Old and Alone Through the City
Old and alone, autumn wanders bare through the city,
A smoke of memories coiling around the streetlamps,
The woman dissolved into the arms of another mirage,
And the dog grew old begging for the warmth of days.
The child who was never born wanders through the fog,
A bodyless shadow knocking at autumn's gates,
And the wind and the sun, old brothers of a lifetime,
Lean on each other on the steps of forgetting.
The old organ-grinder, with his leg of wood and dream,
Cranks out a melody rusted like a wound,
The old prostitute sells her shadow, the unclosed
Coffin of her longing under a pagan moon.
Someone in a graveyard whispers a song of wax,
An old head trembles, hollow as a scorched bell tower,
The tree shakes its leaves like a final summer,
The idiot from the commercial smiles, a wounded mask.
The whole city trembles, full of loneliness,
Crowds of old young people flow like a river of wax,
All of them, everything, old and alone, carrying in their chests a fortress
Of silences fallen to their knees, under the same bitter snowfall.
I hid a firefly,
its wings beating against the low strings
like a secret refusing winter.
Your “I love you”s are no longer words;
they have taken the shape of tiny silver fish
crossing my nights, leaving behind them
a trail of crumpled moonlight.
I gather them in a chipped cup,
near the window where the rain writes
alphabets no one can pronounce.
The last notes never truly die.
They simply change their calling:
some become stardust on sleeves,
others keep watch over the lighthouses of sleeping ships.
I answer with my silences,
those transparent birds nesting in my throat.
They know your name better than my voice does.
When dawn unfolds its nautical charts,
I find your refrain beneath the skin of my fears,
in the hum of weary streetlamps,
in an orange forgotten on the table,
in the tiny heart of ordinary things.
I love you too,
not like a promise,
but like an underground river
that keeps singing far from prying eyes.
I'm sitting on the curb of a corner
watching raindrops fall in a misty cloud,
separating under the glow of streetlamps
orange, like the fire at your home.
I remember the three of us,
my mum, you and I
and the card games we shared
around that crackling fire,
and that day when we two
stepped outside in the winter morn,
a frail and wrinkled hand clasped
around a smooth and fragile one,
and the two pairs of fur-lined boots
sinking footsteps deep beneath the snow
and how, when I slipped and fell inevitably
as all toddlers do,
it was your arms and embrace that came as rescue;
a saviour, haven
like an igloo in a snowstorm,
the bank's prized vault.
And when I watched your eyes close last night,
I cried and bawled helplessly
unable to be your saviour
as time whisked you away forever.
Under your pillow lay an ace of spades,
still and silent like death
but in the warmth of my hand,
bursting, with the power of a new beginning.
Beneath the burning glow of streetlamps,
my feet were dragged onwards
through the alleyways and cross streets,
down the tightly packed and dimly lit walls.
Helplessly I sighed at the moon
that was obscured by a thick layer of clouds.
Once too I believed their words,
the praises, gifts and encouragement.
That was
until I heard their thoughts and felt their actions.
Their hands were cold
but their minds were colder.
Now they think me a villain
but forgot about the chapter where
they made me so.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The pond froze so suddenly that a duck mid-quack
found its bill glued shut, an absurd ice sculpture.
Mrs. Harlow’s terrier, mid-leap, hung suspended in the air
like a fuzzy comma, punctuating nothing.
The streetlamps blinked, then hardened into amber icicles—
even the wind gave up, curling into itself for warmth.
Old Man Greeley, halfway through shaking his fist at a squirrel,
became a monument to irritation, his mittens stiff with frost.
The children, though, were the first to notice:
they pressed their tongues to the icy slide at the park
stealing the cold for themselves.
Under the streetlamps, yellowed leaves
drift in ill-fated pairs,
spiralling through the brittle air-
a slow reluctant dance.
Their shadows, stamped on the Earth,
flutter like startled birds,
seeking a phantom escape
from winter's deadly hands.
They brush against a stranger's coat,
clinging for a heartbeat
before the wind wrenches them away-
a cruel puppeteer
that watches them pirouette and writhe helplessly,
carrying them, one by one
into the cold, dying cradle of the Earth.
There they rest
in the borrowed warmth
of a bonfire's reflection
and the sporadic firework
that sputters too weakly
before collapsing into empty embers.
And when all light fades,
and only the sound remains-
they hear
the ominous, melancholy murmur
of leaves crushed
beneath passing feet.
Birds scatter above goldish light rays
sourced from sun and streetlamps
that light a damp walkway with dewy air.
Walking is a long-legged, brunette beauty
adorned in simple, classy black and white
who hides somber, wanting eyes beneath a
stylish black hat. Golden bouquet in hand,
she passes a suited, middle-aged man - passes him so close it seems intimate, as
if they are also two secrets passing.
The city exhales steam like a tired beast,
its breath pooling in alleyways
where no one walks anymore.
