"suburbs" poems
The dogs chasing the late autumn leaves
Fluttering down the lane way
The sound of the train as it passes by
Peaceful afternoon walk
The cottage walls and porches
Flourish of colour
Enwreathed with ivy green
Bellflowers, hollyhocks, hydrangea
Scents of lavender and sage
Evoke
Memories of childhood days
Visiting grandparents cottages
One in the Irish Wicklow mountains
The other in the suburbs of Athens city
The free flowing sound of the river
Smoke billowing from chimneys
The cottages have no pretense or grandeur
Just a sanctuary of comfort in the silence of the lane
Reaching the darkest corner of the soul
Nov 10, 2013
Nov 10, 2013 at 12:22 PM UTC
Trying to find solace in the suburbs
when everything seemed superb
like that cookie-cutter,
picket fence,
faux fur mentality
they instill at the start
Just an infant with scars
He reached for her baby bump,
Then slammed it hard
onto the stairwell
She fell, wept, and held
That lil princess
and prayed she'd never have the same hell
All grown up. Alive and well
shes got different demons
different intricate cells
It's been said
she is special she is awake
But, in many ways
She is the same
As that ANGEL who carried her 23 years ago
That's debt I'll always owe
A gift I'll never own
Carefully Constructed
and Creatively Sewn
shoved a soul into that shell
That'll one day guide her back home
Shes got her mamas tough, yet gentle heart
her smile, brevity and love for art..
she can write her *** off
like her
the wrote and the writ
Yet she's plagued by guilt
every ******* minute
GUILT for the life that she'd been given
GUILT for each exhale emitted
She prays that God will have the sense
to go back in time and hit OMIT
(on all chapters even close to the word 'human'
there's GUILT for feeling guilty even more for despising your own )
"I must've slipped through the gate, admit it!
Or recruit another for your mission
regretfully, I must solicit
that I'm not fit for this position
I'm no hero
I'm the villain
If ya look close you'll see
I spit venom"
Mama walks in
smiles and says
"WE.
ARE.
WOMEN!"
"Betta recognize and
quit your bitchin'
as of today, you are living..
You are loved
You are safe
You are ************* winning
WARRIOR,
CREATOR,
QUEEN,
GODDESS,
INCARNATE..
We are strength & We are the faith
never to be broken
but we still stay brave
The Legend wont start
or end with you
Its a fight stretched out
through time
You will understand soon
No matter how much you ask
"WHY"
It wont stop circumstance
wont stop lies
wont stop suffering
and will NEVER compromise
Your in the way of the wave, child
This..... the secret to life
When in the way of the wave...
its only a matter of time
S0 if youre searching for solace
Will you promise
To memorize this line
Mar 9, 2018
Mar 9, 2018 at 3:54 AM UTC
The butterflies have since moved, not migrated, but moved.
No trips planned ahead nor any reason to return.
Inside, the battle rages on:
To love, to forgive, or to forget?
Outside, experiences fill voids.
Like a Band-Aid on an open wound:
Temporary.
Love is a powerful tool.
Hatred is a powerful tool.
Indifference may be the most powerful.
That internal skirmish ceases and the external
emotional trips drift further and further away from that lonely island.
The move has been dramatic, yet necessary now.
At the start, it was a city;
Full of life and people and things to do.
Then the suburbs, less people, less things to do.
Next was the island: alone and isolated, but tranquility.
The homemade raft sets sail for a new destination.
Will it arrive in a bustling city port?
Or arrive at a small dock along a river?
The snake sheds it skin to begin anew.
Forget the genie and make your own bottle,
Write your own message,
And write your own history.
Jul 20, 2014
Jul 20, 2014 at 5:17 PM UTC
It was not a heart, beating.
That muted boom, that clangor
Far off, not blood in the ears
Drumming up and fever
To impose on the evening.
The noise came from outside:
A metal detonating
Native, evidently, to
These stilled suburbs nobody
Startled at it, though the sound
Shook the ground with its pounding.
It took a root at my coming
Till the thudding shource, exposed,
Counfounded in wept guesswork:
Framed in windows of Main Street's
Silver factory, immense
Hammers hoisted, wheels turning,
Stalled, let fall their vertical
Tonnage of metal and wood;
Stunned in marrow. Men in white
Undershirts circled, tending
Without stop those greased machines,
Tending, without stop, the blunt
Indefatigable fact.
