Doomed City
Of this doomed city is my shop of heavy faces,
What matters is ice and snow and cold;
For the following day created a pale service,
As the claims were, over the city streets.
I called it Neverness, the importance of the flesh,
And I nodded for I slipped below the surface;
The claims weren’t obsolete but they were sad,
Like the guts of the place, the guts of the taste.
That thought was somehow important,
To immerse yourself in the dolls of thirst;
Grasping at gifts and golf and fog,
In order to speak to the onlookers.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Related quotes
London city you claims your right
London city you claims your right
The moving city, days and nights.
it seem no one can sit still
but some do settles
Shifting and moving one place to another
Amazingly there not many Londoner,
Living in London
Widely proclaims by foreign
from every corner earth
We not invading city,
cos this the only city in the world
You can claims your right
Whom you are
Living city of the United Nation
London
poem by See Fee Lee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Better Weather Here Than Somewhere Else
It's a Northern winter wonderland
Happy couples walking hand in hand
Department stores aglow with lights
Christmas trees always in sight
Snow falls down on New York City
Snow falls down on New York City
It's true that the place is lit up bright
And maybe the streets look amazing at night
And while the country can seem kind of plain
Alabama's got sunshine when New York's got rain
Frost on rooftops and gifts with bows
Teddy bears in shop windows
Santa in the mall with children on his lap
So much to do, so many presents to wrap
And snow falls down on New York City
Snow falls down on New York City
It's true that the place is lit up bright
And maybe the streets look amazing at night
And while the country can seem kind of plain
Alabama's got sunshine when New York's got rain
There's no white Christmas for Dixie this year
But we don't need snow to bring holiday cheer
Maybe we're simple but we still do our part
To keep Christmas a tradition that lives in the heart
So let the snow fall down on new York City
Just let it fall down on New York City
Cold and Deep
The end of civilization is to seek out and learn,
Never and never does the snow hiss or walk
Like us, for we crawl and hurl from it.
It is the cloud that is the spiritual center,
The importance of flesh has disappeared,
Foolish breath has eventually worked.
Cold and deep was the shop called blood,
My only sound ran away,
The following day he claimed a joy.
Shop for the sudden belonging,
Far-off the windows are shut and open,
Touching is too much beginning.
My young man matters to the born,
And he parked along the black roads,
Melted by the snow you certainly watch.
My claim he cast aside,
Now that the birth of brown beards
Arose from the jungles and forests.
poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Tale of Three Cities
New York blasted London blasted
Singapore -
Ripped off each other's metaphoric balls,
Crumbling walls.
Priapic city monoliths -
Blue-sky scraping bastards -
Shout about their height (but really length) .
V8 arseholes didn't care -
Pumping shit into the air,
So long as they were always there to
Fart aloud a smoggy cloud,
Laughing at the weak asthmatic,
Humoured that it seems traumatic.
Watch the greedy cities oozing
Chair-bound fat committees, though they
Look a bunch of titties as they
Waffle on about the pound.
Ever thought to look around and see
That they were dead?
Copyright © Mark R Slaughter 2010
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
city city city city city city
poem by Mark R Slaughter
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
City Streets
The gaudy glow of neon lights
dispels the darkness of the nights
on city streets.
They pop and fizzle noisily
creating a cacophony
on city streets.
The sober folks walk warily
and drunks stagger uncaringly
on city streets.
The ladies of the night parade
for there is money to be made
on city streets.
Drug dealers ready to retreat
if they should hear a coppers feet
on city streets.
The night shift workers wend their way
towards their work to start their day
on city streets.
The noisy revellers thin out
as one by one the signs go out
on city streets.
The gradually noises abate
and ghostly shadow congregate
on city streets.
For some few hours peace will reign
before the noise will start again
on city streets.
The early morning traffic sounds
start with the milkmen on their rounds
on city streets.
This builds up to an angry roar
as cars and lorries inward pour
on city streets
then when at last rush hour has passed
noise levels will subside at last
on city streets
I thank the lord that I am free
to leave this noise far behind me
on city streets.
I walked my beat the whole night
through exactly as I’m paid to do
on city streets.
I choose to live outside the town
where constant noise won’t get me down
on city streets.
My village is a quiet place
A haven where I need not face
the noisy streets.
