slamming against his ribs.
Thump.
It’s a clumsy, desperate noise,
like an old radiator knocking in a basement.
It keeps time against the black tunnel outside the window,
a persistent thudding negotiation with the dark
that just asks for enough time to get to Tuesday.
We walk around pretending we own the sidewalk,
worrying about the rent, the teeth that need fixing,
the text message left on "read."
Every wet breath is a lease renewal
signed in the dark without our permission.
I look at the girl across from me,
her eyeliner smudged from a long shift.
Her chest rises.
The cold world looks the other way,
indifferent,
and lets her have another minute to figure it out.
It’s not a grand design.
It's just a truce.
A messy, fragile truce,
kept alive by a pound of red meat
stubbornly refusing to stop hitting the wall.
the wretched burnt-orange sun
beats down on my broken car
as she thumps mindlessly through potholes
with windows down
we gaze at clowns
and the derelicts
and the dirty tricks
as they crawl
across the pavement
the lively beauties walk
amongst jackasses and Gemini's
confused hooligans steal
from random pedestrians
to feed addictions
fulfilling a need, though
they mean you no harm, indeed
despite their transgressions
we're all devoured
by our own deceptions
A warm blanket for the morning.
A freshly squeezed glass of orange juice.
A sun ray peeking through soft dew.
A grandfather clock chiming in the corner.
A rush past swaying beds of grass.
A leap onto smooth cement.
A rain cloud in the horizon.
A whisper of fog from the south.
A passenger train behind schedule.
A quick look at a wristwatch.
A card yet to be punched.
A sudden pour on open fields.
A puddle mistaken for a ravine.
A hurricane for your troubles.
A wind to be ever picked up.
A wind which is actually a breeze.
A blow of a dandelion.
A seed connecting with earth.
A drink for the roots.
A sapling sprung high.
A tree for your troubles.
Steel canyons hum with electric breath,
Where neon veins pulse against the night,
And iron shadows dance in golden light.
A thousand paths converge in restless stretch,
Lost within the symphony of the street,
The rhythm of a million hearts beat.
Embraced by the Night
as it falls slowly onto my lap,
its face loses warmth,
the cold overtakes the residual
heat as it leaves its system,
abandoned by its devoted
owls of city life,
waveless emotions fill
the tattered streets of
forgotten memories.
The shadows remember
imprinting every visitor
of each generation,
cursed to loneliness
and the unfriendly
familiarity of flashing
synthetic lights carved
alongside each street
corner advertising
its owner's utopia.
The air fills with delectable
treats,
salty and sweet fleeting
away in a cloud
huffing and puffing,
the smoke blazes
through tone-deaf
voices of drunkards
passed out by the trash
bins living and breathing
on the sounds of past
regrets wandering through
painstaking artistry,
only a smoke and a sip
can endure the frost
in this City’s jagged
itinerary
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
steel veins pulse below
concrete swallows fading light
pigeons claim the ledge
sirens stitch the dark
neon spills on wet pavement
dreams queue for the bus
windows hold the dawn
a thousand lives unfold
silent, side by side
My special aunt loved
life in the open country-
city bus made runs to town.
I loved to visit
we would cook, laugh and dress up-
then take city bus to town.
city never sleeps.
light neither blinks nor sound stills.
offers many motley scenes.
streets are littered with,
scraps of men scattered around.
lonely souls in bustling crowd.
a one-legged pigeon
hopping tiles in the depot
freezes where shadows remain
doesn't need our pity—
working twice as hard for less
—most commuters know that score
Cocktails and dinners
neon lights and enchantment
concrete buildings and glass fronts
The solitude screams
sad urban development
pockets of synthetic grass
Pigeons scour from high
Ailanthus strives with concrete
to blend greenery with stone
Streetlights announce dusk
as critters stalk ripe dumpsters
under a moonless night cloak
Written for "Just Two In One Spree Poetry Contest" sponsored by Nette Onclaud on 28th September, 2025.
..........................................................
Hustle and bustle
city’s daily nightmare song—
days start early, end so late
Endless traffic jams—
an everyday reminder
that survival is a must
The city with its-
countless people like the stars
some dim some bright, never sleeps
city-road serpents~
drink lives no mercy, no plea
just ultimate, untimed death.
Placed third
28/September/2025
JUST TWO IN ONE SPREE Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Nette Onclaud
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.
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