windows stare at me from every direction
gray streets, gray buildings, gray people
dead eyes walking toward me
I don’t ask any of them for help
I have never trusted urbanites
Don’t care if it takes me six hours more
I will find my way back to that hotel
an inner voice suggests cab?
I laugh at this
Don’t even remember the name of it
dead eyes file past atop listless expressions
zombies on tv have more animation
I had forgotten how much I despise cities
this is the last time I tell myself
It takes me three more hours to get back
A dog in Alabama
a snake in Tennessee
A toucan in Alaska
a mule in Kentucky
Texas has its longhorns
Colorado its buffalo
Arizonans look up at mountains
Montanans attend rodeos
Every place a different pet
and scenes to stir the heart
Give me wide-open countryside
Give urbanites fine arts
A simple one life,
is contrast to the urbanites,
less emphasis on punishments.
Wealthy and powerful people,
create new beliefs and holy books.
Government capitals,
and corporate stocks,
rent heaven and hell.
Pilgrimage of silicon valley,
depicts religious chants.
Clergious environmentalist,
chews street food.
A sender of shock waves,
Recipient to unable to remain brave
Days on end, the worst expecting
Week after week, comforting words ignoring,
For those who had their sources wronged
On them inflicting so much pain that people thronged;
The guiltless ones readily taking the matter up,
A notification of persons with whom they sup,
Every one of them prepared to a suit file
Against his attacker who‘d gone to such a mile:
Vulnerable as even the innocent is
To the malevolence of a curse
The great chances of this
Unfailingly drying his purse.
This, though, a country side anxiety is,
Most urbanites ready to all curses kiss;
For being a mere outburst of the furious
Absolutely sure they aren’t injurious…
But on their contents, I set much store
To their intents glimpsing some claw,
Not at all eroded my unscientific fears
That cursing lips are a lot more than voiced tears
Not just a verbal the social man could safely swallow
As being just an enemy’s chosen “hello”.
I'm just a bedouin:
I live in a tent -
Cozy an' fair
Its fabric woven
From rough goat-hair-
A shady cover
In the summer
A rain-proof shelter
In the winter
My possessions:
A single garment - a loose black robe
I call a thobe
A pair of worn out sandals
A coffee kit
And other little things
I put in a sack
That may not fit
With countrysiders' appetites
Or urbanites'
My homeland:
All this infinite expanse
Of deep beige sands
My sole companion:
A faithful camel
Who carries me
And all my stuff
Together we cross the endless desert
And when I sing
Some cameleer song
He gets so light
Out of delight
And makes as if to fly
Towards the sky
From my window
I see lights
in small apartments
How are the inhabitants lives going,
I wonder
Perhaps they have found love
Here in the metoroplis
Urban dwellers
need love to survive
In the asphalt jungle
Hundreds, thousands of lights shine
in the metropolitan darkness
Lives are being lived
by my fellow citizens
on this third planet from the sun
Personally, I hope all
goes well for my fellow urbanites
Live rumbles on beneath and above the
sidewalks of Gotham - the home of a million stories
He couldn’t fit his shopping cart
And suitcase through the door
And screamed at the conductor
(Quite a challenge to ignore).
Once seated, he spread out and then
Removed his socks and shoes.
Assessing just how nuts he was,
This added to the clues.
I glanced his way and sorrily,
I somehow caught his eye.
He then began describing
That the air was awful. Why?
The radiation on the train
Was there to make us sick,
But only some could feel it –
Those intelligent and slick.
I transferred cars while he still raved
And finished out my ride
In uneventful fashion
‘Til the trip home did provide
Another whacko, eating fries
And blaring on her phone
A news report in which
A screeching baby had been shown.
Incessantly, that baby wailed;
She played it on a loop.
I hoped that some brave soul
Would to the rescue somehow swoop.
But no – I had to listen
For we urbanites pretend
That it’s normal on the subway
For the crazies to offend.
We're here in Lincoln City
With the ocean at our feet.
Just gazing from the terrace
Is the most delightful treat.
We walked the beach this morning
In the early dawning chill
As the waves were gently lapping -
To us urbanites, a thrill.
At home, of course, we've access
To the beach, and it's terrific
But somehow, there's an awesomeness
Unique to the Pacific.