8-Jun-07
poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
My Hometown
Jersey City is where I was born
I woke up to see many a dawns
It's not a bad city, it was a place to live
But there were many times it didn't forgive
The streets were tough, the winter's cold
It s city you can embrace, but one you can never hold
The streets will own you and rule you
There's not too much one can do
After some years you'll be ready to leave
It will no longer have the things you need
That's when you know it's time to leave
Because in the city you can longer believe
Now people grow up there and decide to stay
But so many many more just go a different way
6-18-10/RJH
poem by Ray Hansell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
America vs Germany vs India(A funny story)
In a ship the Generals of three nations were traveling with their soldiers. They started the topic that whose soldier had more of guts.
The American general called for one of his men and told him to jump down the ship and take a round swimming around the moving ship. The soldier did as he was commanded and the general boasted of by saying 'See the guts! '
Now the German general called out for one of his men and asked him to take two similar rounds. The soldier did as he was told.
When he came back from the water the German said, 'See the guts.'
Now the Indian General called out for his most courageous man, Santa and asked him to take five similar rounds.
Santa promptly replied, 'Am I your dad`s servant? '
At this the general proudly said 'See the guts'.
poem by Edwin Drood
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Attitudes.
The moon sheds soft and silver light
upon the newly fallen snow
A master piece for our delight.
The city folk will never know.
The snow that falls on city streets.
Is all too soon polluted by
the footprints left by passing feet.
In cities different rules apply.
Country folk accept the snow
They know there’s little they can do
but wait. In time the snow must go.
Something to look forward to.
But city folk impatiently
Demand the streets should be snow free.
Wednesday,06 January 2010
http: // blog.myspace.com/poeticpiers
poem by Ivor Or Ivor.e Hogg
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
A Compilation of Memories
Newspapers are wet
on the cold cement
in bits and pieces
they speak from under my shoes
the ink
flows into the gutter
swimming with the rain
and captured industrial smells
I love this city.
The light from storefronts
seeps out
from the windows and doors
trying to warm
the streets
spills over onto the sidewalk
makes puddles and pools
one with the water
I love this city.
The wind sings
as it blows
the cold on our faces
ice does what it is told
it hurts
and then loves
embraces us in its strong arms
but we already are free
I love this city.
The rust on the fence
smiles at me
as i silently pass by
on my way across the world
the map
in my shaking hands
is wet and smeared
but i can find my way and the rust is happy.
I love this city.
The sun comes out
slowly like she is afraid
but no one will hurt her
she is their hearts
my feet
are tired
the city’s sorrows found them
and told them how it feels
to let it all fade and die.
poem by L'Angley S Delmonte
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The beauty of the mother
I may have guts to defy my mother.
I’ve guts to ignore and neglect her
But no guts could I muster to insult her.
That is the beauty of the mother.
01.11.2007
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Cold winter night
It was a cold winter night.
All was deadly still.
My guts so tight
I must kill!
The cry of a wolf enters my head
Like a train whistle that echoes far away.
Can it be…something lives on this winter night?
Follow the sound and pray
It does not go away.
My hunger juices flowing; I go.
I and the wolf both now know
Neither is alone in the land of snow.
Oh, how I wish I had his sight
On this cold winter night
The north wind moved in the night before.
The ground all snow and bitter cold…so bitter cold.
The sky filled with stars.
The snow grows old.
My guts so tight
What a cold, cold winter night!
The wolf stays hidden from my sight
With it’s furry coat of gray and white.
He glides across the snow without sound
Like a ballerina tiptoeing over the ground.
My guts so tight
On this bitter cold winter night
I with my blood running slow
My hands burning cold; my face red glow
Driven by the pain in my gut
On this cold-cold bitter winter night
I must kill
To make the night still
So the hunger pains
Will be gone again
I hear nothing on this cold winter night
My hair stands up on the back of my neck
I fear the wolf knows
I turn
Crutch to spring
His fangs showing white; my knife in my hand
We circle like two roosters in a pen.
For one this will be the end.
The pain in my gut is still tight
I will kill but not for the trill
On such a killing bitter cold winter night
With the grace of a cat he springs to flight
My throat his aim on this cold winter night
My knife hits his heart…he hunches in pain;
His fangs rip my throat cutting the jugular vein.
The snows now stain on this cold winter night.
