The noise beyond the roaring city bustle
Harsh blaring horns
Frogs croaking in a pond
The whippoorwill its sad call
Crickets talking in a secret rhythmic language
Bats fluttering eyes shining
Left to right
Snakes wiggle across cold ground
Wildcats scream calling
Into a eerie starlight sky
Silver speckled fish leap out of the water
For the winged bug in flight
Armadillos root for their food
Having sufficient but limited sight
The owl swoops into predatory dive
In its sharp claws his meal clutched tight
These are creatures of the darkness
The unique musical sounds of the night
This poem is copyrighted and stored in author base. All material subject to Copyright Infringement laws
Section 512(c)(3) of the U.S. Copyright
Act, 17 U.S.C. S512(c)( Tammy M Darby
All manner of people can be found in train stations, there character betrayed by attire to the more observational at least. The hard pressed city worker, walking ever walking, phone at hand, ever scanning emails and ensuring accessibility always, to control is too maintain is too succeed. Those who's steps seemingly shorter and more though out, are either here on some grand tour or some exotic soire as if silently noting surroundings, as the pass beneath the ornate decorations of their location. There care free folly the main indicator of intentions.From time to time a transport police officer shall pass, stern faced, seemingly compelled by some unknown mission others stand stationary a deterrent to would be criminals. From time to time the most beautiful facet of humanity is likely to appear, in the adoring stares of young lovers. It's this or the hold and don't let go grip, young lovers and train stations have long associated (In my mind at least) the point of departure is a grey area. Where displays of public affection normally reserved for movies and poems, reach the realm of social acceptability. Long deep kisses and well thought out speeches describing the grievances of an ever bleeding heart. There is one group I have failed to mention, who in there own way are entirely distinct from any of groups fore mentioned. They are the watchers, found normally at some quite looking coffee shop across the street, however this is not to imply they can not be any of the above. All of the above mix intermittently with interesting results, I shall for as long as I live never forget the passionate embrace of an on duty police officer and his wife. His eyes bright with surprise, at ease staring upon the one he so adores. I leave the station and head toward the embankment,
All manner of people pass me on their way to unknown offices, some holding hands and staring deeply. The rumble of unseen locomotive reassures me now of course I'm drawing closer, the winter winds once faint now felt as the once green leaves now all manner of colour are pulled by unseen gusts. This city must surely be the greatest in the world, from the industrial chimneys distant to the rolling ocean. Dockers smoke cigarettes and exchange raucous tales whilst foreign sailors stare intently. I always try my hardest to listen to as much as I could manage of these half spoken speeches. Im rewarded instantly with an image far more detailed and planned than anything the most creative minds could conceive. The wild waves create orators, there thoughts distilled be evenings spent alone. I've always found myself drawn to transient people, I feel like I've spend forever dreaming of someplace else Greenland Egypt Canada, you name the place and I've seen it in my dreams at least. It took me a while longer than I care to admit to truly get a feel for the place, at first like some timid child I avoided it. From the age of thirteen I've been locked in a battle with wanderlust, my urge to leave it all is simply overwhelming. In all my darkest fantasies, I leave this place at some point on some old ocean liner to arrive at unknown port. Too share a meal with mountain air as my ashtray overflows. I warm myself with images of ancient explorers sailing distant oceans, guided by starlight. Some people just elude me. I'd call myself stubborn but certain people melt me, I the eternal romantic a victim of my own high hopes. I'd often find myself alone, staring across the river and wondering. I always sit upon the same old bench carved with all manner of messages declarations of undying love, names, dates all carved into immortality. The steady movement of approaching footsteps is eternal, beyond the customs house solitary North Star shines, as if admiring its provincial estate. An unknown entity now serving as a subtle voice of reason in the darkness, occasionally couples pass, as if to cement my my longing. The starlight illuminates breaking waves, as boats sway easy tied up to subtle quayside. Ever reminded of my obligations I should really leave and go to sleep. However the pull of the darkness is tangible, that was something! oh something! Suddenly a gentle calm smothers all thought, as lights glimmer distant. Light! Oh brother light, I the eternal castaway home bound at last. My expectations were entwined with food and wine, and the comfort of my own bed.
