"cityscape" poems
I followed my dear friends to the edge of a cliff
and was greeted by a peculiar thing.
There, standing on the edge of the earth
was a swing set waiting just for me.
Her thick black seat and strong metal arms
cradled me while together we flew
into the starry night canvas, sprawling
dark blue, except for a splatter of twinkling
firefly-speckles, from the cityscape
to the moon.
Each time she lifted me I felt closer
to the heavens. I raised my chin
and let the gentle kiss of raindrops
wash away my sins, cleansing
and revitalizing my body like a baptism.
I’ll never forget the smell of the rain
on the freshly-sprouted grass, with dew drops
made from the breath of my friends
hanging delicately in the sweet air
like glass beads strung on a wire
while the crisp wind carried me higher and higher
and the most brilliant masterpiece ever created
was painted across the entire night sky.
May 5, 2016
May 5, 2016 at 5:32 AM UTC
I don't know how to write happy poems
because I don't really believe in them.
I thought angst would die with adolescence,
but alas I can still feel its cold dint.
Perhaps like virginity this goes too;
no longer a creep standing idly by.
Plastic smiles taped to our cardboard faces
and yours alone I felt the need to prise.
That's okay, because the teenaged rosebud
that we claim to be so very unique
is beginning to wither, can't you see?
And now it's the thorns society seeks.
So look out over yonder cityscape.
Your mask shall be shed only by the moon.
Until then, a cartographer of love;
yours that is, we'll still pathetically swoon.
Dec 25, 2013
Dec 25, 2013 at 10:06 PM UTC
The riled route master and the hacked off hackney carriage weren't bothered by the boris bike, they simply barreled along the bus lane oblivious to the wobble, blind to the blindsided and bent on beating the amber to red, til they were halted by the growth factor of a chelsea tractor straddling lanes and field testing the choice of right or left and failing the screen test set by the sat nav, thereby giving opportunity to the swarm of office staffers snatching their chance and chancing their luck, dancing past with their fat chance of swiping in before nine and avoiding the chagrin of the boss who's been the bane of their short sojourn through the city of lost dreams, chance encounters, thin fortune and rushed hours. This is London.
Oct 12, 2018
Oct 12, 2018 at 2:03 PM UTC
_...All I remember was
Cancer and my hospital room,
My green gown, my bed,
My white hair and mustache
Until suddenly...
...Reality started to stretch…
…And flatten into a brief euphoric white…
…I felt a cathartic release
As I was encapsulated and bathed
In a glorious sensation…
...I floated for an eternity…
…Until I felt my euphoria lifting…_
…As my eyes reopened
I found myself gazing
Upon a room of tiny lights,
Blue and pink specs
Dotting the inner workings
Of large wall sized machines…
…They lifted me upright
In a gray metal chair
And with sharp robotic groans,
A long arm from the wall
Held up a mirror to my face...
...In the reflection was a young man
I thought I would never see again…
…I had a wife back before,
But now I have a new one
Everybody in my situation,
("Reborns", as they are called)
Has brand new things and people
Filling their lives and concerns
They bring nothing with them
When they make their returns...
…Every morning I wake up
On the west 402nd floor
Of a residential tower
Next to my slim, youthful wife
And the trails of flying cars
That populate our view
From our wall-spanning window
As they soar through the city…
…I was told of technology,
Created and discovered
That could reawaken people
Who, like me, had died
In an earlier era and time…
…It’s strange that my past,
In all its importance and meaning,
Memories, friendships and scenery,
Seems to no longer be of concern,
Now that I have all this…
…I love what was, very dearly,
But the life I live now is for me.
I have new children, knowledge,
Friends and technology…
…I’m quite sure it’s possible
That old family members
That passed before me
Could exist in the same place
That I now live and find myself…
…But I can’t be certain,
Maybe they live further,
Deeper, in an unknown future
That I can’t even comprehend…?
