"cityscapes" poems
Isn’t is strange how we notice things when it is too late?
This is probably the last time that all of us will be in the car together. There will be no more midnight drives from hillside theatres. No more 2am dinner plans at kerbey lane.
This is the first time that I have noticed that you twirl your hair when you drive. My eyes have shifted from cityscapes flying across backseat windows to watching you wrap your hair around your finger.
It’s not slow and flirtatious, but quick and desparate, as if you're trying to distract yourself from the fact that we are growing up. It’s making me anxious, but I can’t look away.
This is the first time that I noticed the change in our silence. We are driving down nearly empty highways, and we are leaving behind our time. We are no longer laughing, and this silence doesn’t feel like it usually does. For once, none of us have anything to say. Or maybe, we know that there is not enough time to say all of the things that we should and want to say.
This is when I noticed how much I love driving down empty highways at midnight. Everything is slow, there is no rush, and, for once, there are no expectations of me.
I am finally, truly noticing that there will never be enough time to tell you all that I love you,
to hear you talk about science,
to hear about your travels,
to talk to you about your struggles,
to drive, and laugh, and cry with you,
to watch you twirl you hair.
Now, we have grown up, and our distances will strain our years of friendships,
and there will never be enough time with you.
Jul 24, 2018
Jul 24, 2018 at 1:07 AM UTC
Dread the free time
But still can't wait to have it
To seize peace and quiet
By my force of habit
And flee far away
From a central locale
Of a jobless, impoverished
Human garbage pail
Full of wasted potential
Unutilized power
Another kid lost to disease
By the hour
Devoured from inside out,
Parasitic
A malnourished mortality
Fated statistic
Accounting for little more than
A UN
Detrimental development
Index embellishment
IMF, World Bankers swooping in
Heaven-sent
Millions lent
Never spent
Back on the people
Just keep them like sheep
Marching on to the steeple
And reap what they sow
How so little they yield
Until cityscapes swallow up
Forest and field
And behind their most opulent
Optic facades
In their decadence festers
The graces of Gods
Nov 23, 2018
Nov 23, 2018 at 5:09 AM UTC
Pyres of cityscapes burn contingently in the distance
ever drunk with blood of a mother, a nurturer who asks
nothing of the morose, self-consumed existence
she cares for. Her brow cocked,
wrinkles descend like
rain that tears down
a window.
Pain.
You're bleeding out! But she'll never put herself
forefront. How could she? Sitting, reflecting.
Tormented by incompetence, her soft
voice silently flutters the leaves.
Drearily an extension of her lips, the words
escape the cusps like a cautious prairie-dog.
Smog obscures
the senses, a haze
darkening the pupils of your celestial eyes.
I still see You
drooping in the rocker under a hard light. Retaining know-
ledge of past and present, through spectacles.
Her deflating **** secreting
concrete into the sucklings, cementing fate,
as the clock that hangs above her falters. I shutter to think of the
future that's afore. When the one who's raised me is not.
No more.
Your timber limbs look awfully thin. Restless and alone,
she's tired. "Abandoned"
we're all alone,
but your company means more to me than a sustainable
stone.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:31 AM UTC
Atlantic thoughts of fish, schools on schools
what could be better than this, living with no rules
dog days, your cute face, fresh fade, cityscapes
romantic thoughts again, texts on texts
what could be better than this, living the loveliest
warm nights, green lights, divine touch, just rough enough
just how I like
Apr 16, 2022
Apr 16, 2022 at 8:51 PM UTC
Sand-crusted catacombs of dismembered dreams
Settle beside memories of the child who grew up
In rocky Harpswell, Maine. Not many beaches,
Only a foggy stretch beyond Morse Mountain --
But I used to stand ankle-deep
In the water, wait until my toes sank
Into crystalized Earth
And bubbles from Littleneck clams.
I’d stand there until goosebumps spread upon
My blanched legs, rising up, up, like the artificial hills
Of Maya Lin’s Storm King Wavefield.
Now, when I lie alone,
Misplaced inside a vacant Manhattan studio,
I surrender to sirens and accelerated lives.
Peace comes in painting – thick oil,
Violet and claret on stretched canvas,
Depictions of neon signs and cityscapes,
Cheap t-shirt stands on street corners,
And 24-hour coffee shops with “specialty”
Blends in little white travel mugs – selling
To flocks of strangers, strutting like pigeons on cement
Sidewalks, pretending they belong.
