cities bubbling with their stories
life playing out with all its drama
characters come and go
behind every curtain falls a hero
at other times a villain
the city recycles bit parts for show biz
in one continuous stage production
AP: 3rd place 2025
Submitted on June 19, 2025 for contest 1391 sponsored by BRIAN STRAND - Honorable Mention
Beat the drum softly, and beat it with heart,
Lay down a rhythm that rises from soul;
Small though indeed is the size of our part,
That which it is, we can still play in full.
Loud are the clashes that crash from the street,
Ominous thunder that thrashes from storm;
Myriad pacing of multitude feet,
Let still not chaos be your inner form.
What is the all but the sum of the small?
Who knows what corner shall matter the most?
Stand for a moment before you shall fall,
Honored the watchman that stands at his post.
Beat the drum softly, your rhythm shall stay
Part of the universe winding its way.
The streets were bustling with people.
out of curiosity my ears tried to catch some noise
Alas,
All it heard was pure silence.
There were no chirping of the birds.
There were no barking of the dogs.
There were no sound of people chattering & quarrelling.
Just .....................my thoughts & only my thoughts
People walk the streets,
Some wait for the bus,
Some walk two and stop,
Some admire the buildings,
I drink hot tea,
I wrap myself in a blanket,
I watch the raindrops roll down the glass.
Glass towers stretch like ambitions
piercing smog-filtered dreams.
Footsteps echo on concrete—
rhythms of lives
weaving, colliding, dissolving.
A stranger’s glance,
a child’s laugh slicing through engine growls,
a pigeon’s wingbeat overhead—
somehow it all matters.
The city breathes
and we inhale chaos like oxygen.
some level of falling from grace happens in slab city
its twisted humanity
when kindness stops being nornal
when green crusaders are dismissed, unseen
like burying waste in landfill
city of slab-stick
where we live normal lives within shuttered malls
affluence superimposed on poverty
can anything mellow us
with nature clotted under sprawl?
breeding, feeding, receding
within plated walls
unable to bend the city to one's own wishing
to carry on with things just as they are
slabs pinned to the ceiling of mind
sometimes shutters open
to sun-dappled streaks on slab walkways
what are we to make of the dandelion in the crack?
a dark energy blooming between comfort and chaos
maybe we can piggyback on the hope of others
when small acts radiate
like children who empty their piggy-banks to charity
or laugh in summers of safe places
towers girdle the city
midst what we crave for but can't always name
in our stash of consumer baubles
urges like a swollen river
our weak stock options that never find a ladder
in the meantime we tread on - hungrily
Towers,
Concrete canyons,
Buzzing crowds, lights ablaze,
Heart's relentless and vibrant pulse,
Urban.
©bfa030925
Traffic
Pass the field
Then go up
Then off to go
Then what else
Looking up above
Beautiful dusk
Good night.
Seems like someones always on fire in NYC,
Seems someones always dyin in NYC.
Firetrucks always screamin, sirens wail day in, night out,
From your perch, they rush by, echoes chasin down the block.
After a while, sounds and attention numb,
They fade into the rhythm's pace.
You just don’t hear anymore.
Just don't care,
You forget.
So long as it’s just not you.
Until the harsh city reminds you,
Heads Up…
you’re next in the queue!
Too many people
Too many buildings
Not enough grass
Not enough space
To get away from
Everyone if needed
I mean look at how far
You gotta go just to
Touch fields of grass
Makati is a beautiful place
Cities just aren’t for me.
We see in the country, in Portsall,
things that you don’t see in the city,
A pastry chef who smiles kindly,
A farmer who parks his tractor on the side,
We see polite people like Belgians,
People listening to the bees work,
Trees are seen learning to count,
Churches that ring the morning hours,
We see beautiful things in the country,
Things that you don’t see in the city,
People saying hello to you at the bakery,
People watching the snails think,
You see people looking at you like birds,
Writers wearing pink hats,
Who drank tequila with their chicken breast,
Houses where people will be nice,
We see in the country, on the side of Portsall
Things that you don’t see in the city,
The city often I fear, makes people evil,
We see large houses painted pink or yellow
Which make you think of Sicily or Tuscany.
City life, for kids, before the onslaught of helicopter parents and mandatory parental involvement in every aspect of growing up. We played baseball, no umpires, the bases pieces of cardboard, scratched in dirt, or chalked on the pavement. Four neighborhoods abutted each other. We, the children of the game, formed teams, formed an impromptu “league”. On one of these occasions when a game was “scheduled” team A came up short of the mandatory nine. Team B would allow one of its players to play for team A. The proof that this did not hurt team A’s chances of winning became evident the day Billie, (we’ll call her Billy to protect the legend), came to bat in the last inning and singled home the winning run for team A.
After the game Billie walked home with the rest of our team. She looked a bit sheepish and we did sort of give her the business. We all knew it didn’t matter which team you played for because the game demanded you play your best and hold your head high in both victory and defeat.
city
finds busy
wheels rotate on roads.
deals stir like ripples in minds.
since centuries, life rolls on with progression.
Talking to people
Circles of fear
Straight lines and queers
The conscious mirror drops narrator's tears
Never forgetting the bird with transparent wings
Zombies walking in and out of their mouths
Left me standing
No bottom
No escaping a loss soul bottom soul top
They love the way you make things worse so greater is great
So the better is undeniably good
Spinning their talk
Deafening me with Yoko cranked
Taken a stand
On the ceiling
A copy cat killer
A perfect dance
The normal down side of a meow romance
The absent prodigal
Speaking from the crypt
We won't be back home
Talk is about them
Famous bullock pills
Who runs the show
Is it crow
King of confusion
A city without a home
The paint loving train
Not difficult to hear the choo
Too crazy to salute
Uxbridge
Uxbridge, a village of London, a beautiful district
A pleasant memory for me, a peaceful world
It's a nice part of the city, it was a good trip here today
An interesting place, a very calm, sleepy world
It's a very nice place, it's a friendly world
The walk was a memory, immortalized in my memory
Here I was in Uxbridge, sitting in a shopping centre
I sat there for a long time, watching people, observing
I found myself at home in Wembley
I live in Wembley
Uxbridge is one of my favorite places to go
But Wembley is my life
I love Wembley
I love Uxbridge
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