My mother always called me the devil child
Because I was loud, destructive and wild
I found out years later I was born with ADHD
No one wanted ever to spend any time with me
Parents didn’t know of ADHD or why I was different
They didn’t understand and they were very intolerant
Parents told older sister I was bad and she didn't have to play with or be around me
So much of the time alone was really no fun, however for some help I did make a plea
I heard my mother double dog dare my father to hit me
Mother would refer to me as a turd in front of the family
All my cousins were smart, while I was failing most my classes at school
Got in to many fights with bullies and teachers who were always cruel
All my family made fun and they called me names bully and teased
I was the loser that anyone could do or say whatever they pleased
They all knew my mother would not try to defend
Because she and my grandmother started the trend
Once I told my mother that I was happy about something
She said happiness was by me not deserved but a thumping
Mother was always mad at me since I never wanted any piano, ballet, or baton lessons
I had my own mind, and impressing other people in life was not one of my obsessions
Could never make my mother happy, she was always very angry
I use to hit myself, scratch my face because she drove me crazy
When I was ten got mother a gift at the five & dime for her one birthday
She tossed the gift in the garage, called it junk, said was best to throw away
On Christmas day, when I unwrapped a gift if I didn't act surprised in a certain way
She'd throw a fit, get drunk and make me feel guilty about things the rest of the day
I was always afraid of my mother, never knew
what she next to me that she would try to do
None of my cousins was I ever allowed with to play
Was always much of the time alone every and all day
I lived in a strange way my dad was very to the T religious
And my mother was always drunk and of course blameless
She’d drink when home from work, on the weekends or holidays
And could always hide it from all her friends and the relatives
No one believed me when I told them that she had been drinking
They acted like I was crazy by then I knew what they were thinking
Never knew of anyone I could be close to, for a hug or some kind words
Things were always bad I needed encouragement for me to be heard
My mother took me out on Friday nights to eat and buy whatever I wanted, after work
Her last stop was always the liquor store for drink and smoke, I was left in car like a jerk
Bought games that took two or more to play, but she nor did dad never have any intension
Of spending time with me, I was in there way. I was a bad child that needed intervention
Wasn’t the perfect child I admit; I ran off when I was 16 did things I regret parents put me
Away, they came for counseling I complained about moms drinking, and she felt angry
She said her drinking wasn’t my problem, she’d be back to see me when I could face the truth
Never could mother admit her or dad doing wrong, everything was because I was a youth
Came home from school one day mom was passed out on the living room floor dead drunk
Called ambulance for her Dr blamed me and said no visit, and he called me a worthless punk
My dad would come home and find she was throwing up while passed out always in her bed
I’d watch him take bowls put them near her mouth to catch it, was something I would dread
He’d walk to the bathroom, empty the bowl and go back to get the next one to do the very same
And replace the unfilled one repeat the process. I was told by her doctor that I was the blame
Sometimes mom would run down the hall to the toilet bowl throw up then my heart would race
Because I always knew mom would do this and then she’d come to room to scare rant and pace
Since I was a bad spoiled child who had parents with money, nice house cars and good jobs
And I was not willing to help out or be responsible, was told I made the family look like slobs
My sister let her boyfriend talk her into letting him take me to dentist, instead he molested me
No one believed me because in the past I had lied about things, and the truth no one would see
I was different all the cousins, my aunts and uncle could blame me when things went missing
Or went wrong I was then and still am now the perfect scapegoat yes about it I’m still babbling
My father ran out the back door, when he heard me wake up and come out of my room
So he didn't have to bother with me, and I wanted to spend time with him he’d assume
Somehow I managed to graduate from high school and I then would move
To a different city I felt I might have better luck and my life would improve
Married two very bad guys both who daily beat, threatened me and verbally abused
Divorced them both had one child and how I’d raise this child alone I was confused
Tried to work and go to school never was competent enough to follow through
Each time I would start either I did not have the ability of completing anything new
Am not proud of this but I had 30 jobs that I lost in 10 years and even tried going to college
Unable to remember how and when to do things, my head from years of abuse was in a fog
Filed for SSI and Social Security, got on section 8, food stamps WIC and other government aid
I needed a home for myself and my daughter so I had to depend on things like this to get paid
My daughter grew up, became ill with a repeating debilitating disease
I dedicated myself to getting her well, and nothing about it was a breeze
Had to take her in pain for Doctor visits many times she’d cry and wished she were dead
This broke my heart with no family help, just her and I to face things in the years ahead
Unable to attend school for years, the Doctor signed permission to stay home
School system assigned a teacher who was mean nothing about her was tome
School Social workers interfered
And my name they smeared