Sep 20, 2014
Sep 20, 2014 at 10:50 AM UTC
Starlight …
Icy crystalline sparkles
beaming brilliance
‘gainst the moonlit winter sky
Stars bright.
Luminescent wonders.
Scintilla laid bare in the heavens
by the pale white light of the moon
Full moon
bathing dingy cityscapes,
their dim lit ****** tales told
‘neath streetlamps’ jaundiced glow.
We walk,
slip on ice, crunch through snow,
watching for sliding cars
and dangers lurking in shadows.
Moonlit
whitewashed winter wind
winds through desolate streets
on a pale cold night in the city.
Walk on.
Whistling winds, barking dogs,
chill us, spur our pace, on
through the moonlight and cold.
Our wish
upon this night’s heavenly stars
is to be safely home, watching
from icy windows … winter walkers.
Doug Curry
1/6/10
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 11:50 AM UTC
cityscapes and heartbreaks
808s and carrot cakes
my life took a turn, a left
you tried to make me burn but I left
you at the alter, my destiny I cannot falter
I let me get softer, left the slaughter
watercolour paints and growing pains
deep introspection and soaking rains
get to the root of the issue, the root of the pain
elevate, activate
popping off like champagne
Feb 3, 2022
Feb 3, 2022 at 10:14 AM UTC
It's windy tonight. Not a cloud in sight. And the ever-glory of the mass blue sky was dotted once again with the friends of the sky. Guardian of my house, Orion, with his strong, bright 3-starred bow, burns steadily, as opposed to the Ursas of the north, with the bleak Polaris, its light a little faded due to the lights of the northern cityscapes.
I think of you in these circumstances. Whether you'd be looking at the sky as well, trying hard to find the connecting dots. Stay warm under this cool season, alright? I've yet to brush my teeth or even get my blanket and pillow, because I've decided to sleep under the stars tonight, and they're too beautiful for me to even pass a second without looking at them.
Just like how I think about you. My thoughts are still as the stars in the night sky, sometimes bleak and sometimes bold. I hope you never lose your way even if you feel like it. The Polaris will always be guiding you. My thoughts will always be guiding you. For you, I'll be constant as the stars above, so always know that you are loved.
Dec 21, 2016
Dec 21, 2016 at 11:55 AM UTC
The rotten fruit shall be shaken --- W. H. Auden
Do they somehow envision sainthood in the homeless
or extol the virtue of the millions toiling for minimum wage;
see themselves as the feudal overlords of trickle-down,
their enormous profits banquet omelets for the common good?
You know the politics whereof I speak,
the Me, Myself and I of anachronistic yesterdays,
the concave years of soup-kitchens supporting high-rise condos
and batshit crazy presidential candidates admiring selfies.
I wonder if it's all because they can't reach ******
impotence and pharmaceuticals which fuel our economy?
A nation moans from the exhaustion of despair with
forgotten cityscapes of odorous blacks and blues.
Oct 17, 2015
Oct 17, 2015 at 6:22 AM UTC
It’s that awkward time between 5 and 6 pm where his eyes are the colour of mocha brown stained novel pages and finger tips callused and crinkled with years of practicing and gripping too tight on a black biro pen.
He turns the corner of the street and we make a narrow escape to the highway where careful mothers have their children strapped to seats wailing with voices so shrill yet so untouched and pure..
And I turn and I look out the window and plaster on a sad look like I’ve been copy pasted out of a sad music video about boys and breakups and lost loves, reminiscent of the paraphernalia of stories and soaps and television shows my mother used to watch.
Slowly I turn and I feel a tap on my shoulder blades and he asks me if I’m ok but secretly I’m wishing and hoping that there’s more to life than this god forsaken city but I still say I’m fine anyway.
"The city looks really nice this time of day" he says and I just don’t see it because everything around me is illuminated in fake fluorescence and wired in with the hands of a man who’s just lost his wife and swears his depression is just a phase.
"Squint and you’ll see it" he insists but I can’t because the world is in monochrome and the concrete of the buildings are the tombstones of chivalry and manners, filled to the brim with office workers hunched over stacks of papers and lists.
He turns left at the third intersection and laughs at a man squabbling drunk cursing the world on the side of the road and I hope he doesn't know that it was what I'd do if he let me grab the bottle of Jack from the trunk.
