"parkway" poems
In a city full of fake thugs and now record beef they just settle it with 8 slugs
There rose a kid from out of Rogers parkway who kicks slow flows containing dopamine in the bars I slay like Dre Day I'm celebrating out the melon insane like dry water the sheep I'll slaughter like a psychopathic ********** with a daughter
Allow me to introduce Nero The Damphir psychotic and I kick knowledge like a field goal my pen is spinning the rumpelillest gold causing static with the lyrical automatic I splatter brains on the floor it's a nasty habit to endure.
I'm Chicago's poet I spit knowledge and split spines with the rhymes so solid no one will notice I roll this ***** up like the best cest and smoke it unless you take it off the wax and into the turf I'll make you taste the salt of the earth and after you're in the dirt I'll bear you like Paul you have no chance at all against me the pen is all I need to destroy then employ my victims my rhymes stay within them like That dude they net in juvenile detention center I'm centric on hip-hop that is I got love for cold crush sugarhill grandmaster flash and whodini Wu-Tang naughty by nature and Cypress Hill
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 12:57 AM UTC
Before dawn I ride through dimly lit streets
Mid-September and the air is cool and damp
Students wait at the bus stop – some talk, some text
The moon, in the last sliver, courts Venus
Together they drift as if hand-in-hand while clouds slip quietly past
Ghostly with gray shadows
Cross-town Parkway to Kings Highway
The sounds of industry growl
The River Valley Trail
Pulls me from the road
Along the Kalamazoo River, the fog creeps across fields
The sun’s first rays warm the sky
On the river, mist swirls as dawn approaches, gold threads twisting upward
Near Galesburg, another commuter joins me
The conversation makes the trip a bit shorter
The rooster crows twice this morning as we ride past
The last stretch along L-Avenue through quiet woods and fields
Glimpse a deer or a coyote, a rabbit, or an owl
As we climb the final hill of our ride
The mist billows incandescent in the sunlight
Nov 14, 2012
Nov 14, 2012 at 2:03 AM UTC
driving south
to see trees in bloom
after a night of sleeping in the snow
& letting the hail beat up your face,
i can imagine is like
seeing color for the first time.
i am the new wick of a candle--
turned on by spring sun,
hot,
the light shows the beauty in strangers
like red-haired, shirtless Steven
whose eyes graced me with
the radiance of sunlit olive,
a shade i have never dreamed before:
gold & green globs twist in circles
in his irises, like magic
no wonder warm blood of new loves
is harvested in this season.
at the pink rock on the parkway,
i saw a collared corgi get lost,
enamored with strangers.
cannabis clouds coagulate
the air to power young hikers.
i spy front seat fever
in the car next to mine,
heads disappear
into the laps of their lovers.
for me, it is these woods,
the nurturing ways of the willows,
the numbing wind of unspoiled silence
by the glasshouse over the lake.
the bloom of new cycles
in the ancient--
what was always there,
like lovers that are always within,
part of you.
dogwoods crack open
to let us come together in a forested space
where all trails lead to treehouses.
this is my spring love,
this is bliss.
Mar 16, 2014
Mar 16, 2014 at 10:18 PM UTC
Ignore the veiled murmur beneath
the social graces and party conversation
excuse this bland ****** arrangement
feigning interest in tales worn thin
cruising the same old Memorial Parkway.
This, and the embedded gravel
marking each grim rotation:
expectation
disappointment
anger
the weight of relentless perfection.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 11:38 AM UTC
i am selfish in my adoration
- in my observation
as if this light, this moon is
mine&
mine alone.
as if no other being is looking upon same
face as i
as if this face is put on just for me.
as if she is my mother and she has no daughter quite as grand as i.
i bottle her clear, unlying light with my
eyes &
hide those bottles away deep my
chest
somewhere close to my heart so few may see it.
her beams are a lullaby sweeping over mountain ridges
that i like to pretend only i can hear as she sings over the
loud whispering of the trees.
i like to think that i am sole and secular in being bathed in her
spectacular, white-gold luminescence.
her engulfing gaze is the emanating heat of my blankets, encompassing me like a child.
i do not share this warmth- no,
no instead i wrap it tightly around me, i burrow down within it
and let it dissolve the cold of the world untouched by her light.
her light keeps the true night away—
even the creatures who ride the wind, howling and furious still.
they skitter around her;
quiet and heavy with awe as if they know they are in her territory and their kind are not welcome there.
her grandeur is not to be shared nor looked upon by unworthy eyes.
it would be vain to think that no other shall gaze up at her as i do
but i shall be vain.
i shall be vain and i shall try to trap her essence within my veins to keep
the undeserving away.
i am gluttonous with her abundant shine &
in quiet, lonely moments like this i {selfishly}
like to think
that she is smiling just for me.
