The New York Public Library’s
A lovely place to visit.
The main branch Beaux-Arts building
Is a landmark most exquisite.
In addition to its majesty,
Exhibits are displayed,
Which New Yorkers rarely think about
When plans are being made.
I don’t know why, for there are treasures
Waiting to be viewed.
In one case, there was Pooh Bear,
Where most children’s eyes were glued.
Charles Dickens’ writing table
And his calendar and chair,
Plus a baseball signed by Brooklyn Dodgers
All are set up there.
A special exhibition
Was the draw that lured us in,
Celebrating the New Yorker
And its hundred year-old spin.
And one final must-go reason –
There’s a gift shop worth a look.
You can spend the day enjoying all
And never touch a book.
A World Few Know.
.
A subterranean world
Deep in the bowels of the ground
Unseen by the city above
One that seems not to care
Where there isn’t much love
.
Broken children huddle together
In their makeshift holes
Trying to grt back their lives
The parents stole
Runaways the authorities hate
And pursue
The kids are an embarrassment
The kids scrounge
For what ever they can get
And sniff glue
.
A board across an open sewer
For a bed will do
Rags for clothes
Cardboard in their shoes
.
In one case
The police poured petrol
Down the drains
And set it alight
A seven year old
Burned to death in pain
For the Police in that country
Killing kids was just a game
.
And who cares if the live or die
This is not Victorian times yesterday
This is happening now all over the world
But the world turns away
.
What good is an Iphone or a PC
When you can’t afford to eat
You live in a stinking hole in the ground
And beg on the street
And we regard ourselves as civilized
Is this what it has come to
Open your eyes.
.
Peter Dome©2020.
My brother calls up on his phone,
From years when we were younger,
A slew of pictures which creates
Nostalgia-feeding hunger.
We scroll and scroll and name some kids
While others are elusive,
Including photos of ourselves -
In one case, inconclusive.
It's strange to see a photograph
Which others are IDing
As you, although you know it isn't
You that they are seeing.
An image may be hard to prove
Without some speculation
Of being that of someone's
Long-remembered expectation.
Garlands of soft fresh flowers,
what does a thick one conjure up for you,
a lot of fragrance and joy,
particularly when it is put around your neck,
by some one very conspicuously and clearly,
you are often celebrating a victory,arrival or glory,
and are aware of all that which is the main story,
only in one case you so helpless and bad,
that you do not even know who has garlanded you and when,
it is when you are lying in wreaths pretty dead.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.