Storefronts Poems | Examples

Horrible Places

The water from these sinks is cloudy.
Everyone is, 
Creeping around. 
Faucets leaking. 
I could have fixed everything. 
Horrible places like this one.

Horrible places. 
When I wake up. 
There are more. 
Every speck of light out there?
From headlights to storefronts. 
Close my eyes and see map dots. 
I could be in a worse place.
The faucets are leaky in here. 
They told me it’s fine. 
Dripping drool in my sleep. 

When I wake up?
I wish I could sometimes. 
It’s cold in here. 
My breath is more breathless than usual. 
As if there’s no sleep left in the world. 

She handed me a cup and a handful of pills. 
Sleep, or don’t. 
She shrugs.
When I wake up. 
She’s gone. 
An empty cup is by my bed. 

The water in the showers is probably rusty. 
You can’t see rust in the water. 
But it’s in the pipes. 
It’s on my hands from turning the faucet on. 
I could have fixed everything. 
But all I have now is a rust shower. 
It’s in the pipes, and I can’t stop it now. 

Everyone in here is creeping around. 
Sluggish or floating. 
None of the water here is fresh or safe. 
I’m convinced.
It makes us worse. 
But we drink, anyway.

JAZZ

Nail walking down the street
Carrying a bagful to fix something
For the master who owns my dreaming
Storefronts lolling sidewalks asleep
Night quiet jazz, Erie, PA
The endless road breaking cartons
Locked doors being kidnapped jumping
fences getting spotted running away
Dreaming snatches of words in the air
Fine milky jazz boots on a roll a train 
That passes at 10 a,m, cars with their vapor
Mist the chuga-chuga sound of a boxcar to
No-where the rattling of walls when you are
Alone hot tea Lorrianne in a skirt a poetry
Reading in N.Y. moving out with only the
Shirt on my back going down,back,out, taking
Chris to the mermaid bar covered in sand, no shoes
Living nearby close to the sea, changing
Having enough cool to chill sand enough to scratch
That you never itch life that you're full
Digging the Diz and jack going, back going, back going
Because you want to/needing nothing' nothing but a little
Taste now and again just being free doing it instead of it
doing you

Mystique of the Mojave

A white wash of striated clouds
stretch expansively 
across the arid desert sky
where Joshua trees commune
lifting up crooked cactus-like arms
towards the searing sun. 

Massive layers of brown boulders 
jut, forming endless sculptures 
hidden places where the ancients 
made their penitence with words
swept away by unforgiving winds. 

Shadows shift under the arc of the sun
where nervous roadrunners dart
startled lizards seek shade
great hawks circle with outstretched wings 
and tortoises amble as the hours crawl by. 

Two lane highways trail into the horizon 
toward snow capped mountain peaks 
lined by nameless telephone poles 
and tumbleweeds that roll aimlessly 
across storefronts and sleepy 
rundown towns in disrepair. 

Yet the mystique of the Mojave plains
still remains an inviting oasis 
of refreshment and contemplation 
where time stands still
beneath the stillness
of the midnight stars. 









12/5/2022

In My Neighborhood

Walking outside and the streets are all hopping;
People are strolling or eating or shopping.
Maskers are few and their numbers are dropping
As Covid recedes from the news.

Diners and bars are all crowded and busy;
Sidewalk cafes feature drinks tall and fizzy.
Traffic and bicycles pass in a tizzy
As new storefronts make their debuts.

Out in Ukraine there are bombs that are flying;
People are hiding or fighting or dying,
Yet in Manhattan there is no denying
That Covid and war are taboos.

