Long City life Poems
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Everything has changed in a jiffy
The sun is balmy, the grass is green
And no trace of winter can be seen.
I ventured out on my usual nature stroll
To penetrate beauty, breathe fresh air
And mingle with nature that is so dear.
I walked along a clear- cut path contemplating
the mystery of the benevolent sky,
analyzing the soul of the city
while communicating with the swirling wind.
It’s a beautiful day filled with children at play
groups of children assembled on the playing ground
and instructors and parents hanging around.
Tiny tots, elementary school age, strong headed teenager
were all apart of this enthralling game.
The tiny tots could hardly hold their bats
Fathers’ gathered around helping their boys
as they struggle to make an accurate shot.
Something spectacle caught my eyes from a distance
a laden tree decorated with beautiful flowers
pulled me along a magnificent path.
I couldn’t help but tossed myself under the tree.
I lie on the splendid grass beneath the laden tree
and stared intensely towards the heavens above me
laden branches juxtaposed against the thrilling
blue sky reminds me that life is beautiful and divine.
Passionate pinkish-hued flowers hanged cheerfully above me
while dozens of bee suck nectar from their nourishing blossom.
I lie very still focusing on the scenery above me
trying to figure out the unknown
so that I can compose a true story of my own.
It was a magical moment all wrapped up in the appealing blue sky
I watched the sun forced its way through the laden branches
and penetrated my entire face with its glaring ray of light.
Birds lands upon the crammed branches singing melodious tunes
and a gently wind passed through swiftly scattering petal over me.
Not far from the blossoming tree a naked tree with dry branches
dressed up in winter boots, encumbered with winter gown
is still feeling the winter punishment from inside out.
beaten and battered red buds lingered on the tip of dry branches
trying desperately to bloom again.
The laden blossoming tree leaning against the clear blue sky
with its pinkish-hued flowers and gleaming sunlight
paved the way for a brand new day.
©2015 Christine Phillips
IF JESUS ASKS
Dew on the grass
Wants to disappear
As a day wakes up
Frightened by the red eyes of sun.
Again all those men
Will remain tireless
For some more hours.
Sharp arrows from their mind
Defeated-
Distance on the earth,
Boundary of the of universe,
Pride of stars being alone,
Even the game fate plays.
But today’s day is tired.
That green tree
Standing naked in a landscape
Used to
Sunbath during winter,
Play with wind on stormy days,
A born again make up
As spring bade good bye,
Or get drenched in rain
Like a farmer’s son.
Old days have enjoyed them all.
That green tree
No more there,
City’s claw has removed,
Roots of its existence.
Is it only that lonely tree
Has been killed by city life!
Did not you see the tears of ocean!
Her tides,
Like a beloved lady
Wanted to wipe out
All weariness of humankind.
And in exchange
Modern life poisoned her heart
With all its senselessness.
When the day,
Wants to hide her face,
From shame.
Men are still preying,
What else is remaining?
What else is faraway?
When daylight disappears,
They declare
Now penguin’s blood is our subject matter.
Or if this world becomes a bomb in fire
Then we shall hire
Our extraterritorial neighbor
To settle us in space shuttle,
Above the earth atmosphere.
So, the day unwilling to wake up any more.
Only the red eye of sun wakes her up.
Remember how morning birds
Use to sing melodies,
To wake her up.
All that resonance is missing,
As dew fell from leaves to leaves.
Glorious smile of shining water drops
On a lotus leaf
Cry alone now.
Misses how pleasant was twilight’s tune.
In today’s day
Who is there has time for them all.
But every year
There are seminars
To declare
Those entire glorious chapters
Sun, moon, even heaven is not too far.
And many more
All are in the memory of a computer.
But today’s day
Redeye of sun wakes her up.
She doubts,
Are men no more sacred now!
Yes;
May be like polluted water,
As sacred from holy Ganga river.
So one day,
Jesus asks to the heart of mankind,
You have achieved so much,
Your glorious days are here,
Then why you still keep me crucified!
For how many centuries
Shall I remain!
Human child knows age-old answer
‘Its your greatness
To remain there,
So we worship!’
Only red eyes of sun
Wakes another day up.
A day -
No dew falling on her lap.
A poem by GOUTAM HAZRA
The work was hard out on the ranch, the days were hot an' dry,
An' fancy things you find in town had caught ol' Jim Bob's eye.
When evenin' came he'd sit the fence an' crave to see the sights,
To drive big cars to all the bars an' toast the city nights.
He had a gal he courted some, her name was Betty Lou.
She'd lived a spell in Angelo, had been to Lubbock, too.
Her face was fine, with freckled cheeks, her hair was done in style;
An' all her clothes had fancy brands that musta cost a pile.
Now, Betty Lou had set her sights to put her brand on Jim,
But he had things he had to do an' marriage weren't for him.
