#brooklyn
You said
love should feel natural
which was unfortunate
because nature itself
is mostly catastrophe
with good lighting
Outside
March kept dissolving
into ***** water
The city wore its exhaustion
openly
like men smoking alone
outside hospitals
We lived above a laundromat
all night
the machines turned
washing strangers
through cycles
of heat and surrender
You slept badly
Every dream
returned you damaged
Meanwhile
I developed the talent
of making coffee quietly
which should qualify
as a minor religion
One morning
you stood by the window
wearing my sweater
the large gray one
with holes near the wrists
You looked temporary
like jazz
or governments
or those bookstores
that survive three rent increases too long
Down below
someone screamed in Russian
with astonishing commitment
A taxi almost hit a cyclist
The cyclist hit the taxi
Spring continued
without moral instruction
You asked:
“Do you think people ruin each other?”
I wanted to answer carefully
instead I said:
“Only the honest ones.”
For a while
neither of us moved
The kettle trembled softly
on the stove
like an old actor
waiting backstage
to die correctly
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 10:23 AM UTC
There was a period
when we kept buying plants
as if the apartment
was failing some invisible exam
about tenderness
One by one
they leaned toward the window
with religious desperation
The basil died first
which felt symbolic
in an aggressive way
You said
maybe we overwater things
Neither of us clarified
At night
the neighbors upstairs
dragged chairs across the floor
slowly
like they were rearranging guilt
The radiator hissed
Pipes knocked inside the walls
with old Soviet determination
Everything in the building
sounded temporary
except loneliness
That winter
you developed the habit
of falling asleep during movies
Not because you were tired
more like your body
kept leaving the room early
I watched entire films alone
beside your sleeping outline
People onscreen survived wars
alien invasions
catastrophic love affairs
Meanwhile
we stopped touching each other
with any accidental confidence
Even our apologies
became carefully measured
like expensive spices
Once
in the supermarket
you asked if we needed anything else
and for one insane second
I almost answered:
a different version of us
But the bananas were ripening too fast
and you were comparing yogurt prices
with genuine concentration
which felt cruel somehow
Outside
snow collected in the parking lot
gray at the edges
like every beautiful thing
after enough contact with the world
Later
you stood at the sink
washing the same glass
for a very long time
Brooklyn glowed outside
through ***** kitchen curtains
Ambulances moved through the avenue
like unresolved thoughts
You suddenly laughed
not happily
more like something inside you
had slipped on ice
I remember thinking:
this is how people disappear
Not with betrayal
not with violence
Just slowly becoming careful
around each other
until the love itself
starts acting formal
like two diplomats
representing countries
that no longer exist
May 2
May 2, 2026 at 10:19 AM UTC
I just escaped Brooklyn
From my crap apartment.
I tried to take chances at the
Nearest KFC,
Tried to see who's really there
For me,
But there's nobody.
Hmph
Guess my phone's not dead yet,
So I'll give my mom a call.
And tell her what's going on.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 5:40 AM UTC
If I lived a thousand lives
with you,
I still wouldn’t have enough.
I would still ask for more—
more of you,
more of your passion,
more of your jazz,
and my pasta
you do so well.
Well,
nothing seems definitive,
nothing beguiles me
more than the rhythm
and beats
we share over
a glass of Pinot
and the unrecorded vinyl.
Vanilla perfume
and the New Orleans clubs—
no human is restored
from the disdain
my brothers stretch
over gully phrases.
Where the saxophonist
who raised me got her fringe,
and her never-ending endings,
and longings,
and belongings—
only the strong survive.
Where have we gone
with the tones
no one recorded,
and the lights
no nights
can overshadow,
and the stream
no dream
can portray,
and the greedy green
waves of tranquility.
What happened?
Three twenty-seven
is the perfect time
for jazz and depression,
jazz and repression,
verbal oppression,
and the starvation
of the posse nation.
If I had a thousand lives
to live with you,
it would never
be enough.
I would always
crave more.
Sep 23, 2025
Sep 23, 2025 at 6:03 AM UTC
The fire escape, a rusted iron vine,
Clings to brick the color of old wine.
Nineteen years, a pigeon on the sill,
Watching Little Italy stand still, and thrill.
The scent of garlic, oregano's hum,
Escapes Sal's butcher shop, where cleavers come
Down hard on lamb, a rhythmic, meaty beat,
Mingling with Vespa engines on Mott Street.