What a Trip

All abroad! Amazing airplane aims above Asia ascending at an ample airline.
Bestowing big buildings, busy businesses, beautiful beaches...
Camera captures candid cascading countryside.
Dozen dandelions display delightful destinations.
Everyone easily escapes enjoyment.
Families follow festivals featuring favorite foods.
Guests grow generating grand group gatherings.
Happy hikers holler, "Hello", having heartfelt hospitality.
Itinerary illustrates interest.
Journalists jot joyful journeys.
Kindreds keep keepsakes.
Laziness lingers leaving luxury lounging.
Many mountains measure meaningful moments.
Neighbors noticing newfound nature.
Onlookers observe outstanding overviews.
People profile pretty picturesque plains.
Quaint quiet quests.
Rivers rage radiating rainbow rays.
Souvenirs stock storefronts signaling surging sales.
Tourists travel tracing town's treasures.
Upcoming unbelievable utopia.
Visitors vacation vast vicinities.
Wonderful walks were waiting world wonders.
XOXO's xeroxed.
Yesterday's yearly yacht yearnings.
Zooming zestfully.

Heading Home

From the window of my father’s car
 
Golden hairs upon my arm,

corn silks blowing in the wind,

Wave goodbye to summer.

Hair, now gold to silver grain

Receding now, 

I’m leaving, once again.

A thumbing mind goes flipping past

Garages, stores, and street-lamps, fast 

as ages mirrored in the storefronts
 
Move my life’s reflection through
 
each passing windows' glass

Lying on a beach I look at clouds
 
Hands held high, fingers pointing,

Watching through these sunlit tears 

The close encounters I have had
 
With love.

Man-Child In His Promised Land

Man-child in his Promised Land
  He burns Bibles as would a savage
Spews failed Marxist-Leninist garbage
  Then 'safe spaces' he demands

Coddled criminal, he totes a weapon
  Storefronts, he loots and damages
Government buildings his firebombs ravage
  Then he screams, "The police -- defund!"

And all the while, Liberals take him seriously
  As he spits and vomits on America and her history

Baltimore Heat

In heat
the pulse of your streets.

I've heard the crack
of hard political whips
that pinch the air.

Cores of human topography,
your aging neighborhoods.

Your people kick cans
counting gravel like jewels,

while chiselers roast dogs
in the courthouse.

Swine flu kills
the papers.

And already the sky is
feverish.

In your train tunnels
a violinist plays pianissimo. 
I've seen
railroad men search for him
along your tracks.*

But you are always
the sweltering sore
of the Atlantic.

A rusty mouth
for dark ships.

A blind brick town
of boarded storefronts
and ***** flicks,

you are buried.

Brown bag your way
to the last alley.

The tenants throw
rocks at your windows.

The rain has stopped
washing your sewers. 

*From an old legend of
railroad workers on the east coast of the United States. 

Published Black Buzzard Press - 1982

Poetry Town

The dust devils swirled with grit as their lacing,
and dark Sonnet storefronts boarded in despair.
The Senryu Saloon shut its cafe doors
and the Couplet Church-goers fled in pairs.

She thought he wouldn't live in all his Paeons.
She packed her Blank Verses in one simple case
and went to the station to board the Quatrain,
leave all the Haiku for a happier place.

The two poets stood there grim in their facing.
Only one would survive and one would lay down.
The fact that it happened left Lyrics racing:
Indeed, 'twas a dark day in Poetry Town.

Howard Beach

weathered fences broken slacks 
covered the shores of tan grit 
that stained the walk way

of uncharted territories  
i frolliced about tainted steel 
the hidden smell of poshed hair tonic 
as i reached for the door handle 

quickly comforted by thought 
mingling about stirring about 
cold tire rims spinning spokes 
i'd remember the jaded hours 

focused on the infamous 
coming of the dawn 
shattering balance and lure 
dangling about crowded burroughs

empty canals and rows 
of rail road tracks 
nestled underneath rusty viddocks 
lined with vacant storefronts

filled with the stench 
of molded cartons rotten produce 
and spoiled fish morbidly covering 
thee abandoned market place

Free Cee Central Dark

CENTRAL DARK

I used to walk those very same streets
Streets of sensuousness and sin
Those streets which once felt my feet
Those streets where my shoes once had been