Blood and flesh flung upon the snow
Cries of pain, moans of death…soon will go
From this bitter cold ground
All is still on winter’s playground.
The wolf dances no more
My lips move but there is no sound.
My gut is still tight
I feel alright
No more time to fight
On this bitter cold winter night
Wind and snow now fill the air.
The wolf has an empty den.
The snow will be tracked no more.
Twinkle, twinkle little star
Genocide complete
In a galaxy so far
poem by Ronald Brissette
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Still America
Big cities, small towns
Pent homes, farmhouse
Ghetto, Park Avenue
Public, privet
I matters not
It is still America
City streets, hiking trails
Montana, California
Models, hillbillies
Near, far
It matters not
It is still America
Wartime, peace
Torrent, drought
Terror, security
Together, alone
It matters not
It is still America
Southern nights, northern lights
County campsites, city hotels
Warm weather, cold climates
East, west
It matters not
It is still America
National parks, monuments
Countryside or metropolis
Right wing, left wing
Pacific, Atlantic
It matters not
It is still America
And always
Will
Be
poem by Missy Lynn
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Protesting In The Nonsense Called Denial
Like it to accept or not,
But those sharing deceits...
Are people of equal mentalities.
To gather together to make claims of being neglected.
And those looking for physical differences,
To live one step above the other...
Forget,
On which common soil...
There is a placing of similar footsteps.
With the going through the same process.
To gather together to make claims of being neglected.
And to make accusations they do,
That are seen to be reflected and familiar...
Only upsets the ones refusing to see themselves.
And those who refuse to see themselves,
Are all over the place...
Protesting in the nonsense called denial.
And...
To gather together to make claims of being neglected.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Big City Type
I woke up in a big city apartment
Rode to a big city job
On a big city subway
With hip, big city people
Worked at a big city job
In a big city skyscraper
Stood in a big city line
For lunch, heard big city jazz
On a big city radio station
It was like a big city scene
In a big budget movie
When I realized I had become
The big city type
I always wanted to be
Yet I was still me
poem by Adam Artois
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
São Paulo
São Paulo
The city that I was born in
I never liked you since I was a child
São Paulo
Now that I am grown up I still don't like you either
I don't feel safe being in the streets in São Paulo
To me São Paulo is very ugly in real life
It is only beautiful in the postcards
There is no in between
Either you are rich or poor
There are too many contrasts
São Paulo
A city that never sleeps
São Paulo
I am glad that you don't have snow
One thing that is great in São Paulo is summer, the hot weather
I would go insane if I lived in here forever
For me it is like a prison
Because it is too dangerous to walk on the streets
It is a very depressing city
São Paulo
It is a real cement city
Buildings and more buildings
Hardly any green
It is an old city
450 years old
For me São Paulo
Is like a prison cell
poem by Aldo Kraas
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
Street Dwellers
With their faces all lined and weather beaten,
It could be days since these folk have last eaten.
These city dwellers; these rough sleeping rovers,
Have resorted to searching rubbish bins for leftovers.
Through the city streets, they aimlessly roam;
Sometimes asking people for the bus fare home.
Refused money, some will swear in your face;
The streets can seem such a threatening place.
Some of them don’t exactly turn on the charm,
When they ask for money, and grab your arm.
Some smile, courteously, bidding you a good day,
Despite things not having quite gone their way.
Some attempt to stop people passing them by,
But most people still do, however hard they try.
Asking for spare change, they repeat their plea;
Some, passers-by, purposely, choose not to see.
They may sleep in a shop doorway, or under a bridge,
Where the temperature is often as cold as a fridge.
The days and nights seem to go on for almost ever,
Especially during the cold and wet, wintry weather.
These people are all different; they are not all the same.
Some are uneducated; some have letters after their name.
Some of them are outgoing, while others are very shy;
Some of them are trustworthy, while others are very sly.
We know very little about these people’s past lives;
They may have left behind children, husbands or wives.
This group of individuals are so unique and so diverse,
But, for them, their living conditions could not be worse.
All they need is someone to give them a second chance;
Someone who gives them more than just a second glance.
Nobody lives their life on the streets, purely by choice.