Grandma's window, lace a dusty white,
Whispers secrets in the fading light.
A rosary clutched tight within her hand,
Praying for safe passage through this land
Of honking taxis, shouts across the way,
And boys with slicked-back hair who come to play
Dominoes loud beneath the flickering lamp,
Their laughter echoing, a youthful, joyful stamp.
The bakery's sweet breath, a sugary haze,
Cannoli shells in golden, sugared maze.
I linger there, the coins within my jeans
Burning a hole with teenage, hungry scenes
Of sfogliatelle crisp, a ricotta dream,
A taste of home, it always would seem.
Down Bleecker Street, the music starts to bleed
From smoky clubs, a saxophone's wild creed.
Too young to enter, but I stand and stare,
At shadows dancing, lost within the air.
A yearning stirs, a restless, teenage fire,
To break these borders, climb a little higher
Than tenement roofs, the laundry in the breeze,
To find what waits beyond these crowded trees
Of brick and stone, this heritage so deep,
While Little Italy holds secrets that I keep.
The rumble of the subway, underground,
A constant pulse, a never-ending sound.
It carries faces, stories yet untold,
Like mine, at nineteen, brave and slightly bold.
I kick a loose stone on the cracked sidewalk,
Another night is coming, like a hawk
Descending softly on the city's gleam.
Nineteen in Little Italy, a vibrant, waking dream.
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 10:57 AM UTC
another city afternoon
the sound of scamps playing below
and the passing subway roar
who can ask for more
on this brooklyn afternoon
the sunshine asks
what else in store
just the shadows of curtains
and trees if you please
tempering a fading sirening
back into familiar
hums of a city that'll
never appease
as an early spring evening
settles in to say it's alright
and so long to you and
everyone, and twilight
purrs on for us and anyone
always again.
Mar 19, 2025
Mar 19, 2025 at 6:26 PM UTC
Man, I tried to get it so I could fit in, but I had to dead it.
As I grew up, all I knew was that this pad and pen is
My escape from everything I've set aside,
'Cause when I jot my little rhymes, the only time I feel alive.
I know my mind's much organized,
And not a moment passes by
When the roles I've played align.
But as I'm piecing these components, this becomes the closest for a poet just to cope with all that agonized.
Yo! You can't philosophize if you're avoiding the sunlight.
My soul disperses all these verses, hoping that each line could shed some light.
We're all alike, here's my advice: put some work in,
Don't forget you're still a person.
Learn to get immersed in what you love
Because the universe will draw your blood.
May 18, 2024
May 18, 2024 at 2:58 PM UTC
These streets are awake
The lights offer a path to follow
Look up and not down to see
The treetops and brims of sky
Look out to see the painted houses
Of brick and melted yellow
Nowhere to be seen is order
The chaos is what makes it
Beyond words, beyond eyes.
It houses nostalgia of youth
It fears and celebrates death.
This city is mine but not for long
How I'll miss its descendants
Its language of old
The battered, the beaten
All the untold
Feb 16, 2022
Feb 16, 2022 at 9:03 AM UTC
When a poem speak in confidence
That is how I am as I walk the street of Brooklyn
me, a poem of mystery, a bite senility though
in my sensate world:
I know ones pride, can over shadow them
Never ride ones pride. Especially when the
price of victory is high but so are the rewards.
Did our former leader congratulate the new President?
Maybe I missed his speech,
pride is born in the heart
Ego is born in the mind
today is November 10th 2020:
My job can be so frustrating at times,
during these times of uncertainty
I have to push on daily,
to have a joyful moment,
at the work place
Give thank in all circumstances,
but I will never uttered those words
That is was God work:
it was because of my inner fears.
That led me to stay as long
as I did at the seafront:
The world feels lighter these days,
Satan power is lessening,
Death has lost its sting ( 1 Corinthians 15:55
For the first time in this country
A black female is the vice president of America
And what bring a smile on my face,
She attend the same college as my younger daughter
Howard University.. Thumps up !
When I was a teenager,
I went swimming late one night
In the cold water down the harbor Road,
A poem was created that night, little did I knew
Here I am rehashing those memories…..
A happy mood clouds our judgement
Words, words, images and the truth
Michael might not remember, but I remember,
The city lights and the whispering of the wind:
My shivering slender body was a poem inside and out:
When my poems speak in confidence, I walk, the walk
In the street of Brooklyn..