Nov 12, 2012
Nov 12, 2012 at 5:52 PM UTC
Who do you think leads us
When we find it there at the top of the mountain
The sky a sweating forcefield
Defending an unknowable cannibal society from the rages of brutality
No lifeguards here at the sidewalk hot dog stand
No golf carts swerving in and out of lanes
On a neighborhood parkway
Our footsteps bend back with tension
Where we face a collision course
With a culture three short steps removed
And left to warp and mutate in the lee of the stone
Where sands of time blow sparingly
To the pace of a sputtering tractor motor
Sep 18, 2012
Sep 18, 2012 at 1:48 PM UTC
Garden Parkway YMCA
Dallas, Texas
22 November 1963
Darling Sophie,
Could it be only two months since I let your fingers slip from my hand as that train departed Voronezh station? I fear that this trip was a great mistake. . . .
The boat sailed from Sevastopol as scheduled. Just two days and we were through the Bosporus/Dardanelles and into the incredibly blue Aegean and the Mediterranean. On September 27 we passed Gibraltar and started the long haul across the Atlantic. The work was not demanding though the ship was quite ***** and not really very pleasant.
We docked at Houston in the state of Texas on October 9. Defecting was surprisingly easy. There was supposed to be work in Dallas so I walked/hitch-hiked here last month. But I have not been able to find any work.
The people here, though friendly, are coarse and brash. The stores overflow with televisions, record players, mink coats, but there are many very poor people here too...
The great American leader, Kennedy, was shot and killed today, driving in his open-topped car along the streets of this very city.
My money is gone; my strength, exhausted. How blithely I left you and Russia behind! I feel my lips brushing the tiny hairs on the back of your neck, your ******* swelling. . . . Sophie! May you know great happiness and love! I only ask that in the spring when you visit Krymskaya Pond, that you remember how we knelt there, how I whispered in your ear there, when the air is filled with the scent of its cherry trees that you remember what we felt there. . . .
Yours, always, Nickolay
Aug 1, 2017
Aug 1, 2017 at 2:02 PM UTC
the fast car speeds along the avenue
and she relaxes at the wheel
shell tell you she was born to drive
and with a cigarette grey haze
she leans into the telling
a story of her younger days
a summer back in the world
back in the dust of 1958
when the motorcycles rode on main street
she and her baby sister went to see
and stood back of the five and dime
marvelling at at the wild men
and the chrome machines
thouse were the days when
the future was brighter
and the dream seemed like it could be real
this light comes alive in her eye when she speaks
of thouse days
you can see the years fall away
you can almost taste the malted she drank
and almost see her in her blue dress
there at the five and dime
you can see the light in her eyes
when she is remembering thouse days
the sock hop and the drive thu
she is so much a younger soul than i
filled with all these beautiful memories
and as we drive down the hutchinson river parkway
middle of the night
in the pouring rain
robert gordon on the radio
i think to myself that she's right
she was born to drive
and i was born to be with a girl like her
oldsmobile cutlass 440 was her car
i was her man
.and rockabilly was her music
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 4:28 AM UTC
We headed for Cold Springs
At past eleven this morning
There were countless cars rushing
My sister was driving.
I felt an air of incomparable silence
I sighed in awe...i felt, i knew of a Presence.
Overwhelmed by its essence,
It led me to a view that enveloped me:
The Hudson River, how it filled me with serenity,
The horizon, wavy mountains of reddish brown trees
The vast infinite blue above me
It seemed...all were watching me.