The world was callin'-out his name, he had some things to learn,
Some places that he had to see, 'some candles left to burn'.
Well, came a time, an' like you thought, he wandered off the range,
But ended up in Boston-town; now boys, that was a change.
He found a bar that looked real clean an' sauntered in the door;
He'as proud to be of Texas stock an' sallied to the fore.
A fancy feller slithered-up an' asked Jim to his place,
But when he put his hand on Jim's, he punched him in the face.
I guess that feller didn't know for what ol' Jim was known,
An' bein' green to city life, he'as best just left alone.
Right after Jim had took his shot that dude got mighty riled;
He punched Jim once an' kicked him twice, an' left him right defiled.
Jim left his mark, I guess you'd say, that feller's bloody clothes;
Cause when that feller swung his fist, Jim hit it with his nose!.
He'd never seen them fancy dudes, who act like girls an' such;
From what he knew, which wadn't squat, he didn't like 'em much.
He heard they'as sissies, frail an' weak, sashayin' as they walked.
They gossiped like some women-folk, an' giggled when they talked.
Well, when it all was said an' done, he helped Jim to his feet,
An' dusted off his shirt a mite, then smiled at him real sweet.
He told Jim 'bout a couple things he liked to do with males;
Now, one was such I won't repeat, but one was kickin' tails.
Well, boys I guess there's lessons here: be careful where you roam;
Don't wander off to Boston-town, if Texas is your home;
But if you do, stear clear of bars, an' this I would include;
Don't ever underestimate an' rile a fancy dude.
It's quiet here - quiet in a way that catches me off guard. The tranquility is almost tangible, something I can touch and hold and wrap around myself. I can hear the pulse of faraway waves, the faint hum of the wind, the nonsensical call of distant seagulls. I can hear my own heartbeat, pounding along with the waves.
As I kick off my sandals, my spirit steps out of my body, leaving behind the material baggage of city life. The sand is soggy beneath my feet and I know my footprints will disappear when the sea rises, as if I were never here at all.
It's low tide, that magical time when the sea recedes to reveal the ocean floor. Grooves of sand catch pockets of water that are half-buried mirrors, reflecting pale blue sky and slices of violet sunlight that glitter like chipped diamond.
a vocal seagull
descends toward liquid skies –
reflections ripple
At low tide, a second beach emerges, stretching all the way across the bay to the opposite shore. I walk slowly, tasting salt on the breeze as it runs invisible fingers through my hair. Strands sweep across my face, catching in my eyelashes before fluttering free once more.
The beach is a dream catcher, snagging small treasures when the sea withdraws. And I am a child again, fascinated by the hermit crab retreating into his shell as I approach. I spot the dimpled surface of an urchin’s shell peeking out from wrinkled sand. Other shells are scattered across the beach, some upside down, exposing smooth, pearly souls.
a tiny starfish
drifts beneath placid water –
lost constellation
When I find a sand dollar, my breath catches. It’s perfectly whole, with smooth, rounded edges and clean, ivory skin. It’s heavy and light all at once, the flawless design at its center subtle and brilliant, like a delicate floral tattoo. How many hours had I spent here as a child, searching for this transitory coin?
My eyes fill with unexpected tears as my vision wavers behind distorted pools of grief. I’m half-blind until I blink, releasing salty rivers down my cheeks. Even then, my sight is murky.
My tears taste like the ocean and I think, suddenly: Whose tears fill the sea?
Written: November 4, 2015
For Charlotte's "Creative Haibuns" Contest
I put my lips to his cheek
Reminded me of winter time, not ice cold
Without warmth yes, but with texture
hard to the touch like a rubber glove on a rock
Thoughts will never leave me
Sad thing is this is the memory that stands out most
Not the little things like dinner or TV
But past conversations about death
Sitting on the front stoop at night conversing
He wanted to believe, yet as time drew near he recollected.
"When I was an altar boy..." and he went on.
And as we stared into the dark, star-filled sky, I was terrified of truths.
Philadelphia was never so quiet, so lonely, so alien.
I could tell he was doubting his own beliefs
Nearing death, as he knew he was, things became concrete.
The inevitable set in and so did regrets.
In that moment I told him how i felt, to reassure him of his beliefs.
It made a difference, re-establishing his faith, so to speak
Mine as well. All I could think of is how scared I would be
If I were He. I prayed.
For strength, and for him.
Out loud, to whoever wanted to listen...
I tried to revive him, you know, for minutes like hours
Hands cupped, pumping on chest
Got too amped, scared, my adrenaline submerged my pancreas.