…All I know is that, like me,
They have a new life somewhere
So I’ll do what I tried to do
My first time around…
…I’ll continue to grow and live on
In this new, world-spanning cityscape
Fueled by the love and memory
Of a past life remembered
only by me...
Oct 6, 2018
Oct 6, 2018 at 9:01 PM UTC
The poem was inspired by a particular photo of the WT C, and after that by my first visit to the 9/11 Memorial. On the day of 9/11, I was working about a diagonal mile away, and from our windows, we could see people jumping to their death.
Open sky annulled
to bordered lines of
uptown edges,
worldview momentarily
forcibly redefined by
memories of buildings and sadder days,
recollections of pillars of biblical smoke rising
A photograph
makes me look up,
and sit down historically,
need to catch a breath,
to rest mentally,
upon a storied small bridge's steps,
that I well recall,
a disappeared street stoop.
all were rubble then and once
upon that day.
Wear, tear, and older eyes distill perspective,
but the hardy heart is hardly stilled
by the recognizable gray upon
bon vivant gray reflective surfaces of
memories of buildings and sadder days
So today, on a reborn street,
I rest upon reconstituted speckled curbstone,
the city's lowered down ledges,
the city's lowered down-town boundaries,
constantly redrawn, but
nonetheless, always rebuilt from their own
regenerated stony compost,
and the NY passersby doesn't even notice
a man, head in hands,
silently weeping, thinking that:
We throw away so much we should have kept.
We keep so much we should have thrown away.
Lose keepsakes, but keep our mysterious sadnesses
locked away in compartments that open only to
benedictions uttered in ancient tongues.
Make your own list,
be your own curator,
catalogue visions of sophomoric triumphs,
museum mile pile
those early poetic drafts,
be unafraid of memories
raw and ungentrified,
overlaid, buried underneath
postmortem of dust-piles of senior critiques
Finally went downtown to see
where the blessed water falls
into catacomb pits that once
were the foundations
of buildings that ruled the cityscape,
downtown anchors
for a modern city that exists
only because it was built on
million year old granite bedrock
Stone monuments are stolid, discrete.
Memories are of grayed, frayed edge consistency.
Negatives resurrected that survive digitally,
all blend synthetically, layer upon layer,
essence distilled in a single,
black and white photograph
that serves to
disturb complacency,
awaken stilled pain,
reflections suppressed,
are restored
Sep 11, 2013
Sep 11, 2013 at 6:36 PM UTC
I want to sit by a city window
At night
And stare out into the lights
With you
From the top floor of a darkened
Hotel
I want to wrap my arms
Around you
Rest my chin on your
Shoulder
Sigh and pull you
Closer
And simply sit as the lights
Twinkle
Into the heart of the city and
Never sleep.
May 28, 2010
May 28, 2010 at 10:05 PM UTC
There's something about water that fascinates the mind,
Hypnotic in its passive dancing,
Wheeling in panicked turns to the tune of an inaudible waltz.
The way it ripples with each drop of rain in the cold,
Resonates with me,
As though the water itself is speaking to me,
Desperately wanting to be heard,
It's voice crying in every motion.
Stop!
What is it saying?
Stop! Stop!
I don't know
Please! Stop!
It's too quiet
You're not listening!
All I know is how I feel when I see the way it glistens in the moonlight,
The way it reflects the beauty of a cityscape as dusk falls,
When the day is done water's true beauty is found,
It sparkles below me,
Pinpricks of street lights streak across its surface,
They seem to spread ferociously as my eyes are filled with tears,
Pinpricks becoming blazing stars.
The air whispers to me,
telling me what I need to hear.
Exactly what I need.
Water is pure beauty,
Eternally entrancing my closed-off mind,
Drawing me in,
Because sometimes
Water is more than beauty,
It becomes a perfect friend,
With no capacity to judge,
No way to hate,
Only to fill.
