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JJ Inda 6d
If you’ve ever struggled to keep your eyes fixed
on two passing ships as they drift
onto opposite directions,
then you have a sense
of what it is like
to walk in New York City.
The city of old and new,
a close knit community of loners striving
even at failure.
Yet, the afternoon skies are honest,
gray and bright.
There’s warmth still
to be found on cold nights,
all sorts
come alive on that cement island of lights
JJ Inda Nov 12
The streets are empty,
lights are dim
and it is a cold night in New York.
Queens is usually much more alive,
but not tonight.
There's a feeling in the air,
felt by those still awake;
someone somewhere
has made
a grave mistake.
Sindi Kay Oct 19
***** subway floors
Good commutes

Up these Gotham city walls

Water dripping down a ***** stall

Cold winter cough you can hear
Homeless mans stare
on your case
Guilt and relief mold your face
CGW Oct 19
Life is passing by a lot faster than I thought.
All my memories seem so far away.
It seemed just yesterday that I was on the train to New York City.
With the phantom lights dimmed down and my guitar in my hand.
Strumming away the days like grey rain raining down cafe jazz.
But now in my cup of coffee is a blurred reflection staring back at me.
All the things that I seen and all things that I have done stored in my memories.
I'm riding in the backseat of a taxi with my face pressed against the window looking out at familiar faces.
Life is passing by a lot faster than I thought.
This is from my imagination
Nights like these
It's hard not to feel high.
The depression intoxicates me
While the jazz stands seranading.
'Round midnight,
I find myself staring at a wall
Picturing the scene.
I'm home again,
In that Grand terminal,
Where the trains sing and hum
Me a brassy welcome.
The spirit of the city
Is my religion.
Although I may not be there
I carry it with me wherever
I go.
The city is with me because it is me,
At least that's what I tell myself.
Once I snap out of this,
My delusions of joy will leave me
With nothing but longing
For all that Jazz way up north
In dear old New York.
It's been too long
Since I've felt at home
In that concrete kingdom
Where my soul is from.
I can still remember
The smells of the city,
The hotdog vendors yelling
For pedestrians to buy their wares.
I miss it like I would a child
Walking down those streets
As the sun beats down on me
Giving me peace for a little while.
The songs of the streets
Resonate through my ears still
While this cool night air
Makes the jazz music take flight.
I'm not cut out for this retiree's haven.
I need to go home
Where I'm at home
New York.
I thought I'd be home by now.
Harry Kelly Sep 18
Another Night Here
Yelling in the Hallway
Can’t make all the words
Never can when they are drunk
A knife was involved
And a chain of some sort
Cops come
They are pleading their cases
Pleading their sides
Cops patiently listening
He pulled knife on me
She’s a *****
Sir please calm down
He’s a drunk
He stole my chain
Now I get the picture
I’m peeking out
I’m a peeker
Goes on for a bit
Ma’am Did he hit you
He pulled a knife
I was cutting something
Sir did you pull a knife on her
He threatened me
Did you threaten her
I threatened to throw her out
It’s his place
When this is figured out things calm down
Cops leave
She stays
She just wanted to be heard
She just wanted to be loved
He just wanted to be left alone
Don’t we all.
Don’t we all.
Chase Graham Sep 16
There's an eight wheeler,
with ice cold vapor
wisping upward and out toward
St. Mark's street walkers,
crust punks, do they think
of the frozen fish
and chilled shrimps
to the subterranean
Japanese market
I purchase tempura from,
probably not. This scene
is written, it seems,
for me,
my glassy eyes,
a wandering stare
toward a banal
displayed and private.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2015
Time: 7:30 pm
Temp.: 68F

overlooking the runways,
festooned by
accidental heavenly whimsy,
or humanistic whimsical inten-sity,
all the the planes and trucks are flashing
electrifying speckles, of eclectically synced
red and green

it is not my holiday,
but no matter,
like every New Yorker this day,
I am happily celebrating its
double U,
unique, unusual

"record breaking warmth"

yes, the Fahrenheit is outtasight, and by the dawn of
early eve~night,
the Centigrade is spiraling in reverse retrograde,
as the temp eases on down, just below seventy degrees,
on this dewinterized twenty fourth day of
December, two nought and fifteen

traffic is light, the terminal, an unbusy, slim shadow of itself,
the maddening crowds gone, now all are among
the dearly departed and either/or, the newly arrived

so composition of the observational, brings cheer and smiles to my faith,
(I mean my face),
the crowning quietude of clear skies, the absence of street smart
city  bustle and hustle,
the languid atmosphere at the gates,
(where seldom is heard an encouraging word)#
makes me reconsider the true meaning of
the au courant phraseology of this day

"record breaking warmth"

for there is indeed
a calm invisible warmth suffusing all tonite,
chests glowing from fireplaces within,
contentment chamber containers in both hearth and heart,
and I am thinking
about all the human warmth
on this celebrated evening,
holy night

it is breaking records of
recorded human fusion,
the united commonality of millions warming
his and her stories world-over,
that your personal poet is
warming to record
# but not tonight, as I am
Tim S Sep 7
The quiet station
Your lips were poised to meet mine.
I hesitated.
Can't remember who this is about. Clearly, I didn't follow through.
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