The storefronts are new but the cement is the same
I saw pictures of it on my television screen
Those streets are in a city my heart used to claim
Those streets which both books and films often deem mean

I used to stroll those streets in the dark
Under moonlight I’d search for my next destination
One street led to a centrally located park
In a hamlet forged of fantasy and fascination

I used to walk those streets all alone
In search of someone with whom I could talk
My feet now stomp streets in a different state I bemoan
And only God knows how much I miss my New York
    © 2012…..PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~

Free Cee Exiled Against My Wishes

CENTRAL DARK

I used to walk those very same streets
Streets of sensuousness and sin
Those streets which once felt my feet
Those streets where my shoes once had been

The storefronts are new but the cement is the same
I saw pictures of it on my television screen
Those streets are in a city my heart used to claim
Those streets which both books and films deem mean

I used to stroll those streets in the dark
Under moonlight I’d search for my next destination
One street led to a centrally located park
In a hamlet forged of fantasy and fascination

I used to walk those streets all alone
In search of someone with whom I could talk
My feet now stomp streets in a different state I bemoan
And only God knows how much I miss my New York
    © 2012…..PHREEPOETREE ~free cee!~

This Land Is My Land

Pastoral country
Where folks wave to passers by--
Farmers plowing

Exit 386
Wal-Mart, fast foods, and hotels-- 
Tourists stop

Modern businesses
Of every type one might need--
The short road to town

Refurbished storefronts
With arts antiques and barbers--
Downtown businesses

Houses big and small
Fill the local neighborhoods--
Quiet streets

State Parks, music fests
And neighborhood barbeques --
Entertainment

Outside of town
Beautiful farms and woodlands--
The rural folks

The river rises
Bringing water to my land --
Children in kayaks

The home of brave hearts
Who understand nature’s way --
King and rattlesnakes

The home of the free
Where people are seen smiling--
Live Oak, Florida

ã June 5, 2012
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen

Written for Poetry Soup Member   MY LAND IS MY HOME 
Sponsored by: ~ SKAT ~

Eyesores

dubbed trash by the many &
revered by the few,
sitting on the street curbs &
nesting on the steps
so if ya don’t like what you see
you better 
rub em’ till’ they bleed &
waiting on the piggies 
strolling long the sidewalk
washing up the storefronts
of all the kids of the future
sick of the present
with skateboards in hand
cigarettes drooping &
a look of fresh new rage
peeling out from their own eyeballs &
we’re on the other side of the street
lighting up the wicks
we got the molotovs blazing &
you know it should’ve been this way
years ago
why we waited oh so long 
we’ll never really know
it’s been little by little
day by day 
we’ve been walking with our baby steps
gaining momentum like a rolling ball of clay
picking up the dust & the dirt & the scum
i’d rather be down in the sewer any day with the rats 
than one minute with the glamourglitz
rolling in a lump sum
because this is where we rumble, ****s,
this-z where we lay it down
we’ve got our wits sharp & our fists ready
our steel toed boots are kicking
towing intel neath’ the underground
reading writing on the walls
setting fire to everything we can
waiting for it to fall.

Colors of Life

Color, beautiful colors so fair.
Decorates life with beauty, gemstones.
Days without splendor could bring despair.

The human retina, its rods and cones,
Designed to paint man’s world with grand hues.
View majestic colors on earth’s throne.

Hues that paint nightlights with great amuse.
Storefronts, theaters and streets bedecked.
Beautiful colors: reds, greens, and blues.

Sometimes there is a spectral defect.
Pigment askew sees colors untrue.
Changing the vistas one might expect.

Colorblind people tell some jobs adieu.
Electricians, painters, and even cooks –
Let’s hope there will be a cure breakthrough.

On the good side, according to books,
Colorblindness detects camouflage.
A benefit, finds enemy nooks.

Corsage, collage, sabotage montage –

© March 6, 2011
Dane Ann Smith-Johnsen

Written for Poetry Soup Member Contest: Color Blindness 	 
Sponsored by: Olajide Adelana

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