He was a mechanic who sold illegal drugs. His nickname was Snowman. There was warmth in his eyes despite his moniker. There wasn’t a high he couldn’t supply or a ride he couldn’t repair. Despite his humble beginnings, time in the penitentiary, Snowman was a genius with machines. A doctorate’s degree in life and machines, only certified by the streets of north Davidson.
snowman eyes of coal
winter life froze carrot nose
gentrified bulldozed
Real eyes see truth where the neon dies,
real lies get sold in the tourist guides.
I realize Harlem’s still beating inside,
though condos creep up and the rents multiply.
Real highs in the drums on a Saturday night,
real cries in the dark when the bills get tight.
Surreal eyes dream past the gentrified scene,
where bodegas were kingdoms and the block was a queen.
Reel lies keep playing on the subway wall,
but real ties still gather when the elders call.
I realize Harlem’s a poem, a hymn,
no matter who’s moving out or who’s moving in.
Real eyes catch the cracks in the concrete,
real lies get whispered where the landlords meet.
I realize Harlem ain’t sleeping—it fights,
its pulse in the corner, its soul in the nights.
Real highs in the jazz spilling out of a door,
real cries when the system don’t love us no more.
Reel lies keep spinning on a flashing screen,
but surreal eyes still guard the unseen.
Real ties in the roots of this sacred ground,
real wise in the stories the elders pass down.
I realize Harlem’s not fading away—
it’s stitched in my blood, it’s here to stay.
Walking downtown streets of Asheville
I could hear drums in the white wind
Despite being deserted I feel a thrill
Of creative energy hoping to thrive again
The shops full of unique crafts and goods
With store workers seemingly bored
Gentrified was the emerald neighborhood
But evidence of roots still in stores
Helene had come through full steam
Wiping away many quaint little places
Despite that people here still dream
Need for hurricane relief etched in faces
I picked up the cutest jewelry at Noir
Was impressed by the design and symbol
The artist had breast cancer, a star
Who designs shine in times not simple
And the drumming was the shop above
That sold music coffee and specialty gifts
Three men playing drums with love
Giving ambiance and silver souls a lift
I can say I survived Hurricane Hugo
And I have some sense of their loss
But we had more support than they do
If you can shop online or visit help their cause
Ratchet Gentrification
Sneaky Dislocation
A People Sank Deeper Into An Abyss of Desperation
No Lubrication....
In Summation....
Screwed...
Without Consideration
of The Deprivation of Unaffordable Habitation
Nostalgic Disintegration
Of Memories Nesting in the hearts of Generations
Shameful Demonstration of Humanity...
Straight up Insanity...
Sad to Say
Failure to Realize Damage Done Today...
Create a Price Future Offspring Will Pay....
wholly state
gentrified
holey spate
sanctified
holy stake
genocide
They called me a Communist
When only just a teen
Nothing much has changed in
Those Sixty years in between.
My village once had fourteen farms
Now it’s just got one or two
Those employed in the village
Are now very far and few.
It’s commuter land these days
Almost deserted on weekdays
An almost soulless place
With modern village ways.
There was Social Housing then
Now it’s mainly owner occupied
Very few common folk there
Now it’s well and truly gentrified.
The old Falcon Inn once well used
As village meet and social club
Has been renovated and become
A stylish seldom open Gastro Pub.
My dad’s old cottage still stands
Only because it’s been listed
Next door has been knocked through
As though it had never existed.
Two hundred years the family home
Now any trace of us long gone
It’s what these days they call progress
As life ambles and stumbles on.
A place of many required lessons
Which I never did manage to learn.
Only old family graves there now
So I seldom bother to return.
They called me a Communist
Because I wouldn’t doff my cap
To the Johnny-cum-lately Squire
Touring the village by pony and trap.
I suppose I have been thoroughly gentrified
No lover of the old country bluegrass, I
Was country-bred and to poverty born,
And suppose back home in the hills I shall die
'Midst the high mountain's air now rarified,
I shall go back when aged like many others
To stroll the worn, beaten paths I remember
While I can before the urban life smothers,
And I am become another victim terrified
By angry waves of petrifying lawlessness
And sore deprivation in great time of need
In mind I have grown increasingly restless,
Mindful how the world around me might be
Finding myself, desperately longing to be free.
written September 12, 2021
Consider this choice (of sound mind) my last hurrah,
Have no doubt about my motive so pure and fine
See my feet dangling just above the waterline;
Give my fond farewells, observe my last scofflaw.
I chose this heavy iron chain around my neck; you see,
Coarse cattle rope was much too gauche, too primitive
A way for this gentrified man to take his final leave
To indelibly announce he no longer wishes here to be.
I am as innocent as a newly-born child into this world,
No misdemeanors to confess before a judge or jury
Only experiencing raw anguish and unmitigated fury
At the many false accusations at me wrongfully hurled.
A complete re-styling and re-write
of my poem "Above the Quay" on February 27, 2021
Submitted to John Lawless's "Fragments of Verse" Contest
A dog story
I had a dog she loved me; I also had a wife children named
Gabriel and Apple, she wanted to be trendy, and we lived
in the gentrified inner city.