8k
Dust-covered two-lane highways
Catch the footfalls of my meanderings.
Meadowlarks and Phoebe-birds
Sing backup to my tuneless whistles.
Clouds illuminated by God-rays
Paint the sky above my head
And the Man in the Moon
Smiles as I bed neath a willow for the night.
I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***
The iron wrought train tracks
I secretly ride pass through the fields,
The forests, the mountains and valleys,
The cities and suburbs, the small towns too,
Home to so many who choose there to dwell.
But my home is the open countryside,
The fields of wildflowers and bushes,
The occasional oak or poplar for shelter,
With a stone for my pillow
Anywhere I wish to rest.
I am a wanderer, a vagabond, a ***
I am the outsider.
Jul 4, 2014
Jul 4, 2014 at 1:42 PM UTC
Oh Jamaican girl,where is your patois?
where is your long dreads of natural hair?
your culture?
Jamaican girl,sing your country's national anthem
How do you not like reggae?
what kind of Jamaican are you?
You see the ackee and codfish I stuffed down my throat on a Saturday morning would never be enough for them.
My extinctive use of the English language made them sick at their guts
The fact that my waistline won't move in such a manner to alarm others.
Born in the Yard
Grew up in the suburbs
Never boastful;always grateful
So Jamaican girl you try to act white on purpose?
Wear 'American clothes'
And perm your hair?
My nationality will coexist throughout my veins
Will never hit sunlight unless my tongue decides to move in that direction.
Will never be ashamed of my heritage as I am proud of it,yet also modified to not be defined by it.
Apr 23, 2017
Apr 23, 2017 at 2:36 AM UTC
I am Comfortable
able to ease your fears with
a smile or a flip of my
appropriately curly hair.
I am forgiven traffic ticket
proper sentences and twinkly
eyes, able to quickly ease your alarm
I am Just a Warning
I am The Exception
elegant sentences
king's English
never tolerating the incorrect use of their
I am private college education
the accessory to your culture
the other to your subject
always complimentary,
but never the source of discussion
I am Beautiful
Accompanied by "What are you mixed with"
A reflection of appropriation for my own culture
Too White for Black,
Too Black for White
I am inner city in the suburbs
I am Lightskinned
the kind of Black that keeps you
Comfortable.
May 15, 2015
May 15, 2015 at 5:04 PM UTC
5 a.m motorcycle
where you headed to
through the endless darkness
of the empty suburbs
yours is the night to have & to hold
sleepless & free
stirring up the wind
yet lonely
so lonely
I can feel it
whatcha lookin' for,
lil' Brother
not yours the comfort
of dreams & forgetfulness
(nor mine)
riding through the night
just killing time
in the empty suburbs
Oct 20, 2015
Oct 20, 2015 at 12:09 AM UTC
the bane of my existence
here
now
is
all of the incessant
noise.
the city encroaches
ever outward,
gobbling up
the suburbs
like the great big
Blob
contributing
layer
after
layer
of noise.
a new metro line
opened last year
disheartened
the morning
realized
it was the trains
i heard
as my puppy
and i
walked so early.
trash trucks,
back up beeping noises,
leaf blowers,
mowers
and trimmers ...
all
conspiring
to drive me
mad.
the birds and owls,
snakes and deer,
hawks and rabbits
toads
and trees
and flowers,
puppies
all other creatures
divine,
tempering
this man-made chaos
this man-made
hell
keeping me hopeful
that
i
will
have some
respite
some respite
from this
hideous cacophony,
this man-made hell,
in the future,
not
too distant.
of course
there are
some benefits
from all
the city life
but i prefer
the silence
the solitude
of nature.
the Taoist recluses
who speak to me,
whose poems
paintings
writings
and silence
are balm
to my soul.
some day soon,
i too
shall join
the recluses
far away
far far away
in the mountains.
but for now,
i am
only a modern day
taoist
recluse
stuck in suburbia,
doing my best,
living in this
noisy hell.