She finally one day went into remission
And now the nephrotic kidney condition
Seems for now to have forever gone for good away
For years it’s been don’t want others to downplay
For a while I homeschooled her and the first semester back in the public school
She was on the honor roll things seemed to be looking up and I felt exception to the rule
Then one day she lost interest in classes, homework and attending
And the principal of the high school was calling and threatening
Pulled her out of school and placed her in to get her GED
Soon she graduated quite quickly within month of three
A year before she was supposed to graduate
I knew by then that I was doing things right
Enrolled me and her in community college we made the Dean’s list and no student loan debt
Last May she and I graduated have a new life now I don’t feel things in my life are a threat
But alone I’ve raised a good child, self-published a book and kept things together
I’ve published some poetry and stories in magazines that will be on web pages forever
Even though my parents have helped me out once in a while financially
I feel lack of respect since they helped family who treated me crummy
I’m still feeling and have most of the hopeless thoughts when I was young
But I still try to steer my daughter to be different from me and hold my tongue
Those cousins with the high degree
Don’t seem to have too much on me
Both lost their jobs within a year out of college from being snobs and dishonest
But the parents just think that it was because others were being so glibbest
Both stuck alone in life working in their old age
That just mostly pays a low minimum wage
Sister divorced husband for molesting her children still won't speak told her kids I was bad
She lives in my town and over 20 years she’s never visited so by her I've been for life had
Most of all I think it's because my parents never would face reality or admit
To any wrong doing of years of abuse and neglect, something I couldn't forget
Why am I talking about this after all these years still?
Because I think that it may just possibly help me to heal
All Rights Reserved
Though not loud enough
to cover that persistent barking
of those who have nothing to do
but gargle on their shishas and
speak nonsense for extended
periods of time while the world
watches in an intense wait that
could only be compared to that
yearning sensation children feel
as they wait for the ice-cream
cart that never comes but is
now face down in some ditch,
with those delicious treats melting
away like the dreams of those who sit,
and do nothing more than sit in the streets
of the city that wouldn't sleep, as their wives,
also sitting, watch TV with the lights dim,
wearing those red nightgowns that once fit so nicely,
now split at the seams and properly deteriorated
from all these nights they have been worn in hopes that they would move something,
anything at all in the hearts
of their husbands, but soon
the wives realize that their
is no hope, so they linger,
dumb-faced, in front of
their living room televisions,
blaring with lies and much
nonsense equivalent to
those told by the men
who are still sitting
those tubes with
smoke wafting out
of their clogged
A B.S.Hunter's view on poor people
I work up to 60/70 hours per week and screw around on F.B & Craigslist. We had weeks of debating the poor and how some leech off the state. Had people hollering leech to all poor people even the ones in cities like Detroit where they said blacks love living on welfare and they uneducated and they come from the planet ghetto jungle bunny. Not my words but they exist in my city with population 15 thousand. Poster on Craigslist challenged community to playact we were broke,
contact dhs and get info on how much a poor person with number of your own household gets per month along with food stamps.
To make it seem real, I took out the exact amount I would get if I was a poor person. Gave possession of check books and cash and my own house key to my dad and told him what i was doing. He said good luck son you wont make it on state aid. It was cheating but I did keep my car cause no way in hell am I waiting hours for a bus and walking on busy S. Airport and streets such as Garfield is dangerous. I rode that bus when my car was getting new tires and a tune up and it smelled bad like sweat funk.
Funds are put on a bridge card, that's cash aid and food stamps here in Michigan. I thought with this small amount of cash how in the hell will i survive?
I discovered pretty damned fast I could not afford rent and best I could afford was a nasty room in a place in downtown are where poor people rent rooms and no one should be living in. I wouldn't let my dog stay there and I felt like I should be packing a gun for protection. No minorities but whites who are down on their luck. Could not afford the small deposit even for that nasty dump. I cheated and bunked with a friend. That place is what you wont see come film festival or cherry festival time.
Forget having enough to buy healthy foods. I could afford bread and high carb fattening shit that nobody should have to live off. If I was poor I could not afford fresh produce I'd be eating cheap shit I could afford and if I had kids it would be far worse off.
I quit after a few days and would be hating life if I was poor.
Northern Michigan craigslist posters are notorious for flagging truth.
They flag and remove what they don't want to see on forum when it
don't agree with ass backward views of our good citizens.
They run people off with ignorance and now some like me have come here
and now see some of the ignorant have followed and joined this site posing as poets.
Found this when I went to site from a person claiming to be on vacation in Florida
but keeps posting and posting on our Forum. Poster now claims he is in Gaylord
that "drooling halfwit" always gives this one who changes locations away.