"Goodnight and godspeed," he laughs and I say **** off" in exchange for a hug and so another day passes in the presence of car windows and rolling cityscapes.
Dec 9, 2013
Dec 9, 2013 at 10:03 PM UTC
build the earth from nothing,
she demanded.
build around me a shield of green and
carve your cityscapes into my ribcage,
burrow deep into my flesh and
drink from my throat like thieves.
i gave you everything but the clothes
on your back and the poison
you stole from my name,
shutting out birdsong and brainwaves for rocketships and
buckets of red that stained my dress like the frost.
i have been bleeding, starving, praying,
but you've only
licked your lips and settled
more comfortably into the rabbit's fur like the demons you are.
an outcry.
we had planted her fingers and
eaten the roots
just as she had asked,
pressed the dark, rich earth between our toes
as blood seeped from the pores of our skin
and acid dripped into the lungs of the children.
we had stood in the cold shivering and knocking
but her door remained sealed
for still she was not pleased.
we had outsmarted her
once before, you see.
twisted glacial rivers and sent showers of sparks towards
the sky in a beauty more precise than arrows,
and by luck of the dice
had turned her pieces round.
but she had shaken us off her shoulder
as easily as a dew droplet or
the shedding of a second skin,
an empty shell that filled with rainwater
when left out for a night.
our punishment was one of unusual origins and
hadn't a fathomable end,
one we couldn't even begin to guess.
our question stands in a noose of gold and silver
and i've a feeling the jury will clatter their knees
to protect the guilty.
and who were we to speak the truth when
the snapping of necks deafened the loudest voice?
Apr 11, 2010
Apr 11, 2010 at 8:34 PM UTC
Your scar tissue is majestic
I love the way it glows beneath your skin
Divine designs aligned in such a way
They make me lose my mind with sin
and I wish I could possess you
just so you can touch yourself
the way I would
so you can feel that way
Whenever you need to.
Darling,
I want to swim in you like an ocean
And get lost at sea for days.
I want to traverse your peaks and valleys,
Trace your hand - drawn cityscapes
leave no stone unturned,
Unearth your hidden geyser
As we both learn
new things, eternally
About your maternal Earth.
I want to burn you with the raging fire
of my infernal desire.
Like a volcano erupting a dozen miles in the sky, I will cover you
with the wreckage of my incendiary lust.
But I will forever nourish your soil
with the forest of my love.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 10:15 PM UTC
those in the tribe of “that is enough for a 40 and a bag of chips” like to self diagnose, self medicate, and self love/hate
they spend 3 dollars and 75 cents at least three times a week on medicinal purposes only. most often, 3 dollars and 75 cents is not enough. so they diagnose that they can spend up to, but no more than, 6 dollars and something cents on healing yesterday’s wounds and on stitching up tomorrow’s possible cuts
those in the tribe of “i wont live to be that old” enjoy loud music, avoiding sleep, and looking angry
they wake up dizzy because last night’s dose was a little strong, it will feebly run it’s course through the veins it learned to call home for a few more hours. they hang on because in no time, tonight’s dose will warm their blood again
those in the tribe of “i don’t need your pity” like to question authority, read manifestos, and tattoo nighttime cityscapes.
they, sometimes, live so fast that they forget to remember. on early morning occasions, they find puzzle pieces they forgot to throw in the closet and they remember who they were, are, and want to be. it is during these “it is 4 o’clock in the morning, why are you calling me” moments that they remember who to love and what to hate. for some, this is progress. for others, this is another 3 dollars and 75 cents.
the tribes meet as often as possible. sharing a couple dollars, 75 cents, and some loose lint, they gather the right doses needed to obliterate the demons. although only temporary, the fix holds long enough to help heal, release, and erase.
Nov 26, 2012
Nov 26, 2012 at 3:56 AM UTC
People always tell you
that living in the city means
you miss out
on the night sky.
The thing I don't realize is
it doesn't matter
where you are—
the stars are still there, just different.
And the way I see it,
Cityscapes at night
have their own cosmic qualities.
Groups of skyscrapers
cluster into galaxies
and headlights shine like comets
and if you look up
the moon is still shining there.
The way I see it,
cities act as solar systems in themselves;
holding all of the excitement
and all of the magic
and all of the inspiration
that comes from gazing at the stars.
