harsh reality thrust into dreams
potential shackled to ignorance,
drugs, violence, poverty and neglect
innocent souls forever stained
no roadmap out of the abyss
unheard cries, unwiped tears
Walking on the streets of the Lower East Side
I see Hispanic men playing dominoes excitedly
I see a Chinese woman collecting bottles for sale
I see Orthodox men walking to shul
I see children playing in the courtyard
I feel the poetry rising within me
So I head to the local hangout
OST coffee shop
Order some green tea
They have a composition
book called Matthew's Journal
where I express myself
just about everyday
Then I head off to the kosher bakery
for some humantashen
which is delicious
Another day on the Lower East Side
my turf, my homeland
Passing this park I think back to a time,
back in my youth this is where we would play;
swinging on swings, and monkey bars to climb,
shouting and laughing and playing all day;
with no parents around to get in our way.
When our kids were young we would bring them here
and neighborhood kids with their parents in tow.
Children shouting and laughing and full of cheer,
atop monkey bars looking at friends below,
until parents were tired and ready to go.
Today the park is vacant and looks unkept,
swings hanging empty in the summer heat.
It’s a sign of the times we have to accept,
it’s no longer a safe place for friends to meet.
The only sounds are the inner-city noise of the street.
This park was always such a beautiful site;
why did this happen, how did it get this way?
We allowed this to happen without much fight;
now the children have no safe place to play.
How I miss the simpler times of yesterday.
October 23, 2017
Broken windows give no reflection
graffiti for those who can read
concrete streets are polluted rivers
passing shoes leave bodies in need
disillusion is a crumbled sidewalk
stretching to an intersection of who cares
empty eyes follow shadows that wander
stolen clothes from the morgue to wear
hope is a night's survival passing
when sounds of gunfire are heard
silence comes from gang handshakes
pigeons and crows the only bird
A bell that rings in the distance
the church the preacher will rob
players and pimps with tin cups
approach the stampeding mob
a moat of suburbs surround
gates to the castle are locked
guards at ramparts bleed blue
guns are always cocked
a cry only heard by those crying
in a dirty world of make believe
tomorrow finds another broken window
a rock by a child that can't leave
5/6/17
Syringes in fence palings
condoms on park benches
street sweeper drinks whiskey
at four in the morning
opera house silhouettes
the bridge of dawn
first ferry tugs out
rust and ropes
like stale sex
herald the rising sun
Circular Quay swims
with grey suits
and mid length skirts
dark stocking like
instep, to the beat
of yesterday.
I to suffer, i to cry, i to live and i to die
and in betwen the things i've seen
the scenes an eye that i cannot deny
by necessity must make a mortal man mean
the neighborhood corner hawking dope
the streets of sheer stagnation within
children jumping dead bodies, not rope
and the avenue of avenging sin
this, was my womb, my initiation
angst and anxiety were my breast milk
i suckle at the teet of temptation
and learned from dope dealers and their ilk
i to suffer, i to wish to die,
rather than to suffer the subtle suffocation
day by day another piece of me will decry
i rue my creator and his creation
(c) 2012 copyright PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~
Ink without a pen
fluid flowing uncontrolled...
graffiti attack.
© Harry J Horsman 2012
foot note
in my opinion!
some graffiti i really like, and should be displayed
in art galleries, where the energy of the artist(s)
are allowed to flourish..
INNER CITY – old neighborhood today
Not at all what it was
Not yet what it must become
Voices once so dear drowned out
by decadent color
Noise so disgustingly near
Sit and think longingly on old neighborhood
Shrug
Shed a tear
I walked through the war zone with my head bowed down eyes fixated on the solid
black ground,
I dare not lookup not wanting to connect with their eyes nor their minds, because
the contact from their weed smoke makes me feel high
Instead of birds, bullets fly
At night I listen to crack addicts as they moan and cry
Piss on the elevators, Vomit on the stairs
Complaining about the conditions but no one seems to care
Writing on the walls, and broken fences too
But they demand their pay when rent is due
I think I am feeling kind of sick might just be the flu
No sense in going to the doctor, because there is no cure for the inner-city blues...