Maxim Keyfman Jun 28
I'll go with you to the end of the world
I'll fly with you to at least other planets
I will go with you even to New York
If only you were with me and I'm with you

I will be with you and you with me
And there will never be sorrow
I will be a part of you and you will me
And happiness will always be with us

I'm ready to give up everything for you
I'm ready for you to become a Musketeer
I'm ready for you for everything
If only you were with me and I'm with you

I will be with you and you with me
And there will never be sorrow
I will be a part of you and you will me
And happiness will always be with us

I will be with you and you with me
And there will never be sorrow
I will be a part of you and you will me
And happiness will always be with us


2017
Seanathon Jan 21
Thin like the willow
Grey as the dove

Quiet as the wind beneath which pesters the cat floats the wings and sweeps the city streets clean of debris

Dark as the asphalt
Soft as the paws

Lean like meat
Old like soil
And slick like oil as it drips from beneath

Shaking like the bedrock
The running water whips

Damp as the corners
And dry as your eyes
It slips

And where asphalt meets the mossgrown bricks
Corners are placed and worlds collide

And the man within is locked away
Within the metaphorical city street

Would the Central Park I know and love, return to me?
In all such glory

The Willow trees
Must go.
Philip Lawrence Dec 2017
We climbed over the East River
and the iron web encased the roadway
and I pressed against the window
as the granite squares of the bridge sped by
only to stop along an embankment before
tumbling down to the cobblestone walkway,
running past stone tables with old men
hovering over soapstone knights and
to the promenade, to the railing,
stunned by the grand sweep of it
from the squat cut-stone icon
to the glass spires huddled on the far shore
elbowing for prominence
to the sunset reach of New York Harbor
stretching southward
far beyond the fingertip of Manhattan
past the tugboats that
scurried in the channel
along Governor’s Island
and on past the Liberty Torch
and out to sea.
love, peace, home, memory, New York, sunset, relationship, couple, life, death,
Jas Nov 2017
I want someone to adorn me as if I were a blank, brick wall in the city.
I want someone to brand apart of themselves onto my bare surface
So that my purpose, no longer being to stand
Can be to unite those who tagged in memory.
I want the bubbles frozen in cement between each layer of me to be hijacked and painted in all colors;
I want the smell to stick and ferment inside of the holes, so that each person that strolls
Can smell the lives of the people who have touched me.
Emily Miller Oct 2017
NY
So strange,
That a window this small,
No bigger than my notebook,
Shows the vast sea of clouds,
Far above a rolling storm,
Lightning flashing beneath us
Like electric eels that live in the sky,
And endless galaxies beyond,
A little rocket ship,
Braving the horizon.
And as we descend,
Another smattering of lights appears,
Like a reflection of space on the surface of the earth,
And I know we’re here.
wendee mcmoon Nov 2017
Surrounded by the lake, no soaking clothes glued to my skin
Just the ice cold water hugging me tightly.
The sound of the small lake waves lapping against the tiny, brown beach
Aside from my splashing and the occasional birds in the woods
Was the only thing that pierced the quiet of a silent, cloudy day.
The air was cold but the water was colder,
A frigid blanket hiding whatever lurked below.
The joy on my face was undeniable
Despite hidden under the tendrils of the loose strands of my tied up hair.
The New York mountain air combined with the lake scent
Despite the cold July afternoon
Undeniably smelled like summer.
Freshwater smells different than saltwater,
Like sugar cookies baking instead of chocolate chip.
And the taste of those freshwater summer sugar cookies
Are a taste I refuse to forget.
Written for Intro to Creative Writing class--assignment was "Bring a favorite photo to mind. Add sound, touch, taste, and smell to what you see and write a poem. Challenge yourself to come up with fresh images." I wrote this about a photo my friend took of me while we were skinny dipping in upstate NY.
Shelby Jencyn Jun 2017
The air in my lungs isn't breathable.
He knows I'm always looking for you.
Blood won't reach my hands.
He said my hands are always too cold.
I haven't felt warm in ten months.

"You're happiest in the summer."
"Yeah, I know." He stares at me,
always watching,
like he'll linger long enough,
see the crack in my disposition
and he'll be able to patch me smooth
and serene again.
If it wouldn't give me away,
I'd laugh.

The people we love, or rather,
The best or worst versions of ourselves,
forever condemning us—
either rise to the unattainable occasion
or fall weary against our worst selves.