Nov 11, 2020
Nov 11, 2020 at 9:07 AM UTC
In the weirdest turn of events that day
As a cop toting guns and pepper spray
I gathered an urge to pen my first ode
In my lunch hour, before hitting the road
To sirens and light of my precinct's space
not a stanza wrote, yet my mind's apace
the pen's the problem; confidence recede
Pondered a visit to a friend, indeed
Thoughtful I'm moving, this old clue I'd act
on Brooklyn's pen thief; kleptomaniac
acquired from him, an ink dipping quill
of Huia birds, still boxed with its bill
Case solved; on the back of the bill it hints
"Dear Mayor, pen's for poems; lead's for thugs."
Nov 13, 2019
Nov 13, 2019 at 9:59 PM UTC
John Winston Ono Lennon
From Britain to Brooklyn, decked in denim
Controversial through his political and peace activism
Felled by Mark David Chapman's act of barbarism
Oct 25, 2019
Oct 25, 2019 at 2:50 PM UTC
Remember when this used to be a bodega where you could by an egg a few cigarettes and some *******
I only bought **** there
a couple of times
I really went in there for milk or coffee
or an Entenmann’s raspberry danish in the big long rectangle.
I don’t remember the brand I smoked then
but they didn’t sell them.
The guy next door in my building had a thing for rich girls with flash cars
who would buy him clothes and other such presents
He was from the OC
and what he was doing in Brooklyn
I don’t even know
He got involved with some local
Columbians
Through the corner bodega
And of course proceeded
to date one of their women.
The OC Romeo.
Lady Lover.
Irresistible.
Pink Lacrosse shirt.
Turned up collar.
Leisure slacks.
I had to tell him once to not slap his thigh at me
When I passed him
on that corner
Posing with his newfound buddies.
And to give me back my cassette.
He tells me he left it out on the window sill
And it rained and got wet.
I said give it back anyway.
Not too long after he was gone.
Both he and his yuppie roommate
I heard he moved back to Newport Beach.
I wondered why he ran
Cuz I know he ran
Fast
I had some crazy neighbors in Hollywood
who disappeared
into the Russian night.
Someone spotted them a year later.
Playing with the wrong people.
Taking liberties.
Conning a con.
Your life really is not worth
very much
in those circles
so you’d better be quick on your feet.
Jun 21, 2019
Jun 21, 2019 at 2:24 PM UTC
He came as an orphan
June 26th, 1865
Having seen
the death of his mother
Chased and speared by a hunter
First African elephant
in Europe
At the London Zoo
All alone
in all of Europe
How he broke and wore his tusks
In the iron of his enclosure
In night pain from toothaches
From many rotten teeth
Caused by his only grass hay diet
Given whiskey and beer to calm
Shared with his keeper
Matthew Scott, a difficult man
With no close friends
But with a deep empathy for animals
Who drank whiskey
with Jumbo
Into the late, lonely night
Jumbo liked whiskey, beer
and lots of sticky buns
A problematic elephant
With a Jekyll and Hyde character
Sold for 2,000 pounds
To PT Barnum
as a star attraction
Jumbo tearing his chains away
Then sitting like a mule
Until he knew his keeper
Would also ride the boat
Across the big pond
Barnum’s Scott
Made a deal
Queen Victoria wasn’t happy
Her children had sat
And rode upon his back
Jumbomania in America
Accompanied his arrival
20 million saw him alive
Brooklyn bridge opened in 1882
A year before Jumbo arrived
Then 17 May, 1884
Twenty elephants
marched across
All the way to Brooklyn
led by Jumbo
The bridge vibrated and rebounded
In St Thomas, Ontario, Canada
was his suffering demise
The day the circus train came to town
Tom Thumb and Jumbo
Were waiting to get loaded
Perhaps bumped in the ****
By the speeding freight locomotive
Internal bleeding
and a slow death
Tom Thumb only a broken leg
Jumbo in a slow death
Scott in a slow death afterwards
Having witnessed
the last breath
Of his best friend
Photographed (a recent novelty)
just after his death in B&W
Poor dead Jumbo
Scott at his head
Weeping inconsolably
Although PT Barnum
In pure PT Barnum invention
Says Jumbo ran headfirst
Into the freight locomotive
To save his keeper and Tom Thumb
Jumbo died
at twenty-four
still young
and growing
in size and girth
His stuffed mounted skin
burned at Tufts University
except the unbroken bones
plus the end of his tail
“And this is what remains of Jumbo”
Yesterday, I saw wild elephants on the banks of the Zambezi river
near Victoria Falls
Tomorrow I’m hoping to touch Jumbo’s bones in New York City
And walk the Brooklyn Bridge
© 2017 Jim Davis
Nov 15, 2018
Nov 15, 2018 at 12:42 PM UTC
brooklyn, new york
is not just a place
brooklyn, new york
is sunshine caught in sandy blonde hair
it is the light dusting of eyelashes
it is a pair of deep, hypnotising blue irises
it is a warm smile and a pair of strong arms
brooklyn, new york
is morning kisses across the cheek
it is the smell of sweet syrup on pancakes
it is the sound of 70s music in the background
it is the taste of vanilla ice cream from a tub
it is the feeling of a smooth bubble bath against your skin
it is the view of earthy undertones wherever you turn
brooklyn, new york
is my lover's embrace.