An empty
Heart
Drop
by
Drop
It becomes
Escape
*My legs fold beneath me,
my body goes limp,
I fall.*
Jan 31, 2015
Jan 31, 2015 at 1:24 PM UTC
concrete jungle heat
suffocating cityscape
~ bare feet loving grass
Mark Toney © 2021
May 12, 2021
May 12, 2021 at 8:20 PM UTC
I will miss Uganda
The people that made us feel most welcome
That helped us learn as part of the team
I will miss the sunshine
Even the downpours and storms that stunned us
And the dryness of earth that dusted our skin
I will miss the hilltop views
That look upon the cityscape of hectic humanity
And roads filled with the danger of boda-bodas and matatus
I will miss the expectation of casual tardiness
Of moving like there’s no rush
No better place to be so why hurry
I will miss the adventure of discovering new places
Of eating new things with new people
And sharing stories of varied past
I will miss Uganda and it says it misses me
But as long as I remember
I wont need to miss the memories
Mar 11, 2014
Mar 11, 2014 at 10:07 AM UTC
Three drunken kites,
swim up competing with each other,
evading the algae of cityscape,
to drink the wine setting sun spills.
Jan 26, 2013
Jan 26, 2013 at 6:44 PM UTC
** ** **
Hoes be everywhere yo
I soar above a city so naughty
Inside of my flying Bugatti
I land atop the cityscape
In fear of my **** getting *****
I slip my keister down the chimney
With a present prepared for lil' Timmy
As I reach the bottom my muscles freeze
And I realize there is no milk and cookiez
Bullets fly and my suit stains red
The cartel had found me and now I'm dead
Oct 29, 2014
Oct 29, 2014 at 2:42 PM UTC
At night I dream of a cityscape,
vast and bright across a lake.
A breeze blows soft across my face
as heart and mind did celebrate,
the city which spanned a thought horizon,
and bridged the night for old Orion.
This moonlit causeway- that splits the sky,
Traversed by stars that walk the night.
For Luna did smile upon grey streets,
and lit grey towers of pure concrete.
Illuminated the dark, and pale, and cold,
She bathed the raw night in a blanket of gold.
This city of dreams that I wander alone,
becomes a home and a place of my own,
however, even this city can not hide nor run,
from the eventual coming of the rising sun.
Sleep, my mistress, hold onto me tight,
and stay with me, till the crack of first light.
We'll meet once more under night's dark drape,
as I dream once more of a cityscape.
Dec 8, 2014
Dec 8, 2014 at 7:15 AM UTC
precipitation's anticipation of change
diffused morning light
the mustiness of first rain
a misty visibility hiding distant hills
a graying of the cityscape
skyscrapers in clouds
construction's crane quieted
in the mix of old and new
a slow rush hour
washing the street's grime
a coolness to my eyes
a slight chill in my bones
Autumn colored leaves swaying with breeze
on half empty trees
slanted raindrops incessantly blustering
a beautiful day
where only seagulls dare to fly
eight peeping eyes with healing hands
too good to help her to the restroom
"I'll call a nurse"
they just poked in to take a peek
feel her leg's edema
and inform me of possibility's progress
a colonoscopy?
a transfusion?
time keeps asking for more time
morning meds
an IV
a blood draw
a blood test strip
another trip to the restroom
a kind older gentleman's help
he thought I was her father
it's raining hard again
gutters like rivers
storm drains splashing white water
more skyline has gone missing
umbrellas wrestling wind
raindrops rilling down a picture window
as afternoon sheds it's light
as I watch sleep's breaths
her hunger awakens and feistiness returns
"Don't they feed their patients here?"
they never told us to call food services
another blood pressure reading
another blood draw
another trip to the restroom
and it's all good
a colonoscopy evaluation
maybe Thursday or Friday...
looks like time got her wish
Oct 9, 2011
Oct 9, 2011 at 5:53 PM UTC
The flicker of a bulb lights the rearview mirror.
A car stands motionless behind the laundromat.
The occupants make hollow love,
Searching for what is lost in the sea of humanity
And the localized cloud of buildings.