I could only stare at the perfect sky
That drew both my eyes
I could only think of God...feel Him,
In front of Him,
Below Him
...i am bare...body and soul...
like the endless rows
Of towering trees along Palisades Parkway
Bereft of leaves, fallen, and blown away,
For
He sees,
I cannot hide
He knows,
He understands, what goes on within me
I am naked.
On the same route now, going home
I feel again a breathtaking calm
I know i wouldn't tire
Of staring at this huge ball of fire
A yellow gold, still burning
And, oh, how stunning!
To a darker shade of orange...it is turning
Quickly dipping lower
the blue sky becomes purple...and darker
hoping later, a big round star is to hover
A creamy, glowing moon in December
One... i would always remember-
Alone or otherwise...night...or day
I am always aware
......
....i am bare....
He sees
There's nothing to hide
He knows
He understands, what goes on within me
In front of Him
Below Him
.......
.....body and soul.....
.......
I am NAKED.
Sally
Copyright December 5, 2015
Rosalia Rosario A. Bayan
Dec 10, 2015
Dec 10, 2015 at 12:06 PM UTC
Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.
You're fair game if your sign up for anything.
Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.
St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm
In case you want to check it out too...
Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty).
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK, (airports)
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!
Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!
Ok ok, grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....
Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those ***** (hint: it rhymes with Mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!
But thanks for thinking of me anyway.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
My little English unstable friend,
Wobbling out of sidewalks onto streets, that lead to nevers
Alleyways and deadends
Along the wharf the parkway bends
The sailor has been thus way forever,
But you are but a drunken carpenter,
Your legs are accustomed to roofs and hallways, the legs get all wobbly on
This stream and even some astute drunken sailors have drowned, but keep up stumble on ways into the blackness become a floating warning
Come tomorrow morn, lad.
You know.
The faults of all are envy lust and too much broth at the bar,
The bar, the bar down on
Wharf avenue.
Jan 22, 2019
Jan 22, 2019 at 12:29 AM UTC
the echo ran along the wall
across the dew moist grass
and fell like a plea upon my ear
the sky was bruised to a deep blue
and as i fell to a dizzy thought
and found myself on my knees
isnt it strange we never notice
the pavement till we kiss it
and i frenched this piece
her southern belle voice
reached down into my dizzy thoughts
and with a strong finger grasp of her will
pulled me back to reality
and up off the floor
lest a skeeter get 'cha
i humbled a thanks
and together we made the parkway
the echo danced a little
ballerina twirl on my eye socket
for half the night
sky beginning to clear like my head
after all that deep winter snow is thousands
of miles north and a million years from here
the flashbulbs start popping
as some celeb wanders by
catch his drunk eye
and without having to say so
he wished he could swap places with me
as the camera hounds followed him up the road
poor slob
lest a skeeter get 'cha
the echo
waited in the denver snow
and followed to the motel down on broadway
where she probably still waits for me
to come tapping on the door
but that town is far behind me
and for that im grateful
her thin pale white hand
trembles on your arm
and she looks up at you
with a clear desire to be heard
push your yesterday
but your strength waxes and wanes
as versions of yourself
echo down the wall
across the dew moist grass
Oct 24, 2013
Oct 24, 2013 at 8:41 PM UTC
I wish that I could wake up with a smile on my face,
I wish that my depression was just a phase,
I'm constantly yelled at for the flaws I can't fix,
I'm constantly making death my birthday wish
Every single night I pick up a blade and say goodbye,
Every single night I step on the scale to check my size.
I used to love Parkway Lanes, I was their ultimate bowling star
I used to love Parkway Lanes, but in their lot I was ***** in a car
So while the sub is matching students to the ones on the class list,
I'll sit here and **** time by counting the scars on my wrist.
Jan 4, 2015
Jan 4, 2015 at 3:33 AM UTC
Never grab a moccasin or go to Clayton County at night --if you car breaks down -run in the woods and hide--Don't try to convince yourself that your a plumber- Stay out of Riverdale-Winter and Summer ! Don't go to Clayton County during the day--if caught alone , you will surely pay ! Never cruise Clayton County on a lark-for Gods sake stay away from Forest Park ! Never grab a bull by the horns , stay away from Jonesboro-you've been warned ! Old National Highway is a long lost cause , Lovejoy , College Park and all points south ! Tara Boulevard , Pointe South Parkway , Highway 54 and Conley Drive ! State 85 and Flint River Drive , like playing the lottery with your own dang life !