" red cross (gaylord)
Let me get this straight,you can afford the internet and a car but too poor to buy gas??Bet you wish that fake boycott worked stupid.You drive around looking for free handouts so you can drive around.This story is such bullshit,just like you.Get a job lazy drooling halfwit.
Posters originally posted months ago but keeps renewing same post. This posted after someone was refused gas by the red cross while red cross volunteers sat there eating their lunch. Person was driving around on fumes. You try telling this idiot people down don't stay broke forever and you get posts like this one from idiots.
I did not rely on hear say, I made calls to red cross. Red cross does not provide gas money to walk ins and they provide help in unexpected disasters BUT not to poor people already homeless. They did build a luxury hotel on property bought using donations but I can't tell you why they built it.
Leather coat. Oxblood.
Denim jeans. Faded gray.
Rhinestone belt. Black.
Wrinkled button-up. Charcoal.
Silver necklace with a brass cross.
Canvas boots. Burgundy.
Three Moleskines. Brown.
Two pens. Red and blue.
Twenty seven dollar and thirty four cents.
One beaten down carrying case. Black.
The whole is greater than the sum
of its parts
but just barely
I might as well be a polystyrene box floating through the city
strumming heartsongs in subway dens
Oh. One glass pipe. Clear.
I forgot that, it belongs on the list.
Okay I didn’t forget it.
I lie, sue me.
or low is just a part of me though
and some people think it’s all of me.
Some people look at me like
I don’t have a home, which makes me angry,
not because they’re wrong,
but because they always look disgusted
with I think they should look concerned.
My guitar case likes to change itself from time to time.
Sometimes it’s with the seasons
and sometimes it’s with the sun,
but generally its with the sparks in my head
and how it reflects them.
I’ll wake up round 6
underneath the Williamsburg brudge
with warm bacon in my nostrils,
cold sun on my skin,
and my case will show me the WD
on it’s back
and tell me it means “Wonderful Day.”
On snowy Sundays in Battery Park
it’ll flop down on a quiet curb
and whine, “Warmth Dammit.”
I’ll amble up Prince Street through the holidays
looking for breathing buildings.
He’ll jump from my right shoulder to my left
and whisper, “Where’s Dad?”
He goes back to my right shoulder.
I like to laugh when I walk past Starbucks,
any old Starbucks,
because everybody in there is from Seattle
and they came all this way for a cup of coffee.
I came all that way too,
but I don’t think it was for a cup of coffee.
I lived with a girl named Cat
or a girl who had a cat
in an old walk up across from a Quizno’s.
Cat gave me coke.
not the cat.
I remember she
had an ivy green front door
because I’d stay up and stare out the peephole
watching people come home late.
I like fried egg sandwiches because they taste good
and Blackbird or Banana Pancakes
will earn me one or two
at the nicer fronts in Brooklyn.
Take these broken wings and learn to fly,
says the cute West Coast redhead as she tosses me my meal.
I’d make another stop at Seattlebucks just for kicks
but I know they’d kick me out.
My guitar frightens them.
His cream and seafoam green
clashes with their black and emerald,
and his whammy bar looks too much like part of a cappuccino machine.
My jacket is stinking again
so I truck on over to 7th street
where a trendy Asian kid nods his head to Otherside
and cleans it dry.
As long as I’m there
I put on my sunglasses at Union Square
so I can stare at the clouds while I strum.
Case throws himself on the stone
and sighs philosophically, “Why Donate?”
Now I’m no second rate city musician,
I’m the best of the best of the best sir.
I play gently and never yell.
I remember how stressful morning commutes were.
Don’t let me darken your door
that’s not what I came here for.
A big guy in a silver suit strolls over
and asks me if I sell CDs.
I scoff and tell him only losers listen to CDs.
I tell him I like his tie
and he throws it to Case.
Case catches and says, “Well damn.”
I will wait for you
I tell the man
and he says
the sun it rises slowly as I walk.
I exhaust all of my Ed Sheeran
searching for lunch but come up dry.
When my stomach’s empty my pipe isn’t
so I sweat a little
and Case channels his inner Yoda
saying, “Worry don’t.”
He hands me a granola bar and I protest
because it’s one of his last,
but sometimes you just can’t argue
with a grumbling belly
and a good friend.
I try my luck in the squares today because the circles are too open.
Herald treats me better than Times
which isn’t surprising
because in one I’m a novelty
and in the other, out of date.