When the twins were six my wife divorced me and got the house,
car and the dog, and I had to take the bus to work.
It so happened, the bus passed my former home, the dog saw
me and followed the bus, at work she sat outside and waited
for me to come out, I let her in, and she curled up by my desk.
This happened every day, so my wife took the dog to a vet
who put her down –or killed her- I wasn`t very happy and
said so using a strong language which she recorded, and that
Was ok by me. I never see the children anymore she has
put obstacles in the way, and she used my strong language
as a proof, I should not see the children.
When she died, twenty years later, the children were angry
with me for not visiting them when they were small,
I told them the truth, but they thought if I had really been
interested in them I would have tried harder.
I give a damn; they know where I live and can visit me,
If my new dog will let them in.
Exodus
Under a big holm oak, I sat on a stone resting a little
the sun so early in the year was hot, years ago there were
flocks of sheep here they laid chewing ignoring me.
This year there is none not even pellet droppings
the landscape is being gentrified and no peeing up against a tree
It is strange when people who are not of the land
the first thing they do is to try trimming it and making smooths
tracks made of imported sand, plastic chair and a nice cuppa.
The extended field of olive trees lends itself to a golf course; they will
of course, leave a few trees with tall grass and call it the rough
little can be done give the developer a chance and Portugal
ends up looking like Florida, and architects will draw the same
dull estates and find some fancy names
for their vandalism.
But let them spend money before it comes crashing down
abandoned and nature can take it back, yes it has happened
before and with good reason when small farmers were so poor they
sought work on the other side of the ocean
and their old homes has trees growing through them
nothing is new only the name changes like a rabbit would care
A ball of emotions
A twister of clotted ideologies
Break from the current
Cry to the creator
Carry his failure
Candid of reality
Drained of my demeanor
Equate my morality to failed ideology
Exemplify mislabeled ethnomethodology
Forget forlorn memories of
Gentrified society
Heroin to my reality
Implicitly defining torrents of emotions
Justly eroding damaging externalities
Kidnapping children’s morality
Longing to see a child’s smile yet
Mourning morning’s grace
Navigating with little left
Opting out could I
Partake in
Plato’s cave
Quench no more my thirst for morning’s grace
Readily accepting grace
Staggering towards the cave
Taken by the gut
Thrown far from the cave
Upped from my grave
Vexed by some unholy devotion
Wavering still for
Xenogeneic inequalities
Yielding finally to my
Zestfully void destiny
Zestful= spirited enjoyment
Xenogeneic: denoting or relating to cells or tissues from individuals belonging to different species
-Dedicated to all those suffering with an eating disorder. Beauty, true beauty, belies a gentrified, pretty exterior. You are not alone-
Benighted whispers and spurning dreams
Forthwith in blisters and burning streams
Shameful saunters in billowing blight
Hereto haunters with pillowing plight
Weep and wither betwixt a bawling bloom
Seep shall deliver amidst a falling fume
Expel and deliver for the morning's bright
Swell and shiver for the swarming's night
-
A dog and divorce
I had a dog, a *****, she loved me. I also had a wife, children Gabriel
and Apple. Apple? I know my wife she wanted to be trendy. We lived
downtown at a place that had been gentrified. When twins were six
my wife divorced me, ok; she got the house, car, twins and the dog.
I had to take a bus to work, which happened to drive passed her house.
Dog saw me and followed the bus. At work she sat outside, refused
to leave, I took her in she curled by my desk. Called my ex, she came,
picked up the dog. The next week dog was waiting outside my office.
One day, she wasn’t there nor the next days. Called the ex: is dog ok?
“I took her to the vet, she was jumpy it was best for her. This upset me.
My ex didn’t want me to see the twins, put many barriers in the way,
I gave up. Twenty years later she died, after the funeral the twins asked
why I never saw them? I told them, your mother didn’t want me too.
They thought I should have tried more. They were right, I didn’t care
enough they were too much like their mother it was the dog I missed
a creature that loved me and didn’t treat me like a bloody piggy bank.
down along 42nd and cypress street
the allegorical prostitutes say their not street
hookers but just a symbol of sex.
just like the walking sign post
stop, merge left, bump,
narrow road ahead.
cracked pavement and raindrops,
concaved inward and downward
awake the cornerstreet prophet and
pattern out a little mercy for the junkies
spinning double helix faith.
such a beautiful gray angelican.
the cigarette littered sidewalk somehow
seems to resurrect its stone geist
with dreams of a sandlewood
gossamer in its head.
but he must know just like all
the others to the east, hawthorn st
and alder st, birch st and ash st.
he must remember that things dont
change for the good much at this
time of year.
the gentrified saints have all
moved north, to sit in hipster
bistros and drink organic
sumatra fair trade coffee.
down along 42nd and cypress st
little was said and less understood.
mostly train horns and mumbling,
mostly sleeping nocturnal birds
with a few leaf clogged storm drains.
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