It is time that they were listened to, and given a voice.
poem by Angela Wybrow
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
It’s called the inner city
On death row I ask what happen to me
This is not the way it was suppose be
So I drag my mind trying to recall
The life I had beyond these prison walls
I see
Thin walls no privacy
Big yard, living in close proximity
It’s called the inner city
It’s called the inner city
A city no one build for me
It’s called the inner city
Yes it has shaped my destiny
On death row I ask what happen to me
This is not the way it was suppose be
So I drag my mind trying to recall
The life I had beyond these prison walls
I see
Adults sit around
Getting shot and maim
Children run around
Oblivious
Playing their games
In the filth that flows untamed
It’s called the inner city
It’s called the inner city
A city no one build for me
It’s called the inner city
Yes, it has shaped my destiny
On death row I ask what happen to me
This is not the way it was suppose be
So I drag my mind trying to recall
The life I had beyond these prison walls
I see
How hard I try not to run with the pack
But against me the cards were stack
They need protection they need someone
But you can’t protect them with empty hand
In the inner city
It’s called the inner city
Poverty, amidst luxury
A city no one build for me
It’s called the inner city
Yes, it has shaped my destiny
Political connections, fearless and strong
Dispensing justice with an even hand
Truth be told, I am a ladies’ man
So naturally they call me the “Don”
In the inner city
It’s called the inner city
It’s called the inner city
A city, no one build for me
It’s called the inner city
Yes, it has shaped my destiny
Now on death row
Soon, I’ll go
I am guilty?
No one will know
The script is written and sing like a song
They used, refused and then they kill the “Don”
In the inner city
Hah, ha, ha, a, a, a
Hah, ha, ha, a, a, a
poem by Ikhalfani Solan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
I want to talk about my city
I want to talk about my city,
Of her tired people who stride over her windy streets,
who have eyes wetter than western rains,
They work from the morning till evening
In arsenals starving for flesh and for sweats,
They walk nudes and without honor
Against vises which clasp their hearts,
I want to speak about my city,
Of these storekeepers who sell the past
To the visitors coming to plunder the rests of the wind,
Of these salesmen of roast chestnuts who the winter
Hours stay to shout in the cold wind
Cursing the anonymous glance of the passers-by,
Of these bakers raised at dawn
Who smile by selling warm croissants
To customers become foreigners of them own families,
I want to speak about my city,
Of her wild streets in the flavors of distant salts
Of her Russian, American, Indian sailors
With eyes cleansed by travels,
Of her tramps making the aumone with their mistreated dogs,
Of her playboys in short sleeves shirt who bring out their sunglasses
if the slightest beam cross the darkness of May,
I want to speak about my city,
Of her changing sky as a lost compass,
Of her beaches with the antique and pure beauty,
Of her gulls in the reassuring or irritating shouts,
Of her naval base where die too old battleships,
Copper-colored frigates by the redness of settings sun,
I want to speak about my city
As of an unspeakable torture in the other modern cities,
Of a city made ugly by the war and remorse,
A city identical to the refusal to be loved
Who cultivates its soul as a last garden
Near the gigantic ocean which invites itself in her fate…
poem by John Rolland
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
City Dreams
the city sleeps
beneath my feet
the glow of streetlights, cars, and store signs
keep me warm tonight
its cold here in the skys
angel wings graze my skin
and the clouds collect my tears
the only way
I can find peace in this place
Is six feet below
The city streets
Or way above where the city
Sleeps
poem by Lauren Miller
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!
The Sojourner
Are your herds all dead
That you walk the street alone?
And do you have your own bed
When the toiling day is done?
City nomad without his herd
Wanderer, pilgrim of the mind
Wont you rest your tired head
You herdsman of a kind?
Were your ancestors cattle rearers
Who sought where grasses were green?
But you have mingled with the city dwellers
Leaving your herds either dead or lean
Tell me, city nomad
Why did you leave your father's way
And choose the city, tis' sad
That you roam the streets day by day
Or are you of the gypsy race
And your clan, minstrels and magicians?
Who wander from place to place
Sleeping and waking in caravans
Foxes have holes, and bird the trees
Do you have any to call your home?
Some live in houses, some in tents
Why do choose the streets to roam?
I am but a sojourner in every city
Seeking my God and the crown
And may he lead me to that heavenly city
A better place to call my own! !
poem by Okonkwo Osamedua. Allen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
Vote! | Copy!