Aug 8, 2015
Aug 8, 2015 at 2:37 AM UTC
Hello, Midnight
with your ragged stars
hidden behind clouds
Hello, Midnight
a tramp's salute
to restless thoughts
Hello, Midnight
a girl flashing her skirt
in the red light district
Hello, Midnight
calling with ******* & ket
at people's doors
Hello, Midnight
guarding the silence
in the dim suburbs
Hello, Midnight
whispering poems
to writers & poets
Jul 21, 2015
Jul 21, 2015 at 7:13 PM UTC
What does a black kid who wants to rap write about well if he's from the suburbs he'll probably leave the pages white like the folks that where out.
Since there is no poverty, gangs, or death to report on. I guess he'll sit in his two parent household and be put down cause that's his home, and try to figure out that why in order to be black does he have go through struggle, live on 64th and Sangamon Chicago that's just asking for trouble.
Why aren't happiness and good times associated with the black culture, instead we like it when we're known for stealing, killing and getting over. I guess it's why light skinned people want to claim different races, why dark skinned woman aren't beautiful because we don't like the color of there faces.
I guess that's why Mike wanted to be white, why every black man woman and child believe that they have to fight, but naw not injustice and poverty, one another the same person you grew up calling your brother.
But what does it matter cause you don't hear my words. I'm just another black man from Richton Park Illinois so I remain unheard.
Dec 19, 2013
Dec 19, 2013 at 6:13 PM UTC
Health reflects plateaus,
Thick tears running like rivers,
Arthritic mountains,
Wrinkles ripple at beaches,
Plains welcome the exhausted,
Suburbs look peaceful,
Rural childhood decomposed,
Urban amnesia,
Roads outline the senile brain,
Destination: nostalgia.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 3:14 AM UTC
Diaspora
From the Greek
When I heard the word I felt it
And I looked it up
In my old red dictionary
I could have used the Internet,
I suppose
But I like to run my forefinger down pages
Of words
I read the definition
And I felt it
Oh
Oh
We are diaspora.
Am I using it correctly?
We are a diaspora.
Diaspora
From the Greek
From the green valley of Ottawa
From Scotland
From Ireland on wooden boats
From the French village thirteen children
From the mines in the North
From Poland and from Germany
From the churches and
From the Blueberry patches
From the Island Manitoulin
From the dark lake Kagawong
From Kinburn and Arnprior
From Markstay and from Sudbury
From Waterloo
From Kitchener, Michener
From the Suburbs
Oh
From the Suburbs
From the red bricks, red currants
And geraniums
From green island cabins
From the desert
Oh
From the desert
From the potholes and pipes
From the salty wind
Cracked Caspian Sea
From the middle of the east of nowhere.
From the mountains
Oh
From the mountains
From the crystal water fountains
From the tram bells
On the cobblestone streets
From the torrents of the Rhein
From the white cross
Oh
From the white cross
On the green hill
From the river Laurence
From the French and from the English
Plains of Abraham
We are diaspora
We are a diaspora
Diaspora
From the Greek
How did it end up here on my tongue?
It is diaspora.
It is a diaspora
Diaspora is a diaspora
And I wonder if it misses its other pieces
The way that I miss mine
Ours
There is no
Roping us back together now
There is no
Home to go back to
There is no
Point of meeting
Of reunion
No
White steeple in our old town
No
Yellow slide in our backyard
No
Old folks on an old farm
No
Walled house on a hill
No
Luzernerring 93
No
Familiar riverwater
There is no
Ancient Greek anymore
Diaspora
Only fragments of fragments
Of roots of stems of words
In different dialects
There is no
Place for you to belong,
Diaspora
You’ve been sliced to pieces
And scattered
Into the wind
But
When people ask you
Where you are from
You say simply
From the Greek
Oh
From the Greek
And
When people ask me
Where I am from
I say simply
From the diaspora.
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 10:50 AM UTC
It creeps up on me.
The sneaking suspicion
that I'm stuck
in it.
My hair is falling
in my face.
Only a year ago...
I built everything —
it was so clear.
Even though —
it was chaos.
People were worried.
But it was simple.
It was as simple
as simmering sausage
in a saucepan,
sweating in a brick kitchen,
listening to Sade,
and thinking of rooftops.