Aug 14, 2018
Aug 14, 2018 at 10:33 AM UTC
there's a *** of water on the radiator
steaming up the windows
in my tiny bedroom -
the one in brooklyn -
where i was too poor to live in a place with a bedroom door
he's here, and he says he doesn't mind the curtain
there's anonymity in city life,
an ease to being completely alone
while surrounded by people
flush,
with the chill from outside
and the thought -
just the thought -
of his hands on my skin
his skin on my skin
simon and garfunkle on his old record player
sounds of new york
two people,
one bottle of whiskey
how strange to be with someone,
who can make you feel so alone
touch me, please
Nov 2, 2017
Nov 2, 2017 at 5:13 PM UTC
There are clouds to my right,
massive and grey,
they inch forward across the sky.
Beneath them a stationary sea of stone and cement.
Unmoving waves that’d swallow me if I dared leave my perch.
Around me are noises.
Epic echoes that lend themselves to imaginings of war zones.
In the distance I see flashes
Brief man made stars of red, white, and blue.
The clouds move in.
A silent rolling mass.
The temporary stars try to touch them.
Their lives are too short.
Shining down on me,
The moon smiles,
She knows what it’s like to be temporary.
To need the strength of others to shine.
To be born on path you can’t escape.
I don’t.
The star makers don’t.
The builders and sailors don’t.
We might think we do.
We think we do.
I glance behind me.
To beat up a room that is only ever filled with lonely nights.
To an apartment part of a tradition of temporary dwellers,
With a floor more ocean than the roofs around me will ever be.
New stars reach higher.
I see one peek out from behind a cloud.
My flatmates join me.
We watch the fireworks together.
Jul 13, 2017
Jul 13, 2017 at 9:33 AM UTC
She's the sweetest thing from down in Brooklyn,
Took my soul on a train ride,
Back to Upper West Side;
Her hair was like the Hudson Bay
Running off with my soul downstream,
Taking it back away -
She's like roses,
Daisies;
Perched upon Times Square;
Swaying in the November air
May 26, 2017
May 26, 2017 at 6:34 AM UTC
We have our dark days
Our stormy hours
Our bad minutes
But our love is power
Its the compromise
And the want to stay
When the love is real
Why not embrace a delay
No relationship is perfect
We argue
we fight
But just giving up so easy that won't make it right
at end of the day
I love you
So I'm gonna make it right
God put you in my life for a Reason
you are my Light
Mar 9, 2017
Mar 9, 2017 at 1:55 PM UTC
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
Feb 18, 2017
Feb 18, 2017 at 11:21 AM UTC
How she sipped her spot's
The rough part was the plot
The diamond's and her lip's
Got spoiled
******* by fairytale scorched
The straight line skirt and how
it raced
Her in her brown-eyed lady
Porsche
His coffee the same place
So steamed her face didn't you
spot him
Bitter tone to be bad sweet
Taylor Swift pour some sugar
On Me*
On U*
In my singer's mouth
$$$
Southern Hospitality
"Going Gothic" south
Out Staged the bag-
Coach striped ride me the
Coffee prints heated up
her patterns Niagara falls
Wild me a seven-year inch
Hot Latte Slim and tall
I see sugar all over me
Italian cafe custom pinch
The sugar raw
He stirred harder
Robin's furry-breasted fly
creamy dark moon bolder
Big sigh roar, just sugar pour
A cat which alley City walk,
Racer's mouth Cheetah
could talk
What a ferocious love, cat flight.