Sep 3, 2013
Sep 3, 2013 at 11:26 AM UTC
I want a man whose heart is so full -
Rainwater dripping from the pitcher on the drizzled grey of yesterday,
A soft sound in the great symphony of the wet garden,
Bejeweled and glistening,
Pianoforte drops
Upon the wet leaves
Falling.
I will know him by the way he writes, the kindness in his eyes -
Flashes of him in my professor,
In myself, caught laughing like a child,
In the quiet teenager who is becoming an
Unlikely philosopher, frontal cortex in heat,
With the implications of existence
(He’s awake in the early dawn, a furious Jacob,
wrestling with his God)
And he will be a Seeker of Beauty:
“There is no medium unworthy”
He will tell me, but never in words,
Crouching for perfection’s grace among leaves and dirt
Like a widow beneath rainbow fractals
At early morning’s mass.
He will be effortless, like the unspoken love
Between two old friends, bookends
Scattering crumbs of baguettes in the park
To clicking beaks, and dancing pigeon feet.
Burying himself in pages, when he thinks no one sees
(Was that you there, on the subway?
Dark eyes, fixated on the lines,
Crinkling with understanding?)
Both of us adventurous spirits -
“Let’s run away, you and me” and we will
Melt with ease into cityscapes, so transparent, adaptive,
Young and free,
Like the wood moths becoming one
With the aspen in its serenity,
We light upon
France, Spain… Italy.
I know I will find him
In my own verse.
Will discover him
In pages that I’ve turned.
Will recite his thoughts back to him, and will
Love him like poetry.
I will know him by heart.
Feb 6, 2018
Feb 6, 2018 at 4:08 PM UTC
Outstretched over tightly woven grids of
interlaced cityscapes,
storm clouds purge their bodies.
Rolling thunder claps, snapping like a rattrap
executioner.
Lightning strikes,
it
follows
along to:
Fibonacci's beat
one and one is two and one is
three and two is five
and three is
eight. Eight
legs,
like the ****** who spun
these threads of buildings with a widows
design. All the while wearing her
red sign
of
warning,
this city will ensnare you, and bleed
you dry.
May 10, 2010
May 10, 2010 at 8:29 AM UTC
The myriad of workers all shattered and broken
Complementary cityscapes remain inescapable
High tech offices, shimmering urban dystopia,
Eight hours spent well, dreams of eloping.
Twice daily gaze avoidance in a cold rolling tin
Public transport gaslight, nobodies talking
Level crossings stay shut without fair warning
Waiting at the lights while fending off wardens.
A twenty car pileup with zero casualties
Gridlock at rush hour, boredom eternally
Look out the sunroof towards the contrails
Dreams of escaping, a matter of urgency.
Overhead, the most beautiful of tapestries
Each one a trail to the temporarily free
The sun in this case, a dog for a flee
Migrate for a week and live on the beach.
The cycle goes on as you don't have the money
Yet venture capitalists adventure freely
All expenses paid, hands rub greedily
Shouting to the world 'I want you to pay me!'
Nothing pillaged nothing earned
Bear witness to the 'altruistic economy'
Climb onto haveness mezzanines
Stroll down avoidance alley.
Open your front door, the handle falls off
Take a smoke and climb up the chimney
Sit on the slate and draw the scenery
All glass houses need stone underneath.
Nov 11, 2017
Nov 11, 2017 at 8:30 AM UTC
I can see the city
lights out
my window
after painting
cityscapes of
Spain
with that
little set of
watercolors I bought
in that small town
(by the lake)
so much like home
(a trinket in my hands)
each light is like
a poem to me
a song
or laugh
(contained)
if I could contain your laugh
and ship it back to me
away from arid cities
and the red sun
in the sky
I think
it would
look like all the
lights out my window
each night here in Madrid
and as I would lie
to fall asleep
and look at the orange glow
the moon
sitting in the dark blue
sky
I think of all the lights
that can't go out
when I look into your eyes.