Sep 24, 2015
Sep 24, 2015 at 2:09 PM UTC
I put off writing this,
For then it becomes,
Real,
Like a scared kid with a,
Shadow in the room,
I chose to hide from it,
But pictures of pieces,
Still loom,
The surround sound sad songs,
Have all started rhyming the same,
And the soliloquies have all gone
Silent,
I'm just trying to be happy for you,
But even when thoughts drift away,
The feelings linger,
Crooked parkway signs,
And certain looks,
In young lovers eyes,
Sounds,
Bring it all back,
It is real,
And I'm just trying to be happy for you,
Memorial officials to weddings,
In dances of words,
No one,
But you,
Will understand,
Promises of undone cigarettes,
With entwined mountain town dreams,
And names like June,
Prayers in a house that reads,
"Isnt death always at a funeral"
We will move on from fantasy and foreplay,
Because It is real,
And,
I will be happy for you tomorrow,
Today,
I just need to be sad.
Nov 1, 2018
Nov 1, 2018 at 4:07 PM UTC
Women i love you for your boisterousness
and softness too, harshest lighting
notwithstanding
You are poems of poems of poems
in moonlight beneath crimson moons
encouraging mystery
Women your sanguinary allure holds
me never but your pernicious sorrows
are as captivating as ever
You are goddesses and ****** and archetypes
all the same from salon to Wal-Mart
to the Barnes up the Parkway to the Zoo
Wymyn you are ***** on bykes leather
lesbian jackets and caresses of chains
silent cervixes smattered and schmeared
Ladies your parts are none of my business
and my love's too Western for that nonsense
but I wish them all good health and plumbing
Listen sisters, allow me some gravy
for respecting the curvature without
ever needing to ride like Sally into orbit
Your ******* are thousands of temptations
to many men but I'm only enamoured
by your foreign policy experience
Women you know how to know what's what
and make yourselves muses and heroines
perfecting heterosexual enchantment forever
Hey ladies let's be friends and not so secretly
plot for you to really start conquering the world,
ok?
Mar 30, 2016
Mar 30, 2016 at 8:23 AM UTC
A stolen heart lost that's in confusion
reaches a conclusion and admits confesses
their delusion and steps into the sun
the rays soak embedding in pores
cleansing and bathing his dismay
in golden hues
the tears and ache begin to reduce
a reclusive event of clarity
live and let live melodies
pierce his eardrums
in silent peace the sirens at bay
freeing him from the sound of the parkway
Liberated
Jan 9, 2013
Jan 9, 2013 at 3:26 PM UTC
Forty-five down the parkway.
Windows down,
76 degrees,
And the smell of rain.
Humidity,
Wet earth,
Flowing through the windows
And down my throat,
Through my lungs,
Into my bloodstream and
Blanketing itself around my brain.
Nostalgia is my drug of choice.
Beauty doesn’t come
In forms of days like these
Too often.
Jun 3, 2019
Jun 3, 2019 at 10:18 AM UTC
Assiduous aster couple
Defendant's of moral code,
Picking plenty of garden truffel's
Elation of electrology gonidium grove
Flex branches
Flexed to granial proportion,
Mad hatter like parkway's
No psychedelic distortion
All is real here
Tis the Jasmine's are kept in Jardiniere's
Kaddish shalt be spoken in different language
Blessed holy every seven years
No keno like chances
All is predetermined fate,
Candles on ourn table
Lap-robes to fit ourn date
A dame to all remission
Whilst Damiana to lax ourn sense
Chocolate bag's of smothered kisses
Ourn bodies to eachother to taste as mints
We shalt leave the world on doorstep
Coronet's upon ourn domes
Coroniform shapely spirit's
Corposants of ourn own ghost
Correlation of childer childe
Chimeres to glaze ourn agile
Fragile as pottery
Ourn story is painted upon!!!!
Jun 5, 2015
Jun 5, 2015 at 11:57 AM UTC
All my fondest memories are dreams.
Days I've painted over and re-written.
Like that time we spent all night talking and,
I had to sneak in before my parents woke up.