Broke his rib cage as he had broken promises
I sat there and was lost for second time in my life
Left the room that had been his as a child
Went downstairs took my mind away for a minute
Cannabis didn’t help, I sat there alone
Waiting for the wagon to come and take my new old friend
Big city life, wagon was late, 3 hours sitting
With the carcass of “from which I came” upstairs
We had a moment, both all alone, both on different planes,
We always were
A huge part of me just vanished that day
My spontaneity, my innocence, my mirrored image
No more “life of the party”, I wanted to be alone
Lost, stranded, discarded and left alone
Left me when I was seven, met up again when I was twenty-two
Fifteen year gap between father and son
He could’ve done better, done right
He didn’t, so I did
No regrets; never regret, or regress
If I didn’t move on, I would be him
Stuck in the past
But I am not him, nothing like him.
Yet I am still here, still alone
Questioning as he did
Sitting on the front stoop
Contemplating the Inevitable.
Let us sit together
And let me dwell in your mist
And I will tell you a story
About city life versus rural life.
Now, the city has been known to be a place of lights
But many have discovered many fights
And a violation of a list of human rights.
It is a place where so many people you meet
But people barely stand to properly greet
And will often look down at your feet.
-For this is a place one has to fight very hard to be heard,
To be respected and to get ahead.
You will further be told about finding so much gold
Though one soon learns that they grow old
Before you can see it or at least hold.
It is also said to be a place of opportunity
Where one has to reach the possibility
To showcase their innate capability.
A place where you can reach for one's dream
But have to really always scream
To get hold of your cream.
Besides the frustration of daily traffic always bustling
You will in some ways be introduced to the game of hustling
If not being lured into the activity of gambling.
-This is because while fighting to be heard and ahead,
you have to compromise your sense of morality to get what you want.
The city has clusters of buildings so high to tower
And various people on the mission of gaining power
With the innocent and poor getting driven lower.
In the city, it is said that there is a lot of honey
Where you can either make lots of money
Or end up being called a donkey.
Many get attracted to the city's glitz and glamour
But then one learns that you have to do a certain favour
In order to keep up this fervour.
-On the contrary on the streets you see more beggars
And hawkers begging for cents.
When you are in the city it is vital to stay awake
And you will notice that most things are fake
And be sure to make no mistake.
-In the market you have a choice of buying organic vs non- GMO fruits or vegetables.
Whether to buy hundred percent hair products, make-up or household produces.
Along the way things remain the same
Very important not to forget your name
You just need to keep up with the game
Of being humble and tame
In order to win the fame.
-Now, one soon learns that they actually
Yearn for the peace and reality
Of rural countryside life.
4
there is no ending of words
is there anything that may be called
the end-word
let the words make questions
let the words give replies
let the words shout
let them battle among themselves
i can’t understand
why is there so much endeavour
to take me into that chaos
a plant of small white flower
is enough to make a garden itself
even-then
an assembly of
the rose the jasmine the tuberose is made
to increase the rule of the garden
after picking flowers from those plants
my wife puts them to the feet of the god
to worship him
she has a drinking-glass a plate
a hand-fan a throne
for her god
all are like tiny-toys
among them
the throne
is very important
till today
in many of our houses
there is a throne
but it is neither for accession of men
nor for making themselves king
i’ve already said
the throne is for our god
that means for our lying on
there may or may not be
even a broken cot
but for our family-god
to provide a throne
is a must
5
on that day
when once i had gone into the
myself-man
i saw
that the government and the opposition
both sides were gheraoing one another
in the same pace
they were reciprocally
quarrelling threatening rebuffing abusing
thus there was running
a fine piece of democracy there
it gave me enough pleasure
then i again came out
of that myself-man
in the outer-world
i saw
bypassing the stones and the hard
the roots of the trees
going deep down in the dark
in search of soft soil
and their branches are taking bent
towards the sun-light
6
of late
my intelligence seems somehow
to become slippery
there is so much pollution
in the myself-ism
it seems
even in collision with my shadow
some dragon-flies are killed every day
why do my eyes see so little
why do my tongue speaks so harsh words
to whose custody has gone
those rain-drops
those lemon-blossoms
there is the glittering of dew-drops
on the cob-web
the evening-worship
is sinking into the barking of dogs
as if the wings of the parrots
become van-rickshaw
as if the moon-light were
gradually retreating
in the enlightened city-life
El Dorado
by Michael R. Burch
It's a fine town, a fine town,
though its alleys recede into shadow;
it's a very fine town for those who are searching
for an El Dorado.
Because the lighting is poor and the streets are bare
and the welfare line is long,
there must be something of value somewhere
to keep us hanging on
to our El Dorado.
Though the children are skinny, their parents are fat
from years of gorging on bleached white bread,
yet neither will leave
because all believe
in the vague things that are said
of El Dorado.
The young men with the outlandish hairstyles
who saunter in and out of the turnstiles
with a song on their lips and an aimless shuffle,
scuffing their shoes, avoiding the bustle,
certainly feel no need to join the crowd
of those who work to earn their bread;
they must know that the rainbow's end
conceals a pot of gold
near El Dorado.
