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This is the ocean
This the sky
This is the town
Of times gone by

These cliffs & beaches
Walls & echoes
Make a home that teaches
A life that mellows

This is a place
Of history & lessons
Tough love & caring
Mixed-in with the blessings

A battlefield of loyalty
A menu of bloodlines
Where a DNA of sobriety
Is useful at times

This is a fun park
This is a playground
It's an absolute benchmark
Of being a Hometown

There are Tourists & Visitors
Bringing chaos & busy-ness
There are Purists & Nimbys wishing
More people were here less

But there's a ******* of believers
People amazed
That a little town like Whitby
Can be such a place

And, Hometown Anytown
Your town or my town
We all need that one place
That's never a letdown

It may be the Nightclubs
The Pubs or the Shops
Where your Spirit is lifted
And you can put life on Pause

It may be the voices
Of us locals or our accents,
That you feel you're where you should be
Where life sort of makes sense

If so then BE here, just be HERE
It's easy to NOT be an outsider
Just tell us...
You don't like Seagulls either
AND you prefer Whitby to Scarborough.
Every town has local rivalries with neighbouring towns. If you want to fit in, discover 2 things the locals don't like about the other place and just agree; it's that simple.

This is a performance poem in my local pubs & sessions... to get the crowd on my side and give them an insight. Feel free to rewrite and adopt it to your needs. Rgds +tmy+
Keelan Carroll Nov 2019
Welcome to drown town
A grey place that always holds me down
With helping hands by the local clowns
If it’s not them, it’s my mental health
But enough about that, let’s explore around
This god awful rundown town

Do you see the lady breaking down?
Crying for help, realising she has truly lost herself

What about the boy riding the bike?
Fourteen years old, feels naked without a knife

How about the gang dressed in Nike?
Whites, browns or E’s
They have the vices you desperately need

But between you and me
I like getting ****** under a tree
Alone with my thoughts about life
Can’t really see myself living past 25
I scream to God about how much I want to survive
But I am chained to my mistakes and that is no lie

So enjoy your stay in my sweet hometown
Sooner or later you’ll forget yourself  
In my own personal hell, drown town
Originally “Drown Town” is a song I did for a punk band. However in my wirter’s block I thought it be fun to take it apart and alter it

Here’s the original “Drown Town”
Knit Personality Nov 2019
2 little Whos
in Whoville dream
(while Dr. Seuss
cries, Sam I am!)

The Grinch so big
is such a ****.
(His therapy dog
is Max, a mutt.)

Whence came the Grinch?
His every bone
and every inch
from Halloween Town.  

Ashley Kaye Aug 2019
vagrant pines
little black gnats more plentiful
than stars to empty sky
reach. catch a flame.
sprawling for the day
when fire breathes its own life
not the wood I pile,
lay down
to rest
I lie here
will die here
and it is well with my soul
because on occasion there is beauty
in all that simply is
August 13. 2019. Hometowns
Emma Peterson Aug 2019
I hesitate
To admit that I tend to put things off until they absolutely must be dealt with

I was born here.
I’ve moved between neighborhoods but
These mountains have watched me grow up.

It’s always been the same
But somehow different
Things get older and people get bigger
Sometimes better sometimes a little scratched up
But they never get worse

There can always be found new in the old
Born again without ever dying
So we have to allow the old to grow
Let it be free from expectation and reputation
And say goodbye

If the heart is a muscle
How can it never tire and never rest?
I worry that when it’s pounding in my chest
It’ll eventually reach a breaking point
Where it can’t take anymore
“never again”'s and things left unfinished.
The price you pay for loving is losing
And because I can lose I know my heart is full and I have been given so much

From the sidewalks to the sunsets to the imaginary rattlesnakes
To fire pits and family dinners and my favorite burger place
To the family I’m not related to but always offer me a home
And the high school that may be falling apart but is held up by the people inside

But it can’t last forever, so
Even when the flowers die
And the vases sit empty
And act as gravestones to the things once celebrated
I will come lay a fresh bouquet
Say Hello to Goodbyes
And love and remember
The ones who made me.
I knew that
A flag could
But rainbows
Are pretty?
Tommy Randell Jun 2019
My Mother's tongue was gin
She used it best for cursing in

My absentee Father was an Irish rogue
His drunken Dublin drawl a joke

Uncle Jim lisped through his cheek
A stroke survivor with a bad mouth leak

Billy, my cousin, rattled on repeat
Stuttered like a Gattling Gun on heat

Old Nanny Mabel whistled like a flute
****** and tutted on her one black tooth

Our Mam's deaf younger sister, never Auntie
Spoke with her hands cos of Meningitis

All the Teachers talked with slippers and canes
All the Police just clipped us behind the ears

All the Posh Nobs said nowt, but looked
Down their noses with pity at us

Everyone, and i mean everybody
Smelled of drink, smoke, and unwashed bodies

Everybody, and i mean every mouth
Ate while they spoke, and spat stuff out

I haven't escaped the old Mother Tongues
I revert to the speech I knew when young

Yes, I still speak the Gallus when I'm up there, Whitby bred -
Strong in the arm, thick in the head
You can take the Poet out of the town, but... Etc Etc

Gallus is the old dialect name for that rough part of Whitby where I grew up. Most of the town couldn't understand us when we spoke and we were thought of as a rough lot.
Sleep May 2019
it won't do, won't be
my song until the words are
gone, stripped of the obscene
leaving only the **** soul,
funked up and gunning out
for the road, reminding the hairs
on our necks and arms of
ancient sensations, long missed--
the long kiss, the thrill of undoing,
stomping grounds so trodden the
fresh pavement tries to forget my feet
i will never forget the honeysuckle &
stuck air, the secret paths that gave me
thin red trails like veins in my young arms
outrunning the cops, yelling at the moon
ah, the a/c is our holy spirit
chilling every atom siphoned off
to our skin, our houses of flesh
soaking anything that matters inside
our rocky pores, cragged from age
& the hot dragging whip of summer,
the earth's work camp, the whole city.

© 2019
Kivanc May 2019
I am a shepherd,
My land is endless wold;
There is a thought in my mind,
Which feeds sheeps with fine grass,
My hometown is as silent as a stork,
Which emigrates to lost worlds,
To sense hotness again,
I see their belief.
I hope I didn't change the meaning for the poetical type.
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