Or that time he took me to the city and,
We held hands as we walked the golden gate.
Or that time we went up on the parkway and,
He kept me warm as we looked at the stars.
Such pretty scraps of paper for my keep-sake box.
Today is foggy with sleep and underuse.
I'm an old toy that got lost and then everyone forgot about.
I can breathe in fresh air until my lungs ache,
But that wont clense me of my need for numbing pollutants;
I can soak up sunshine until my skin is black,
But that wont rid me of my unquenchable thirst for rain.
Yesterday's smile isn't getting me through today;
I slept too long last night.
Tomorrow, tomorrow
is just another day I'll spend asleep,
Waiting, always waiting
for my ship to come in,
So I can go sailing.
But that doesn't really add up.
And I know ships don't even have sails.
Tomorrow,
Kasey will pick me up around noon.
And he will save my life,
for a day.
Feb 5, 2011
Feb 5, 2011 at 1:26 PM UTC
On the corner of Nansemond's Parkway and Bennett's Pasture
a heartbreaking scene can be found
almost appearing to be a mass grave
for such a small, innocent intersection
how many lives has it claimed
stones, flowers and crosses rest serenely under the trees
masking the horror that must have occurred on many an occasion
I wonder
how many more will you claim, little crossroad
could I be next
as I pass each day
Jan 13, 2013
Jan 13, 2013 at 10:18 PM UTC
I was down in music city 'bout a week ago
I wanted to see the brand old Loper show,
so I held a cap and I headed down to Opryland
They said they sold their last ticked the day before,
so I kinda just hung around the backstage door
and down the steps she came, man oh man
My favourite female country star,
she waved her fans and headed for her car
Her tire, unlike her body, was very flat
She said, could you change my tire
I said your wish is my desire
As she raised the lid, I grabbed her bomber jack
She said I sure do appreciate you're changing my tire
If I told you who it was, if I told you who it was
You'd say I was making it up
You've seen her on the screen and in country magazines
You'd think I was making it up
She said it was our little secret and my gully,
Oh I'm gonna keep it
Anyway you wouldn't believe it
If I told you who it was
She said you need a lift and I said well,
you can drop me of at the York motel,
so we headed down Briley parkway in the town
I told her I got all your records ma'am,
she smiled and said well I be ******
She said, you're kind of cute fellar, wanna mess around?
When we got to my room just the people lied
I said sure wish I could've heard you sing tonight
She smiled at me and said what do you wanna hear?
Well if I was one of them country music folks
I'll tell you, she'd sure get my vote for the best performance of the year
If I told you who it was, if I told you who it was
You'd say I was making it up
You've seen her on the screen and in country magazines
You'd think I was making it up
She said it was our little secret and my gully,
Oh I'm gonna keep it
Anyway you wouldn't believe it
If I told you who it was
Well I tell you this much,
when I put my arms around her and squeezed her real tight
She looked up at me with those big beautiful eyes,
took a deep breath in the side and said:
"Howdy I'm just so proud to be here!"
If I told you who it was, if I told you who it was
You'd say I was making it up
You've seen her on the screen and in country magazines
You'd think I was making it up
She said it was our little secret and my gully,
Oh I'm gonna keep it
Anyway you wouldn't believe it
If I told you who it was
Feb 16, 2017
Feb 16, 2017 at 9:05 AM UTC
there's some change scattered on my dresser
i don't remember when i put it there.
their ***** faces just look up or down.
their voices muffled or aloud.
maybe they talk about me and how linted my pockets were
or how odd my room is decorated.
i wonder if the presidents talk about
the deeds they've done.
if they scoff at the world
and what it has become.
i think i can hear them asking if it's oak,
"yep, its oak fellas".
they're asking where Kennedy went
and if anyones seen Sacagawea,
or Eisenhower,
or Ms. Anthony recently.
"not since that toll booth on the parkway" says Washington.
they shouted in outrage to each other,
that Americans are tolled to use the roads they pay for.
i was tired of hearing their agreeable talk
so i put them back into my pocket,
where the lint of my ***** jeans
would quiet their truthful words.
Feb 26, 2017
Feb 26, 2017 at 5:51 PM UTC