Cat eye's beam @ night
He covered me, kitten gloves,
warmth gentleman
But, Strong Trump, politician,
handling, his
delegates. "Sugarly" mates
Sour lime Australian mates
They slipped, their milk on
the wrong ballot spilled
The coffee fusion
Drips and leaks Reddit
To the high beans warmly brown
mountain "Summit"
So spilled Nixon with lies
Water-gates how about Bill
Coffee gates
He spot's her don't sugar coat me
chill burr (Surprise)
Cheetah chasing him.
But trying so hard to erase him.
Sweet tooth Swift pour some sugar
lyric's spooning through, Stir me up
Please milk the cow highly allergic
right now
Silk spool of thread
"Cat's Meow"
Threadless caress nuanced
Did the cat's tongue meow
pronounced.
Overdose of sugar
The flag stripe's and spot's
Hanging so tightly to the carriage.
Not you're usual
Poison my sugar marriage
Smooth talker whole- bean
body notes.
Sugar stirs of states.
"Love 1/2 Grain
"Orient Express" she spoke
faster than
speeding train.
Computer crazed tiger Dad's
Sticky Carmela always latte late.
I have two I pads spotted coffee
Twin crib
Adam and Eve's rib.
My sugar scrub in the tub
Perk me up. finicky personalities
*** in the City Sugar theater.
He's the Kit and caboodle,
Earthtone candy.
He was born with sugar
right spoon,
Coffee King handy
College Princeton NJ frat
How did Brandy get into the mix
Brooklyn movie set this is all
about coffee fix
Starbucks
Howard Schultz
our friend from
Canarsie, Brooklyn
big win
He didn't come over
for coffee then?
Lol
Starbucks power suits' all stocks
A+ a good set of lungs
Robin-Carretti sings.
Read all about it!
Central Park, Carriage rider,
took her hand,
how he roared
Gave her million smiles
Starbucks**********
Coffee business,
With one coffee cup,
one sugar cube YouTube
what luck gazillion's
Dec 2, 2016
Dec 2, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
we are somewhere between maintaining the comic relief we find necessary to stay alive and inappropriately utilizing a coping mechanism during a time in which we are hyper aware of our own mortality. we're standing by freight cars and staring at the river, while a toddler races by on a tricycle. we know we are going to die someday.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 3:51 AM UTC
it's a college party
even though i never finished and the rest of y'all are spending money you don't have on the ingredients necessary for homemade sangria so you can drink the crippling anxiety of not knowing how to pay off your student loans away
there's a man living in a tent in the backyard, and i'm pretty sure we put one too many pieces of scrap wood in that very-hard-to-maintain bonfire. that has to be a metaphor for the state of most of our lives. stop throwing things i'm unprepared for in what already feels like a situation that is going to **** me.
is this a literal housewarming
i'm drunk, and sitting on the deck, counting the christmas lights. i smell **** and there are white people dancing and singing to blink 182 inside.
i paint my name on a drywall with a brush and canisters i find on my way to the living room, where i'm asked to referee a game of beer pong. i lose interest quickly.
i scroll through my phone, sober enough not to text you but drunk enough to desperately want to. someone sits down next to me because i've apparently become that person at the party.
i talk about rent with a guy who really wants to connect on the fact that we're both middle eastern, even though i'm not middle eastern. he smells like PBR and completely believes what he's saying. he says he's proud of me for following my dreams of coming to new york and that he likes my "crazy hair" and that he wants to **** me.
i raise my eyebrows, more in disgust than interest, but he then takes his perceived cue to shamelessly ask me if i have a ****** i don't, and i leave before he brainstorms any alternatives i am just as aversive to.
ironically, i find a ****** dispenser attached to a tree on the walk to the subway. considering the amount of catcalling i experienced on the way to the station, my level of discomfort is amplified by the fact that the neighbourhood literally, physically implies, ******* is going to happen in the streets. it's 2am, and i just want to go home. and i'm sitting on the J train, recalling everyone who's told me it's shady and unreliable and makes you feel like you're going to die.
a few months later, i am nicknamed J train.
Sep 21, 2016
Sep 21, 2016 at 2:24 AM UTC