Bucktown poems on Hello Poetry

Megan Grace Nov 2014

bucktown

and while you were
a willow he is an oak,
a redwood, a maple,
a sequoia- the mightiest
tree- standing humbly
and unassuming in my
background until i
stumbled over one of
his roots and decided
to follow them back to
find leaves that were
so sweet, so smooth,
so familiar on my tongue.

he is like coming home.

Tristan Marie Schmidt Nov 2017

Where I'm From

I’m from a small neighborhood we call “Bucktown”
From where the bleeding hearts sway in the luscious wind
I’m from the tulips in the beds they call home
From the smell of blooming flower buds
From where it smells like freshly mowed grass

I’m from posters that hang still on the wall

From where we have Christmas in the crisp cold air
From camping to swimming in the sizzling sun

From where the tomatoes are big and juicy

From where my mom is always there for me
From where my dad was rarely there for me
I'm from where the winter is freezing
Where the summers are torrid
I'm from where spring is nice and rainy
Where autumn has a cool breeze hitting your neck
Sending a chill through your whole body

I'm from where you would go to parks
From where you would drive around in your car

I’m from where there are feral cats roaming the town

From where the kittens love to play

From where I learned everything I know today.

This is a Where I'm From poem that I wrote my sophomore year. Not my best work but still a sort of important poem to me.

TJ Struska Feb 2020

Almost Post Time

Its little, then less.
I thought I saw them through the screen, Out in the desert
With the Gila Monsters,
I should have brought my scabbard, but I brought
Jello instead. Better than
Maxing out your credit card
At the door, Then having
To ride the El back through
Bucktown to Lorgan Square.
Better to smoke out on the veranda,Ponder the winter
Moon flush full,
Cold in absolute north.
Better the ski lift to nowhere
In your mind, then the low ride to the bottom of the stairs. Almost post time
In the 9th race full
Of nags and nobodys.
Could have banked this ending to the trash heap
Of fine art.
I should have saw this coming, This blind swoon
In the dirt, kicking
Dust all around.
Sorry about your Pay Per View,
Left in lurching in the mud.
Said you lost the thread
Of it. Well I said the same
Some months back,
Now I only watch reruns
Of Wagon Train.
I didn't say it was good.
Hell, I didn't say it was
Anything at all.
I could have joined the
Union with my brother,
Stamping out uniforms for Confederates who still wear them. Instead the sell instant
Cameras to anyone who's looking.

I try to have some levity in my poems. Writing is a joy, your poems should reflect that.

— The End —