"I love you," he says. I smile,
looking at him convincingly.
I don't feel anything.
Be it on the tip of my tongue
or the edge of a lie,
it's cynicism
all
the
same.
S.J.F.
Mio Seanachaidh Feb 2017
A girl was born in Bed–Stuy, Brooklyn on the 30th of June to a family of influence and wealth descending from the very man John C. Calhoun, himself

Lena Horne was a beautiful woman and soul; diversity radiated from her very essence from her spirit itself

Her racial heritage was a mix of African American, Native American, and European descent - family pride and honor came with her family name as the Horne was one of the First Families of Brooklyn

As raised and nurtured in a cosmopolitan sense, she was more than a pretty face and lovely name

The chanteuress was also a civil rights activist who fought for the rights of others, she denounced racism and fought injustice which unfortunately still exists

An epitome of style, elegance, and grace whose charms, bravery, and charisma will never be forgotten; she left an indelible mark in history

Known for her commanding presence, subtle dignity, and strength - she was a powerhouse in her own right

She graced this world with pride and strength; a rare soul and beautiful heart

May her legacy forever shine, cherish, and protect the future generations to follow

She will never be forgotten and always a light for coming tomorrows

Rest in Peace
First Family of Brooklyn - A term for wealthy upper class families in Brooklyn, New York who contribute greatly in society and are famous socialites in the community (especially the Horne family)

John C. Calhoun - An American statesman and political theorist from South Carolina, and the seventh Vice President of the United States. He is best remembered for pro - slavery yet advocating advance in concept of minority rights in politics, which he did in the context of defending Southern values from perceived Northern threats. His reputation legacy is extremely controversial.

Bronze Venus - A nickname for Lena Horne given to her because of her beauty

French - Chanteuress translates to English as female singer
We strolled through converging pathways spilling with synchronized chaos, finding our own space amidst the rumpus of the crowds on a small hill overlooking an endearing muddle of humanity. The grass was wet with evening dew and we were colored with the aureate light of dusk, watching everything swim by with novel delight. The city erupted before us, vibrant, apathetic, and amoral and we swelled with its magnitude. Round and enchanted, we rolled down the hill and fell into the peculiar happenings encapsulated in the windows.
We stood before a man with no eyes and worms coming out of his fingertips in a room with no floor. He smiled at us, carious teeth bending into slight parabolas under the pressure of its sweetness. We excused ourselves quickly, escaping into a opaline kaleidoscope that had opened up before us. I could taste all the lives we tumbled past as a mix of bitter almonds and grapefruit with the occasional shock of decomposing fish heads.
We squeezed our bodies into the melody of a madrigal sung by a girl with four heads and sonorous hands to find ourselves in the rafters of an old cathedral. Below us contorted souls filed into wooden confessionals screaming sins of their fathers into the ear of a deaf priest who gave copacetic blessings in the form of an orange pill bottle. Distended and bruised, we fell from the ceiling into the baptismal font. Bioluminescent algal blooms effloresce above our heads and resplendent stingrays whisked by, casting soft, amorphous shadows across our cheeks. Lulled by the etherial tenderness of the liminal world, we fell asleep with your hand on my neck and my fingers tangled in your seaweed hair.
We awoke to the sound of falling peaches and splitting skin. I pulled a small fish out from behind your ear and inhaled the brine of your tongue before stepping into the open window beneath your pinkie finger. A man in a suit who was really a box jellyfish greeted me in the center of a opulent office building that had no purpose. I politely declined to shake his hand and instead lost myself in the map of the city unfurled beneath the wall of glass in front of me. I pulled a small seashell out of my pocket and threw it. Everything shattered.
I felt you next to me, falling through space and low-lying clouds to find ourselves in the present.
We are saturated colors of mustard, earthen green, and midnight blue sprawled on sloping grass without hesitation. Buoyant and expectant, we meander through song and chatter to find ourselves bright and shining on a warm green bench talking in improvised harmony. Our skin is a new composition of window light, yellow and breathing. A synthesis of memories pool and flush our cheeks with affection and we inhale the world. Flags pirouette and fall, a refracted constellation glimmers on glass, and you taste like honey and rich smoke. The moon is ebullient, so full and round that in a gasp I pluck it from the sky and place it in your shirt pocket. We’re effervescent, with giggling fingertips on a euphoric investigation into novelty of human sensation. Somnolent and gentle, we fall asleep with the memory of our water soaked bodies burgeoning under softened hands.
Tommy W Jan 2014
You are stuck
Lost in a wave of people
Going and coming
All day long
You look around to see
The same expressions
All busy or tired
And ready to go
Go out
Out of this traffic
That has held you up...
Everyone up...
What is this place?
This...
This is New York City
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