Aug 16, 2013
Aug 16, 2013 at 8:02 PM UTC
you and me
and our cheesy
selves
twinkling as the ashes
burst out of the effervescent
bonfire
i’m wearing your
awfully
baggy
sweater and
i look like a little
marshmallow
in an old mug
of hot cocoa
you pull me into your
sturdy arms
the breeze whips through
whistling like a singsong
we’re cuddled up next
by the snug heat
of the wood burning
orange sheet
you’re holding me
around my belly
(you know how much
i hate that word)
the fire builds cityscapes
and countrysides
and warm embraces
cheeks are rosy
hearts are cozy
ashy smoky
atmosphere
burning bark
and rustic willow
leaves chattering
murmuring
in the silence
of the
frozen in time
night
i fall asleep
in your lap
so you lay me down
tenderly
and i still smell the
smoldering fire
as you put the flame
to rest
and the hazy smoke
envelops our stationary
bodies
flawlessly
appressed
Apr 19, 2022
Apr 19, 2022 at 9:57 PM UTC
Cloudy in August
Couldn't be better
Burning dumpsters
Near crowded highways
This inner city squalor
Is my lifelong muse
Leather jackets
And scuffed up boots
Patients give me
Patience sticking
Needles in our veins
Dynomatic symphonies
Pounding us
With ecstasy
Drinking in the
Sweet smoked air
At bus stops I've
Never seen before
I'd never it give it up
That politically incorrect
Temperamental judgement
I'll live forever
For the idiosyncratic
Enigma I call
My not quite home
Aug 7, 2019
Aug 7, 2019 at 4:29 PM UTC
When I was younger I saw stars in everything
But now my mind has turned to cityscapes,
Angular in design
I look up and see only the glimmer of passing planes
Everything has turned into a product of the unattainable
I miss the stars, the past, the memories
But perhaps this city skyline isn't so bad
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 11:59 PM UTC
With
Hybrid
Genes you
Lack connective
Tissue
Body
Bones
Fall apart
Stones and earth
Provide
Emblematic deaths
In overcrowded
Cityscapes
Bewildered by
Your goddess names
I bow
Fish-like
Hooked on
Venerable
Devotion
Nov 7, 2016
Nov 7, 2016 at 3:31 AM UTC
Those shadowy emissaries
That pass the mind’s great lidless eye
In slow procession through the night
Do fill with color and with sound
The sleeping brain’s vast sweeping bound,
And populate its cityscapes
And alleys with amorphous shapes
That shifting form and countenance
Convey the tides of fleeting thought;
And oft become dark shapes of dread,
Parades of faceless horrors, such
That when I glance their looks are changed –
Each lineament is rearranged –
All meaning or remembrance lost,
Or masked by sweet forgetfulness.
The secret that there lurks within
The labyrinths of memory,
Still tainted by the stench of guilt -
And strengthened by the voice of fear -
Still screams from some dark hidden cell
The lurid blasphemies of hell,
And births itself anew each night,
Each morning dying with the light,
Yet nightly grows in hateful strength,
Corrodes the sturdy locks of will,
And claws through those great iron doors
That lead to waking consciousness.
Jun 17, 2018
Jun 17, 2018 at 10:43 PM UTC
In college, going home was always a reprieve
Well, until it wasn't.
Those awkward moments when you'd walk in on an argument,
Or when you had chores again
Like slipping back into your childhood skin
But it was a little tight, constricting.
But home made my chest hum,
No matter how tight the skins I wore became.
Home was a historic ranch with a view of the skyline
It was washing dishes with a view
And spending more time on the porch than in the living room
Home was the first place that actually felt like more than just a house.
Home had a yard, and friendly *** who mowed it
Home was walking outside to the smell of fried dough
Mouth watering for a fresh doughnut down the street.
Home was a garage turned art studio,
Bugs and all
Home was fighting over a single, small bathroom.
And it was just a couple minutes walk into the city.
Cityscapes, always changing.
Now, home is a green field, awaiting development
Home was ripped from beneath us like the run down houses two summers before.
Home is gentrification,
Only a few steps from the balcony of wealthy young professionals
Cozied up in their overpriced studio apartments.
Home still smells of doughnuts
And the driveway in the sidewalk is still there
Home still brings back our perennials,
White, purple, and pink.
Home cannot be taken from us,
She is woven into our very fibers,
But she can never be touched again.
Home was sold, beaten, bulldozed, and cleared away.
Home is just a memory.
But I will still drive by,
Smell that sickly sweet air,
And pick some of her flowers.
Here's to you, my love.
Mar 7, 2017
Mar 7, 2017 at 4:01 PM UTC