PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Street

Lights sweet

The beggars sleep

Next to the walkway

The moon’s something to say

1 NYC

Dreams they are walking
Spawns more kills more these old streets
8th avenue blues

2 Library

We're closed for today
Bring another day to read
"Tomorrow", I said

3 Windows

Light's getting in through
Questioning eyes they peep out
"I'm old", says the house

"First, he says, 

first and foremost,

the cub has it's roar, 

or did I mean Lion? 

He tells me, 

performs for me, 

the vivid imagery

of the courage and strength, 

trying to give unto another.

No script, no paper, 

off memory, his poetry

is in his heart, 

and apart from my written word, 

wow, can i perforn like

the one singing bump and grind? 

Well, I most definitely have 

not the voice. 

But, 

the artist has instead

his art in his soul, 

and no pen or pad

or book in hand, man, 

this man has it. 

So does She

giving me sweet epiphany, 

alliteration and onomatopoeia, 

hyperbole, dreams of red velvet, 

a memory of perhaps

succulent treat, 

and after a beat, 

another artist approaches,

such powerful words. 

All of them, 

potential no longer blocked, 

mind unlocked,

her voice giving me thoughts. 

I am home, 

I am surrounded by poets, 

artists, lovers, dreamers, 

those who have suffered

more than I, 

hearing some of the pleas. 

It would indeed be

enriching, more imbued positivity. 

And perhaps comical

as I watch one poet

almost run over another

on trip to couch.

I grin, laughed, 

laughed more when asked

to rurn to page 24. 

Hands, the color red, 

subjects being poured about

by all these great writers. 

Such emotion, 

they read,

I listen.

Tonight isn't about me, 

this is about them, 

and I am humbled again. 

Tonight is about you,

and you, and all of you 

who pour their soul, 

so vulnerable. 

Lessons, being preached to me, 

wise words, being brushed 

across my canvas,

their paint so vibrant.

Their pain so real, 

like my own. 

What I strive to do, 

being done unto me. 

They want to write, 

they make me want to 

write, right now. 

Never stop writing, 

requesting got returned keys, 

being alive. 

Poetry has kept me alive. 

You, artists, breathe into me...

life."

I walk endless an road

locked into a heavy load

Of these questions and fears

Gripping from it's unreasonable tears

As a car roars by

I look dead into it's light

Wondering where it leads

But just like that it's gone

just like another day

As I wake up to the sun's harsh light

I try not to look back

As I attempt to fill this crack

Of this hurt and wonder

Unstoppable, a storm of rain and thunder

As a car roars by

I look dead into it's light

Wondering where it leads

But just like that it's gone

just like another night

As I stay up to the moon's hypnotic might

On Bretaña Street, memories like whirlwinds,
twirl about the dust of Autumn’s eve.
There is no one here, except a lonely
Passerby who turns round a corner

and is gone. On Bretaña Street, the rains
are gone as well—there is no water, only
gray asphalt, whirlwinds, and passersby,
who leave no trace of presence here.

Over the rooftops, the crescent moon
unveils her yellow teeth in a dying sky.

I walk the street as I walk through a dream,
oblivious of the present, the windowless
present, with its tedious unleaving of the days.

I walk the street in search of water, but
the stores are closed, and the rains are gone,
leaving only dust, whirlwinds, gray asphalt.

Perhaps tomorrow the rains will come,
a passerby will not turn round a corner,
into someone else’s dream; perhaps

tomorrow, the rains will come again,
the Tree of Life will grow once more,
and reach high into that endless space,

where birds in Summer spread their downy
plumage in the brighter sun of warmer days.