And the painted “actress” who roams the streets,
smiling at every man she meets,
must smile because, after years of running,
no man can match her in cruelty or cunning.
She must see the satire of “defeats”
and “triumphs” on the ambivalent streets
of El Dorado.
Yes, it's a fine town, a very fine town
for those who can leave when they tire
of chasing after rainbows and dreams
and living on nothing but fire.
But for those of us who cling to our dreams
and cannot let them go,
like the sad-eyed ladies who wander the streets
and the junkies high on snow,
the dream has become a reality
—the reality of hope
that grew too strong
not to linger on—
and so this is our home.
We chew the apple, spit it out,
then eat it "just once more."
For this is the big, big apple,
though it is rotten to the core,
and we are its worm
in the night when we squirm
in our El Dorado.
I believe I wrote the first version of this poem during my “Romantic phase” around age 16 or perhaps a bit later. It was definitely written in my teens because it appears in a poetry contest folder that I put together and submitted during my sophomore year in college.
Keywords/Tags: city, life, culture, society, social, addiction, drink, drugs, big apple, New York City, Broadway, Times Square, dream, dreams, reality
I remember like it was yesterday
but it was years ago and another lifetime ago
that I fell in love with a man
it was a love that could never grow
could never be
I was working for the Government of Canada
for Health and Welfare
and was sent way up north as part of a group
to see the conditions in isolated villages and towns
we were given wilderness guides
because it was not like you could just take a car
to get there
one was called Claude he spoke the language
of the Inuit and was our translator
this was his life and he seemed to love the snow wilderness
I spoke a lot with him
and overtime we became friends and of course
I was falling in love and he loved me too
we set sail on an ocean of snow white love
one night he invited me to his cabin in the woods
I lost myself in a place of a thousand trees
and in front of a blazing fire we found paradise
my hair a flowing dark river streaming
his voice music for my soul
we knew that our love was doomed
there was no promise between us
for I would be leaving for the civilization soon
back to the city life that I loved
I could never see myself in this isolated place
and I knew he did not belong in a city
so we enjoyed our nights as star-crossed lovers
dreading the end but knowing it was soon
and the drums of time rolled
we both decided that our love would end when I left
there would be no long distance romance
no letters and no communication ever
we would become shadows on the wall of time
I would never see him again
when that day came it was so hard
I left by a small aircraft it was not like there was an airport
looking out the window
my eyes swelled with tears
he waved goodbye to me and turned away
as clouds sailed across the snowy sky
and that is the last time I saw him
love is a guest that comes unbidden at times
yet, I find a sweetness amid the dregs of the past
where memories of him shake the ocean of my sleep
and I know that I will never forget him, never
for I keep him in a secret place within my heart
he will always be that young northern wilderness guide
with the beautiful voice and smile
even when I am withered old
Nearby runs a mountain stream, purified with crystal rays
Of sunshine, in the pines a wild wind flows downwards
Brushing against the thickets, oh what a beautiful country,
For which I dwell in, at serenity’s farthest edge of tranquility!
In this wilderness of spiritual wonderment, here I’m free
A wondering rambler drinking in the brilliance of the far off
Thunder, as a mountain storm breaks the hushes of the
Afternoon!
Let this castaway of reality dream forever, in this hidden
Valley of the timeless, never to I want to awake from this
Picture perfect postcard of the imagination, just me free
Float lost in thoughts of this paradise lost!
Eagles fly amongst white powder clouds without interference,
Gliding on currents of freedom, as the night crickets prepare
For their twilight symphony, and the wolves howl in the vast
Distance!
Oh here stress has no place, and the city life seems as if a myth,
What else could a soul ask for, but such simply bliss as this,
To know the call of the wild, and experience it!
At the babbling brooks head waters, I sit pondering just this,
As the wild creatures rush along a hidden mountain trail,
Lord this truly your country under heaven!
Amongst the stars I feel so small and insignificant, yet I’m
A part of this environment of splendor in perfection,
One signal note in the rhythm of this mountain lullaby,
Of simplicity’s musical chorus!
Within this cabin I do listen to the rheum of the rain,
It patters against the tin roof of reality, sliding down
Filling my imagination with the comforting sounds
That no matter what, this storm will pass by me,
And tomorrow starts another day of freedom!
Free falling into a blanket of stars, I’m as a
Child again swept away in this world of fantasy,
Awakening to the glow of a sunburst, striking at the
Horizon, splashing it with the color pallet array!
Nearby a mountain stream, purified with crystal rays
Of sunshine, in the pines a wild wind flows downwards,
Brushing against the thickets, oh what a beautiful country,
Which I dwell in at serenity’s farthest edge of tranquility!
BY: CHERYL ANNA DUNN