Lily Sales Jul 7

i always wind up in the city with the lights beating down on me and the taxis honking their horns for me to go across as i look across the walkway and stare at the city and it's beauty. it's mine. the city is the one thing that is mine. it makes me run all night and think all day. it doesn't leave my mind even on this very day. i'm not apart of the city physically but my heart is emotionally. my soul is tied with it. you can see my heart when you see the store fronts and the cafes that you love and you can see my soul when the taxis go by and the skyscrapers stand up above like the giants in my soul.

A tiny cosmos
A condensed Constellation
City lights at night

Black ash,
Fallen trees.
Endless trash,
No more breeze.

Broken city lights,
Devastated buildings.
Eternal night,
No longer will be,

A time for peace,
A time for sleep,
A time to dream,
Although it seems,

There is hope,
There is life.
Let it go,
Seek and find.

Nothing to hold,
Only bright ashes.
I feel so cold,
Permanent rashes.

Sun fleeing,
Hope leaving.
People lying,
Love dying.

Suffer seeing,
Destiny weaving.
All is lost,
No more keeping.

Broken hearts,
Broken bones.
Nowhere to start,
Nowhere to go.

Lost in fate,
Found in despair.
No reason to hate,
No reason to care.

The aftermath that occurs after we give up...
SBR9000 Dec 8

The lady stands tall.
Perched high above the city.
Watching the days pass.

© 12.08.2017 SBR9000
Vexren4000 Dec 5

Filtration systems,
Freshwater running through,
Filtering reality,
Or photos,
Or liquid,
Falsifying sometimes,
And showing the truth in others.


Ancient stone vibrating with life sighs deeply in my memory
In my mind my feet still explore
The hidden paths of that fair city
Peace permeates my spirit as I lay dreaming
Of broad greens and cloistered gardens
Shaded courtyards of quiet blooms
Of wood-worked halls and book lined rooms
Her subtle charm, her poised beauty
Warm heart beating even beneath the snow
To inspire , to teach and to sow
In the hearts of all who know her
The seeds of joy, of love, of loyalty
Reaped in measure from us all
We who have walked her cobblestone streets
And awakened to her tolling bells
Even across the miles and years
My soul resonating in time with hers
And I am there again, walking out of mist and woods through slanting sunbeams
Curving around carved towers
And all around and within there is light

"And that sweet City with her gleaming spires, she needs not June for beauty's heightening."     Matthew Arnold
Manonsi Dec 5

The bulb fizzled out above us –streetlamp
Half-lights painted abstract art instead. We
Lay in bed, half asleep ourselves, in damp
Sheets and heavy limbs, unable to see
The ceiling display unfolding above.
We spent our time asleep, dreaming in sync,
To the beat of your twitching. Is this love?
Because I swear I saw it in the brink
Of now and then, as the little death won:
The heavens opened and the singing spheres
danced wild through your eyes. A trinity spun
into a song that only I could hear.
Stirring, you saw none of that, while the lights
Of the streetlamps hummed softly in the night.

Title from The World by Henry Vaughan

Right Downtown where
buildings scrape blue skies
and leaves share
their space on the cement,

A vagrant just on the end of 10th
dances wildly capturing high-class sentiments
he throws wide arcs of brown shrouds
and falls with practiced elegance,

the city waltz between trees,
the jazz swing stepped proud,
in harmony with the breeze
your lolling head beats

out an ancient melody.
You belong to the streets.
You creak at the knee.
You smile right at me.

Between the glass pane
you see mine and wink,
you are perfectly framed—
I never do look away.

If you weren’t all
that I am not
so free
would I have seen

the officer turn the street
his rigid blue uniform taut
like his skin and hard
like his eyes?

Officer! I wish I could’ve
screamed, would you
had heard me? Turned a cheek?
Street dancer, city slicker,

You were everything—
Damn, the way he tapped his feet
floating high, mesmerized,
stunned, I just watched

sitting in a leather chair
hair dye dripping blood red,
his cracked lips flare
a smile turned cross

he falls onto the cement
he goes home colored red
he fills the cracks
he is dead.

This is part of collection for a senior portfolio project at CU Denver
Project is intended to represent the stylistic distinctions of great American poets through the imitation of their poetics and/or their subject matter

"Getting a Haircut," is an imitation poem of the poet, Gwendolyn Brooks. Her poetry hones in on the political outcry of her time and uses accessible language to convey narratives of the everyday people. This is a true poem that uses her poetic form of narrative ballads to tell the story of a homeless man shot and killed outside of a salon I was getting a haircut at. Brooks is influenced by Langston Hughes with her rhythm and blues that is seen in the flow of her poetry, sound, and style.

Motorcycles rumbling by
As overhead an airplane flies,
Thundering and humming.

Sirens wailing somewhere near.
Mosquitoes whining in your ear.
A grumbling train is coming.

Vexren4000 Dec 1

stretching beneath the city,
Snaking through lands dotted by skyscrapers,
Twisting roads, and railroad tracks,
Residential homes,
Feeding the underground complex,
A world hidden away,
From the sight and olfactory senses,
Of man above.


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