Some noises startle, jolt or jar
While others soothe or soften.
We perk up for the new but tune out
Those we hear quite often.
To locals, city sirens make
The tiniest impression
But visitors consider them
A barbarous transgression.
The hum of traffic rolling by
To urbanites equates
With cricket chirps or chickadees
In countryside debates.
The noises that surround us
Are as varied as our homes
Or the subjects and the wording
Of a plethora of poems.
Sweltering day
In the urban afternoon
I rush towards my
air - conditioned room
Check messages - call up friends
Tonight I will do some yoga
Got to keep up with one's health!
Now I take some time
out to write verse
This city has been - and still is -
an inspiration to many poets
Millions of urbanites
brave the heat
My hat is off to them!
One can find joy in this
congested city
One only has to
look around for it
It is available to urban men and women
Poetry can lift the spirits
of city dwellers
In New York there are
poems posted in the buses
and subway
"Poetry in Motion" was designed
for the spiritual health
of the urban masses
Who are seeking relief
on this hot summer afternoon
Light from untold apartments
attracts my interest
I wonder how lives are being
played out in them
Wonder whether the inhabitants are
deliriously happy
or in a melancholic frame of mind
Nightfall in the metropolis
Cars rush by on the Avenue
sitting here alone in my place
As a crescent moon hangs overhead
A little tea, then sleep
Shall I dream of the asphalt homeland tonight - or
will my imaginings lead me elsewhere
For now I contemplate the urban scene
So many millions of our fellow urbanites
are becoming tired as well
I can see the river from my place
Lights from the bridge hang like jewels
One can meditate on the urban scene
Take joy for the fact that
plenty of others are contemplating it with me
Peace to the city and all its dwellers
Light from
untold apartments
attracts my interest
I wonder how lives are
being played out
in them
Wonder whether
they are deliriously
happy
or in a melancholic
frame of mind
Nightfall in the
metropolis
Cars rush by on
the avenue
Sitting here alone
in my place
as a crescent moon
hangs overhead
A little tea
then sleep
Shall I dream of
the asphalt homeland
tonight - or will my
ship lead me elsewhere?
For now I contemplate
the urban scene
So many millions of
fellow urbanites
are becoming tired as
I tire
I can see the river from my place
Lights from the bridge
hang like jewels
One can meditate
on the urban scene
Take joy from the
fact that
plenty of others
are contemplating
it with me
Peace to the metropolis
and all its inhabitants!
One’s idea of Heaven
Is another’s view of Hell.
That explains why many lives
Stay strictly parallel.
Rural folks may shudder
At the city’s crowds and noise,
While urbanites rank bustle
As among their daily joys.
Some plan for vacations
Which, to them, suggests a cruise;
Others needing culture
Might find such a trip a snooze.
Many go to dinner
And enjoy a juicy steak.
Vegetarians prefer
Their “meat’ when it is fake.
Sometimes choices intersect
And differences converge,
Providing just a little taste
Of someone else’s splurge.
It’s good to be receptive
To another’s choice or style,
Though in terms of what you like,
It might be off by, like, a mile.
Yesterday was gray and bleak
And raw, as some days go,
But that was all forgotten at
The Garden’s Orchid Show.
It nearly knocked my socks off –
All the colors, patterns, shapes;
It has to rank with all the greatest
Urbanites’ escapes.
The visitors all snapped away,
With camera or with phone,
To try to capture just a bit
Of beauty Nature’s grown.
Though photos don’t do justice
To that magical display,
I’ll look at them and I am sure
They’ll brighten up my day.
At the museum, with wall to wall art,
My choices were varied and vast.
I saw an exhibit with works of Matisse
And checked out some statues I passed.
But then I was drawn to a strumming guitar
And a crowd by a video screen,
Transfixed by a slow-motion film of New York,
The ultimate urbanites’ scene.
The footage was shot from inside of a car,
On the move while on various streets.
The people, oblivious, strutted and strolled
To their private internalized beats.
The movie, called “Street,” took some moments in time
And transformed the familiar to strange,
For by slowing things down to a snail-crawling pace,
What was humdrum did magically change.
From most Met* displays, this one surely did seem
Like a separate world, quite apart;
Yet it did what it should, for it helped us transcend
And to me, that’s the purpose of art.
*Metropolitan Museum of Art
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