It's an area totally different from the rest
From the language to the people's style of dress
Kids young in age but wise with street smarts
Teens sagging and hanging out at liquor marts
Shoes on power lines showing various drug spots
Girls playing double dutch in empty car lots
Loud music blarring from a car with chrome rims
Men lifting weights in a yard turned into a gym
The smell of marijuana just as loud as cigarettes
Where colors worn communicates you with a set
Run down apartment buildings ran by slum lords
Where complaints are registered but go ignored
Businesses looking horrible due to graffiti
Where you always find bootleggers selling dvds
Everyone you meet goes by a strange nickname
Where the less fortunate ask for spare change
Well known people grew up with this background
So the hood isn't as horrible as it may sound
Its helps people to be grateful and to improvise
To get their education and to become wise
Not continuing the cycle but finding a way out
This describes hood life and what it's all about
When a pair of fighter jets
Buzzed over the parapets
They woke up the entire block
Though the pilots had regrets
But still the neighborhood frets
At each ticking of the clock
This deafening sound they battled
Their dishes chipped and rattled
And went crashing to the floor
With nerves all spent and addled
The block packed up and saddled
No one lives here anymore
MY OLD NEIGHBORHOOD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
crackerbox houses
a house a plumber
could afford,
barely.
I recall the pecan tree,
remembering
how I spent many afternoons
writing stories and poems under its branches.
the street was once charged with life~
kids walking to and from school,
playing kick-the-can, hide ‘n seek,
hopscotch, and red rover.
streetlights told us
it was time to go home.
but the years brought change
what was once full of life
is now silent.
Everyone has moved on.
But in my mind’s eye, I can still see
the cracks in the sidewalk,
the rustling of the pecan tree,
the setting sun while drinking iced tea on the front porch,
and smelling dinner cooking as it wafted through the open windows.
*Note: This poem was originally published at Poetry Soup, June 2025, and Lucky Jefferson Literary Magazine, July 2025.
I like walking to the store.
Every day I buy a bit
Of what I need, for home supplies.
Or maybe I just look around.
I like walking back to home.
On the way I might observe
If my neighbors are around,
Or maybe left their TV on.
Sometimes kids play out-of-doors
On the lawn, where their energy
Is safely ignored by all
Except by each other, and their dog.
#The_gun_shots_in_my_neighborhood
My heart bleeds, as my mind wonders, I wonder if it be not a mother's child at the receiving end, wondering if while I'm busy wondering there be a life that's being lost in the very moment, I wanna go and see, help maybe but what if I become a casualty, my conscience strangles me
The shots becomes consistent, I catch traumatic flashes, how long will this last, how long is long? When there longer be daughters and sisters to call?
My body start to shut, turning numb, the pain dement me, I wanna shout for help, but who must come for me ,when I too chose to be coward for that victim of the gunshots, my bloated silence, is now turning cancerous and contagious, everyone is now prone and at exposed danger, our not acting upon violence, busy ticking our names and calling us one after the other, that is a list of graves we are to fill
The blood to my heart start dropping, dripping in tiny drops, the strength in my body fades, palpitations crawls in, my sight start impairing, think I'm dying, a last shot is shot from my neighborhood, I'm waken from my ignorance death, these are the gun shots in my neighborhood
#Poetic_Ink
My future once seemed clouded in my innocent past,
A child so small and helpless, learning words so fast.
Mama's arms embraced me, soothing every cry,
And when sleep called, a gentle bed was always nigh.
Years have passed—now I hear them say my face is bright,
With strength and wisdom granted, shaping mind and might.
Haters fear my presence, knowing I excel,
Blessings poured upon me, more than words can tell.
Thanks to God Almighty, ever great and true,
Favors rain upon me, blessings old and new.
Enemies may gather, yet their schemes all fail,
Every whispered warning proves an empty tale.
Still, my heart keeps praying, longing for much more,
Knowing greatness isn’t easy to ensure.