Things are more grounded now.
People are less worried.
The kitchen is smaller,
and shared.
I turn down Sade
when someone enters.
I'm still sweating,
but it's because something
is wrong with the heating system.
I long to take
an anonymous walk
between buildings.
There are only
neighborhoods
and shopping centers here.
And I keep running
into people who know me.
It's either too cold or too hot —
It's never summer every day.
Everything that was hanging on
my walls
is on the floor.
Precious paintings and prints
dusting with potential.
I reveal myself
less to strangers.
I don't take public transportation.
It's disconcerting how
comfortable having a vehicle is.
I feel urged to uproot,
swinging in someone
else's hands,
but feel like..
I'm interrupting.
Can't I just arrive for awhile?
My safety net is too big
and my home is too small.
But if I abandon it,
I'll wonder if I'm bound
to be restless.
Nov 4, 2018
Nov 4, 2018 at 11:35 AM UTC
There's a middle aged woman; she's dragging her feet.
She carries baskets of clothes to the laundromat
while the Mexican children kick rocks into the street;
and they laugh in a language I don't understand,
but I love them.
Why do I love them?
So the neighborhood is dimming as I smoke on the porch
and watch the people as they pass, enclosed by their cars;
on their faces just anger or disappointment.
I start wishing there was something I could offer them.
A consolation, what could I offer them?
And they are sad in their suburbs; robots water their lawn
and everything they touch gets dusted spotless,
and so they start to believe they've not touched anything at all
and the cars in the driveway only multiply.
They are lost in their houses.
I have heard them sing in the shower,
making speeches to their sister on the telephone
saying, "You come home.
Woman, you come here."
Don't stay so far away from me.
This weather has me wanting love more tangible.
Something I can hold 'cause it's getting cold.
I say, "Hold up our fists to the flame in the sky.
to block out the light that's reaching for our eyes."
'Cause it... 'cause it would blind us. Yeah, it will blind us.
Well, I've locked my actions in the grooves of routine.
So I may never be free of this apathy,
but I wait for a letter that is coming for me.
She sends me pictures of the ocean in an envelope
so there is still hope.
Yes, I can be healed.
There is someone looking for what I've concealed
in my secret drawer, in my pockets deep.
You will find the reasons I can't sleep and you will still want me.
But will you still want me? Will you still want...?
Well, I say come for the week.
You can sleep in my bed,
and pass through my life like a dream in my head.
It will... it will be easy. I will make it easy.
But all I have for the moment is a song to pass the time;
a melody to keep me from worrying.
Oh, some simple progression to keep my fingers busy,
and words that are sure to come back to me
and they'll be laughing, and they'll be laughing.
My mediocrity.
My mediocrity.
(and they'll be laughing.)
Sep 11, 2012
Sep 11, 2012 at 11:52 PM UTC
Tommy sits on the stoop cigarette in mouth
he takes a drag, sighs, breathes out
the stars are out tonight, but these are the suburbs
they hide pretty deep in the clouds
Street lamps reflect the glitter in the asphalt
and innocence lays on the other side of the street
He knew happiness left in August with the wave of red
and green and gold just doesn't cut it
this town's boring enough as it is
worse when you're missing them
Sara sits in her bed she watches him leave
he's notch number three this week
she didn't know him, but this is college
morals and values are hazy here
an empty bed in the morning is simple
anything else just gets too complicated, for her
she left all respect for herself in that town
it's easier than working for something
that will never amount to anything
while you're missing them
Morgan steps off the platform. Train's not leaving tonight
she walks back wiping the tears she tried to fight
nothing's worse then feeling trapped
in a place you love, but just isn't home
and every time she looks forward it seems
something pushes her back
She knew that town only brought hurt
but home is home and she needed it
nothing's ever as bad as it could be
especially when you're missing them
Nov 21, 2011
Nov 21, 2011 at 4:39 PM UTC
The villages of Algiers
Well, suburbs
Really, but villages
Is what is said
In French
And heaven
Knows, despite one
Hundred thirty years of
Colonization
Brutalization
Deprivation
The many Algerians
Still
Love French. Those
Villages team with men
At night.