Their bodies curl in the back seat
And the streetlamp continues,
A silent metronome, blinking on
And off.
Oct 17, 2011
Oct 17, 2011 at 9:27 PM UTC
5am wakes a blinding bright orange sun
Standing out against the pale grey sky.
Below, a cityscape of grey.
No cars and few people move this early.
Portland, like most of us, is having a foggy morning.
Two bodies fade to color on a rooftop.
Their crusty eyes
Crack to vibrant orange light,
Half expecting search helicopters
Or seagulls pecking at their limbs.
Praying, for ravens.
They only find each other.
A beach towel beneath them
Half a bottle of ***** beside them
Next to their backpack and undergarmets.
It almost resembles a prayer circle.
Kicked blanket at their feet,
Brazier overhead,
Belt and trinkets to the side.
Lord knows what they were summoning last night.
They sure as hell can't remember.
They only remember touch and smell,
Light lavender hips,
Big Bourbon chest,
Fingers tracing artwork in the dark
Admiring both
Memories and their permenance.
Unfortunately,
This wasn't permenant.
After they climb down it's
He to a hospital.
She to a husband and child.
The orange sun coo'd too early.
Just two hours of freedom
Before the goodbyes and consequences.
A short glimpse of another world.
Hoping for closure.
One step forward.
Three steps back.
When their bodies left the rooftop.
They held hands.
Jul 11, 2015
Jul 11, 2015 at 2:02 PM UTC
Walking down the street;
I had just slipped into something comfortable.
ironic
I saw your head between
the horizon and the sidewalk,
and smiled at your lips
silhouetted.
you didn't turn.
i didn't want you too.
you didn't.
why didn't you turn?
suddenly the rain hit me like
paint.
i imagined the cityscape drowned
in the paint rain.
It filled the transparent drops of gray
with the sky,
and your eyes,
and that look on your face
surfaces striking simutaniously
and spreading reflected light into my eyes,
like a sunset.
the spilling of
the sky,
your eyes,
the look on your face
i took cover in a man hole.
the shaft of illumination
from above
making me
half a man
the paint rain still came down
dripping into my
privacy.
i stayed there;
not due
to apathy, anger
or you.
but just so i could see
the paint rain fall
i drowned like the city in the paint rain.
drenched in color.
soaked.
i drowned in the paint rain,
that wasn't gray today
i drowned like the city
in the sky,
in your eyes,
i drowned in that look on your face
Aug 20, 2010
Aug 20, 2010 at 5:41 PM UTC
Her fingertips loosed the glass
bottle, which had
of late
gathered rain like the
hands of paupers.
Glitter in a heartbeat.
to be collected by old battered shoes
or car tyres
and streetwise magpies.
it joins a city evensong
this oceanic roar of nothing
fusing chords of cars and smoke
and lonely dogs
with hacks
and throngs
of perambulating suits
and suitors
trampling athwart broads of concrete
As swifts in summer.
We swim in it
through open atriums
and barren rooms of
magnolia and magnolia and magnolia.
All the while if you look harder
you see through chinks a sepulchre
in each greying tower
ranging higher and higher still.
Machines and machinations
stacking life upon life to
build pyramids
to gaudy kings
in pinstripe or herringbone.
Flumes of fumes ***** like floods
Into and out of train stops
and bus stands.
Circling lungs like hungry crows.
Crows which haunt
Bombed out chapels made new
resuscitated with waxen ivy
and ivory lilies.
And the leaves of saintly oak trees
chatter in shrinking crevices of green
story telling
Of how people and things grow old.
And you can walk these streets
And dive too like cormorants into
The platitudes of city living.
Soaked to the skin in sound
to tell your story
like the shards
of a broken bottle.
Jun 2, 2015
Jun 2, 2015 at 6:10 PM UTC
Each day, we carry our names through urban terrain.
For every letter laid out and shining atop the cityscape,
a thousand more become garbage scattered in darkness.