Where are you, O Lord? I seek your guiding light,
Yet since childhood, you have kept me strong in fight.
summery pausing
hammock dreams
a neighborhood peace
How many Gazan women have Israelis raped
How many Gazan hostages is Israel holding
How many Gazan babies has Israel burned alive
How many Gazan parents has Israel killed
right in front of their childrens' eyes
The answer is None, of course
There is one side in the Gaza War
trying to commit genocide
That side is Hamas
And if not stopped
We will see October 7 repeated
over and over and over again
~ Coming soon to your neighborhood
Accepting my costumed friends dare, I cautiously pushed through the weeds to the unlit dilapidate porch. Before I could knock, the door creaked open.
"Come on in.
We've been wait- ing for
you." Croaked the emaciated little girl with the basso profundo voice.
Something pushed me from behind ...
I look out the window at the tree
in the back yard next door
just behind a small yellow house.
Its crown is still green, but I
know leaves will fall.
A dump truck
with a flashing yellow strobe
crawls along the side street
as a city worker looks
for cracks in the asphalt.
And the neighbor’s pickup
has been gone since last week.
He said in passing one day
he didn’t know if his lease
would be renewed.
I figure that’s the way it is—
people move into the house
and are gone before I have
the chance to know them
as they grow into their lives.
And the city—
it is living and dying
even now, forty years after
the tractor factory closed.
Locals in the neighborhood
bar downtown still gather
watch football or baseball
and commiserate—
but even someone new
is greeted as a friend.
And I’m back in town
to stay after four years
of working with construction
crews in five different states.
Two darkened windows
of the quiet house gaze
across the front yard, ghosting
the lives of those who have
come and gone.
Crazy rabbits chomping on my lettuce
Deer eating the flowers right down to their nubs
Woodpeckers drilling right through the siding
Armadillos rooting in search of grubs
Squirrels trying to climb down the chimney
Possums and racoon dumping out the trash
Coyotes yip yapping all through the evening
Groundhogs under the shed hoarding their stash
Most times the back yard smells just like a skunk
The cat keeps bringing dead birds to my door
The neighborhood dogs bark when the wind blows
That’s country life in all of its splendor.
The neighborhood
At last, I found the bairro of my dreams
so quiet, for once I could hear the swallow sing
A grocery, a cafe and a pharmacy, what more does an old man need.
Tall trees protected by the North Westerly, here autumnal
leaves fall in peace.
Alas, I shall not live here, but go there on my bike
when I want to listen to stillness
The Neighborhood
all trees
eyes please
The Neighbors
help out
act out
The Birds
they’re free
to flee
The House
barn red
homestead
The Driveway
steep high
blue sky
The Squirrels
mouse gray
spry play
The Tree
old bag
sights flag
The Flag
source-stripes
stars-hype
The Wind
whistles
bristles
The Moss
green spreads
it treads
The Owl
beware
its stare
Our Home
full of
God’s love
Over All
pleasant
present
My Neighborhood Gang
Colorful drapes hung alongside of my narrow window
A small one/bedroom apt. my first - from delivery of newspapers
overlooking a park - past a spider web - made by a black widow
planted on one pane - I would peer
Children tossing hoops laughing an bouncing ball would alert me
Time to exercise an maybe get into a game myself
our usual gang - tough competitive group - scrappers see
someone hurting after each game me too
Now at dusk, all this would change - you could hear those voices echo
Off buildings nearby - these same rough guys would sing
singing is what we did in that old park - after dinner with chicko
that boy from Puerto Rico was our leader an could hit all high notes we sang
Windows opened on all the surrounding buildings - families listened too
Only when our sessions were over - we hear Bravo! Chico Bravo!
We sounded like angels in a choir - made us feel proud - cool so true,
without a doubt we were on top of our world - couldn't wait for tomorrow
Three word prompts used = Window - Angels - Singing
Engagement is tempting,
But ignoring them
Is far better,
They’ll probably
Find new victims,
Yet with time,
Light crushes darkness.
Related Poems