At night, the women
Wait
Indoors
Behind doors, away.
Waiting.
But at night the
Men take the streets.
At night the men crowd
Streets, cut in
Front of traffic, clog
Cafes, stream
Toward the mosque away
From the mosque fill stores
But mostly
Mostly they
Squat
Sit, or just
Hold up walls.
They lean.
Stare. Talk. They watch cars
As they jostle and jolt
Watch other men
Walking, watch
The silence
The noise. Watch
Stars, the
Dark
Still buildings
The passing cat, the rhythm
Of the wind,
Watch the gibbous moon and
It’s cycle
The fullness, the waxing and waning
They watch
They witness
The villages
The suburbs
The streets
They watch
The dead.
Sep 3, 2014
Sep 3, 2014 at 9:28 AM UTC
《☆ Ode to Miller Spring ☆》
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road since
first I came to be here.
This journey was
my awakening to the
new existence I would step into.
Foreign to me
the illustrious homes.
Dripping willows, old oaks, poplars...
Perfectly kept grounds.
Checkerboard patterns carved
into lush grass.
This road is winding.
One needs to go slowly.
Families, children, animals,
all enjoy this path.
The winds blow at this highest point,
up above the Glacial Basin
that forms the river below.
Before farmland,
home to
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring
The deep Spring of Healing
Ancient, pouring forth
from the center of the Earth.
This road, brought me to a
place of solitude...
An open space.
Land of possibilities.
I have traveled this road.
I have traveled this road
since first I came to be here.
This road has led me to the new existence
I have stepped into.
Perfectly kept grounds
checkerboard patterns carved
in lush grass.
The wind blows at this
highest point,
up above the Glacial Basin,
that forms the river below.
Before farmland,
home to
Ojibwe,
Lakota.
The Spring
The deep Spring of Healing.
Ancient, pouring forth from
the center of the Earth.
This Spring, that quenched
my family's thirst.
This Spring, that pulled my
people here,
so many years ago.
A road brought me to
this place of solitude.
An open space.
A land of Dreams.
I wonder,
what Dreams,
this land
will hold for me?
☆●⊙●☆●⊙●☆●⊙●☆
~July 2014~May 2015~
2nd Edition
Copyright © 2015 Christi Michaels.
All Rights Reserved.
"Miller Spring" is a pure crystalline-rock aquifer that has been revered by all peoples blessed to live within it's reach. The tribes of the Ojibwe and Lakota shared the spring. It was called the "Sweet Spring of Healing Waters" This spring was also shared with Settlers as they arrived. When the land was owned, the spring has always been made accessible, to All People. It should be noted that this spring water is exceptionally clear,
crisp and has a sweet bright taste
It is delicious!
To this day Miller Spring is available to all.
It's icy cold waters gush forth 24/7~365
days a year out of a well by the side
of the road, down about a mile
from my home.
I actually live in a modest house
on two original acres of this
beautiful land, which is now
bordered by five "illustrious" homes.
We moved here from the
City in the year 2000
Living in the suburbs was the
"New Existence" I had stepped into...
May 7, 2015
May 7, 2015 at 6:11 PM UTC
In my dream,
drilling into the marrow
of my entire bone,
my real dream,
I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill
searching for a street sign --
namely MERCY STREET.
Not there.
I try the Back Bay.
Not there.
Not there.
And yet I know the number.
45 Mercy Street.
I know the stained-glass window
of the foyer,
the three flights of the house
with its parquet floors.
I know the furniture and
mother, grandmother, great-grandmother,
the servants.
I know the cupboard of Spode
the boat of ice, solid silver,
where the butter sits in neat squares
like strange giant's teeth
on the big mahogany table.
I know it well.
Not there.
Where did you go?
45 Mercy Street,
with great-grandmother
kneeling in her whale-bone corset
and praying gently but fiercely
to the wash basin,
at five A.M.
at noon
dozing in her wiggy rocker,
grandfather taking a nap in the pantry,
grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid,
and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower
on her forehead to cover the curl
of when she was good and when she was...
And where she was begat
and in a generation
the third she will beget,
me,
with the stranger's seed blooming
into the flower called Horrid.