Cold, wet cobblestones gleam
like the backs of forgotten coins,
each one holding a secret
you must step lightly not to disturb.
Streetlamps blink like they’re remembering
how to dream—
orange halos shivering on the slick asphalt,
casting shadows
with no one to belong to.
Shop windows sleep behind
grimy glass and rolled-down gates,
whispering to each other
in the hush of the sodium dark.
Rain slicks the world into a mirror
and I walk through it—
a ripple in the ghost of a market square,
where footsteps echo
as if they're unsure
whether they’re mine or someone else's
long gone.
Neon signs flicker with old jazz—
an inaudible tune,
all hush and blue
and the smell of wet iron
lingering like a lover's forgotten scarf.
I am alone, but the night is not empty.
It is full of watching things—
brick mouths and sewer grates,
broken clocks stuck at almost midnight,
windows that sigh when no one’s listening.
The city speaks its truest voice
only when no one asks.
From Harlem's pulse, a symphony untold,
Stories etched in a brownstone, dreams unfold.
Streetlamps pierce the twilight, jazz ignites,
Hope flickers, a flame against the nights.
Laughter rings on stoops where neighbors meet,
Gospel choirs rise, voices strong and sweet.
Stony sidewalks hold a million strides,
Asphalt dreams where destiny confides.
Stars peek through the rooftops, reaching high,
A silent promise whispered to the sky.
From Harlem's struggle, a spirit takes flight,
Soaring upwards, bathed in heavenly light.
In the heart of Harlem's nocturnal embrace,
where the moon's silver threads interlace.
Streetlamps hum a jazz-filled tune,
underneath the city's ebony dune.
Brownstone whispers, history untold,
in the rhythm of the Harlem night's hold.
A symphony of footsteps on cobblestone,
each echo a tale, each shadow, a home.
Saxophone solos from an open window,
melodies that the city's heart knows.
Dancing notes in the summer air,
as dreams ascend the winding stair.
Voices rise from the stoops below,
poetry in the cadence, in the ebb and flow.
In the Harlem night, stars align,
a constellation of stories, yours and mine.
Countee's verses echo on these streets,
where the past and present gently meets.
Harlem's heartbeat, a rhythmic boon,
sung in the verses of a Harlem nocturne.
Dusk
Till dawn
As tawny
Night and moon wanes
Darkest dark; bats fly
Ghosts, ugly witches bliss.
Daunted and stark under lit
Streetlamps large black feline tail rise
On bittersweet brisk nocturnal stroll.
Prowling it yearns on spooky Halloween.
Unseeing Streetlamps
Under the celestial awing
degrees of darkness
Stygian night or silky blue
Secret light seeps out of
manifold hurts
soon absorbed by night's hue
By the quay, lovers watch the light
commit suicide
in dark waters
Only the sleepless see this
and prowlers with knives
killing with passion
I still see him
Walking slowly beneath broken streetlamps,
Sitting at the edge of the needle-strewn playground.
He seems slower, less busy about his work,
An air of defeat stains his scythe.
I believe he is suffering from “post Covid trauma”
For he is death and death is his
His domain, his milieu, his life.
He weeps as he talks of the pain
Of death stolen, pilfered by politicians
Secreted behind pain and plexiglass
Inflicted upon the living by those
who stole death from death itself
used his ”scythe” to force compliance
hold death hostage without ransom.
Now he sits sorting through the detritus
Of the weary, the wounded, the hopeless
Who wander with him, sit with him
Wondering how death could be so cruel.
WINTER IN PARIS
It’s winter in Paris and the streetlamps are alight
Couples walk along the Champs Elysee every night
They wander in and out of the cafes here and there
They have a cappuccino and they drink it with great flair
The artists in the daytime are painting up a storm
The cars in all the traffic are honking on their horns
At the Eiffel Tower lights brighten up the sky
People from around the world are always walking by
Paris when it’s snowing is a winter wonderland
Lovers smile and laugh while they’re walking hand in hand
You can get on board a boat and travel on the Seine
If once is not enough you can do it all again
Wintertime in Paris, there’s so much to see and do
The only problem is, it’s very hard to choose.
A stroll down Paris city's wet streets.
So, romantic as the Eiffel Tower comes to view.
Vendors line up selling their wares out of carts.
Some shouting, "one euro, one euro only.
The aroma and vibrant colors of seasonal flowers
In buckets, reds, blues, pinks and orange sherbet.
Colorful umbrellas tower
For shade of passer-buyers
In the youthful sunny hours
And the cool refreshing showers.
Evergreen trees so green and proud.
Other trees, bare limbs, leaves dangle tight,
While others drift from the wind thief,
And crunched beneath passerby feet.
Streetlamps a lite as the moon starts to rise,
Still the city streets are full of busy activity.
The sound of the trotting horses
Pulling carriages up and down the main road.
Dizzying lacework of simplicity of life.
10/11/2022
PS, never have been out of the United States.
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