Long Gentrified Poems
Long Gentrified Poems. Below are the most popular long Gentrified by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Gentrified poems by poem length and keyword.
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
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.
Hmm...What Discursive Poetic Theme Shall I Write About...
Today (a rather brisk, chilly,
and otherwise sat
tiss factory twirly delightful
December 18th, 2018) matte
her of fact quite
refreshing noontime, while this fat
tend plot of Earthen surveyed terrain
situated over scat
herd modest suburban tract,
(actually yours truly some watt
urbanely sprawled out) at
Latitude: 40.2538 Longitude: 75.4590,
where I sit pat
and think to write
about some reading material flat
touring my "FAKE" status
as king of agitprop for chat
hurrying class gussied up with
artistically crafted rat
tilly done up snazzy razz mutt tazz
(approved by Willard), this expat
lapsed Peterson harried tailored script,
asper previous peculiar
swiftly styled idée fixe
literary unnecessary, rat
tickly tawdry superfluity)
interspersed with dollops of splat
hard logophile, nonetheless gentle
on the eyes, yet feeling totally flat
and devoid of meaning, and quite
convincingly desperate idea this pratt
tilling far amore in the dell doth
expatiate, expound expressively, gnat
cheerily witty, (i.e. hint- please
pretend these humph fat
tickle lee meandering, rambling,
and warbling words) taxing
on mental faculty as bat
tan gruelling death march
physically, when circa
April 1942 Japanese forced
76,000 captured Filipinos,
and Americans Allied
soldiers to march about 80 miles across
Bataan Peninsula (province
in Philippines), where they died
enroute to...during World War II
on island of Luzon, espied
as a spiritual sanctuary hosted
by a knowledgeable tour guide
named Matthew Scott hood dons
genuine (musty smelling)
Tory wig to hide
as an alien alias (from the outer limits
of the twilight zone) incognito
even to himself, and especially the bride
of Frankenstein, who evinces a strong crush
toward said nondescript gentrified
vested gentry groundless thinker with pride
though, dirt poor (at least on the surface),
but deep down rich with
Schwenksville well watered
history harkening back to 1684,
when hoodwinked, jilted and lied
Lenni-Lenape Indians got fleeced
then taken for a ride
this land ceded to (stolen from) William Penn
nestled along the Perkiomen Creek.
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.