I walk in a yellow dress
and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes,
enough pills, my wallet, my keys,
and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five?
I walk. I walk.
I hold matches at street signs
for it is dark,
as dark as the leathery dead
and I have lost my green Ford,
my house in the suburbs,
two little kids
****** up like pollen by the bee in me
and a husband
who has wiped off his eyes
in order not to see my inside out
and I am walking and looking
and this is no dream
just my oily life
where the people are alibis
and the street is unfindable for an
entire lifetime.
Pull the shades down --
I don't care!
Bolt the door, mercy,
erase the number,
rip down the street sign,
what can it matter,
what can it matter to this cheapskate
who wants to own the past
that went out on a dead ship
and left me only with paper?
Not there.
I open my pocketbook,
as women do,
and fish swim back and forth
between the dollars and the lipstick.
I pick them out,
one by one
and throw them at the street signs,
and shoot my pocketbook
into the Charles River.
Next I pull the dream off
and slam into the cement wall
of the clumsy calendar
I live in,
my life,
and its hauled up
notebooks.
3.6k
My dad thinks my name means
“Little princess”
My mom thinks my name means
“Behaves like a cat” and
“Hard to love”
My brother thinks my name means
“That annoying sound maker”
My favorite teacher thinks my name means
“Nurturing
Imaginative
Noteworthy
Astute”
My best guy friend thinks my name means
“Good at poetry and knows how to laugh”
My person thinks my name means
“Going to help many people one day”
But I think they left out some things like
“Tries way too hard to impress”
“Has many bottled up emotions in stock “
“Dreams of skyscrapers and glass windows”
“A binge watcher of many, MANY shows”
“Dreams of the perfect family in the suburbs”
”Dreams of love, from someone, anyone”
“Has a walk in closet full of masks”
And that’s what my name means
Mar 9, 2019
Mar 9, 2019 at 1:46 PM UTC
She never made it
To Morocco
Rode ’cross the desert
With her Bedouin lover
Shopped for bargains
In the Souks of Rabat
Sipped mint tea
From a frosted glass.
She never went sailing
In a catamaran
And on a moonlit beach
Made love in the sand
Or drank espresso
In a café in Lima
Or danced the flamenco
In Puerto Rico.
She married a man
Cause no one else offered
Had three kids
And moved to the suburbs
Wrapped up her dreams
In brown butcher paper
Tied them with twine
And shelved them for later .
She never made it
To Morocco
Her life was four walls
Plastered in stucco
And she sighed as she thought
Of the things that she lost
The dreams that she wrapped
And shelved in the past.
Nov 15, 2011
Nov 15, 2011 at 9:32 PM UTC
Every night was tortellini
when were roommates.
I complained about my chapped feet;
you bought me the wrong socks.
Black, mens, I clarified,
but you kept buying the women's.
Then one day you got it right,
only they were for you
because black is a warmer color than white,
and the socks of a man felt like cherubs.
I complained about my chapped feet,
you the heart of the world,
its cold silence.
But we remained "alright".
You bought new pajamas every night
and painted a beauty mark on your face
to match.
Years of x-marked places on our bodies
which no one saw because
we were cynics,
I the most.
No roses at our mat--we grew our own bushes,
ordered the ones with the extra thorns.
I charmed that snake,
you bit me on its behalf.
That I'd do such a thing
was shameful.
We were girlfriends in a can of salt,
tears in our eyes, mouths and ears.
We drank wine in bubble baths in our clothes
for three days straight,
or even four,
after that guy dumped you.
From then on
every night was tortellini,
La Dolce Vita, and--
and the freckle below your ear,
the horns growing from my forehead,
the way your falsies touched your cheeks,
late nights looking brighter
than they should,
than they normally would.
Pretending to be goddesses awaiting their gods--
while I awaited you.
Then you felt them too,
touched my head as though it were a fever.
I always knew you hated the suburbs,
and I did listen
when you complained about the gray rooftops
and the saturated green lawns--
"Give them a chance, please.
Then we'll get away--"
I begged, I relented--
The wine, finally, fermented.
You remember what I said next,
because after that you broke my heart.
I never doubted it was a bad idea
to say it
but I said it
and you left.
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 8:15 PM UTC