Yet I'm courted into thinking I'm on the right street
by algorithms selling dopamine down Sideways Alley.
Too soon after bearing my soul on the infinite scroll,
tourists flock and flap to get at the itch on my back.
Their words cut deep like plastic knives at a banquet.
Their hearts warm like the walls of an empty fridge.
Breadcrumbs left behind only lead to the trapdoor.
Those in luxury estates who threw paint on a throne -
their patches of land fertile and thriving up to the gates -
offer tips on organic growth that can build into empires,
while those packed in high-rise blocks act like bandits,
egos painted loud on knock-off flags hung to balconies.
What am I in this black hole of corrupted competition?
Views above the skyline only provide anxious thoughts.
Occasionally, I find answers in unseen neighbourhoods.
An outstretched hand holds a glass of chilled apple juice.
Now we go round each other's house to share fresh fruit.
Sep 12, 2020
Sep 12, 2020 at 11:59 AM UTC
I have a lot of pent-up fear;
many things really do terrify me.
I’ve never really been comfortable in the dark,
my imagination has never granted me that luxury.
Phantasms from almost 15 years ago follow me in the shadows.
I’ve always enjoyed looking out at a cityscape
from the top of a tower or building
but I’ve never let go of the railing.
I haven’t let myself come close to the edge,
my back against the wall.
I’m too scared of falling.
I’ve been harrowed by many things,
but one demon reigns over them all.
I’m really scared of disenchantment.
I’m scared that the very reasons that I was initially loved for
will eventually become the reasons I am detestable.
I’m scared my determination and perseverance
will turn into me being stubborn and close-minded.
I’m scared that my sweet thoughts and caring nature
will transform into me being clingy and suffocating.
I’m afraid that all the reasons you love me
will turn into the reasons why you regret.
May 12, 2015
May 12, 2015 at 9:43 AM UTC
tv tucked-in to premature sleep,
t'is elementary that I
I awaken midnightish,
mission most unusual
sherlocked~unaccomplished,
to disembark from the day's
shellacking
glancing out the window,
many of the yellow lit windows
decorating (not littering) my cityscape,
precisely the color of the tastefully ostentatious
but breath taking
canary yellow diamond five carat ring
I will never buy you,
that shall be the ring, always,
She-Lacked
not because I can't
not because it is impossible tho most extra frivolous ridiculous ice cream scoop
upright~downright double silly,
buuuuuut
because
certain things in life off course,
and are truly better for just
the wanting
than
the having.
but not you,
of course.
Of course!
Jan 31, 2014
Jan 31, 2014 at 12:49 AM UTC
I am a good person to the max
I am a good guy in Jesus' name
I am a brilliant young man
I am so handsome like Gretel
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
I am a rock soloist
I am a rock singer on the Wesley Willis Fiasco
I am a cityscape skyscraper artist
I am a working class dog
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
I am a nice guy in Jesus' name
I have a mean schizophrenia demon in my head
My demon racks me with profanity
My demon tells me lies and says I'm a **** a *** and an *******
My demon keeps me from joy bus riding by torturing me
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Wesley Willis
Kinkos, it's the copy center
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 10:24 PM UTC
This was once a construction site.
Unpainted concrete walls, skeleton of
A building exposed.
Now most floors are inhabited;
Offices in use as if they'd always
Been this clean and complete.
Some sections are still unfinished, and
The few of us still working here are
Alien shadows in filthy workwear,
Ghosts from the slow birth of a
Fraction of the Oslo cityscape.
Rugged midwives
Not fitting in with the suits and
Dresses we sometimes pass in the
Corridors.
So strange, the scent of perfume and
Female products. No more diesel and
Dust here these days.
My colleague flips his cigarette **** on
The pavement outside the entrance,
Stealing a gaze at a passing skirt.
*I love the sound of
High heels in the
Morning.*
Oct 16, 2015
Oct 16, 2015 at 3:24 AM UTC