Hey get rhythm
when you’ve got the blues
seems like silly advice from a sad musician,
but apparently not everyone’s a critic.
Case scoops up enough for a Big Mac and fries but
I forget the fries while Case protests
saying, “Will, don’t,”
but he knows just as well as I
that guitar needs new strings and now we’re only short $1.66
I walk and talk to myself
while I eat and end up back home
or one home
at the center of Central
where there’s a boulder like a schooner in an ocean of grass.
Tonight there are 6 stars out which is pretty good
all things considered.
as guitar hums Coldplay,
I spark a cig,
Case yawns, “We done,”
and we doze off.
The city shifts the winds at night to serve its needs
like sweeping streets or twisting smoke
or swishing the curtains of softly sweating lovers
who feel like this city is theirs alone.
I guess the gears and cogs
paid me no notice tonight because I wake up with numb toes.
I hop over my slate schooner so it shelters me again.
I move to hit snooze on nature’s alarm clock
but pause to put on the silver man’s red tie
to keep me warm.
On my way to brunch pizza
I trip on an old bottle and face slap the curb
where I am greeted by a lost Abraham Lincoln
who is surprisingly made of paper and not copper.
So that does it.
New strings and the train to take me there.
I hop down the stairs to the tunnels,
for once a traveler instead of a performer.
Dipped in sunshine I start to laugh,
but Case gets carried away and trips
into the little puddle beneath me.
He shouts, “Woman down!”
Which makes me confused instead of shocked
as she is crushed by the Q train
because I thought she was a man.
I don’t get on the train.
It means wasting half of honest Abe,
but I can’t be inside my friend’s murderer.
I am now briefly rich
but permanently poor having lost my way
to talk to the world.
That $30 goes to smoke instead of strings
and I try to think of what Case might say
as I plunge into the Kennedy reservoir,
soaking until I become and instrument.
A xylophone of bones,
I clatter the tune to Beatles songs
as I shiver under some willow tree.
The city shifts its cogs and gears,
and in the breeze, all I can hear is some shitty voice shouting
Strawberry Fields Forever.
“Winter damns,” is what she would say
because it sounds wise and I would laugh,
because like all good advice,
it came too late to be used.
So concretey, these jungles
but not like this
Glass shards shoot up 45 stories
only to have tarp covered markets
populated by shouters
Oh, Powerpuff Girls on backpacks
And 10 dollar Gucci bags
these people have it made
Four blocks from the world stock exchange
these people have it made
You ain't had won ton noodle soup
Or chicken feet
Or shrimp stuffed eggplant
Or food from Chinese franchise Pizza Huts
which happens to be an escargot joint
What does that say about US?
hopefully not much
Red taxis between every other car
Double decker busses
more common than city pigeons
Still the city finds time for trees
whiskery ents rising out of
ancient volcanic soil
You would think it's a city full of sin
Seven million souls, what-
that's higher than I can count
Everyone here is cute and wrinkly
except for the young
These people have it made
In this city, you're expected to stay
home with mom and dad
As they get cute and wrinkly
you're to return the love
these people have it made
11 seated dinners
these people have it made
Here in this ancient city
the gravestones dot the hills
coat the hills
And then the cremation jars bury the hills
(yes, they're dead)
Here's how a Chinese name is structured:
[family name] [given name]
and then these names fade too
These people have it made
but it's alright.
In the moments that are waiting, crisply, to break into floods of
daytime-issues of deadlines and dirty dishes,
In the moments where procrastination is a smile and a fine lie nestled
tight between hope and reluctance
this will happen:
thoughts of warmth, glory and wisdom will flutter
through your spirit- rare beasts, jeweled fruit-flies
waiting to be caught, just as long
10 minutes left
you struggle to hold to you
hours of wonder, days of mirth
all felt that one September night, when the rice had warmed your belly
and softened your eyes
and the sky was kinder reflected in the city drains
because at that particular hour at hand, they were rivers of a foreign land
saturated with dreams and magics-transmuted by the rains.
6 minutes left
caught the last train
home waited behind a line of tired women without eyes
they were trees maybe
or rushes by the river whispering of a home before a
home before this one,
some ancient stony place of arches and pools
i don't quite know
as the tracks beating under made them hard to hear.
4 minutes left- does thought really
cross at 'the speed of god'?
Such lines from plays by beloved men haunt one at the strangest times.
Thus, inspiration once struck, dims.
Thus, the end of the page approaches.
"Thus." cruelly, super-ego laughs.
Thus, work begins.