Quotes about alleys, page 17
The Human Eye
God made the eye-
An extension of brain:
To see the beauty of all things,
He made.
God made the eye-
The mirror of the brain:
To show the mind’s beauty
Within.
God made the eye-
A camera:
To picture Nature’s lively snaps,
For man.
God made the eye-
A receiver:
To gather photic stimuli
For thought.
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poem by John Celes
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Accountability
FOLKS ain't got no right to censuah othah folks about dey habits;
Him dat giv' de squir'ls de bushtails made de bobtails fu' de rabbits.
Him dat built de gread big mountains hollered out de little valleys,
Him dat made de streets an' driveways wasn't shamed to make de alleys.
We is all constructed diff'ent, d'ain't no two of us de same;
We cain't he'p ouah likes an' dislikes, ef we'se bad we ain't to blame.
Ef we'se good, we need n't show off, case you bet it ain't ouah doin'
We gits into su'ttain channels dat we jes' cain't he'p pu'suin'.
But we all fits into places dat no othah ones could fill,
An' we does the things we has to, big er little, good er ill.
John cain't tek de place o' Henry, Su an' Sally ain't alike;
Bass ain't nuthin' like a suckah, chub ain't nuthin' like a pike.
When you come to think about it, how it's all planned out it's splendid.
Nuthin's done er evah happens, 'dout hit's somefin' dat's intended;
Don't keer whut you does, you has to, an' hit sholy beats de dickens,--
Viney, go put on de kittle, I got one o' mastah's chickens.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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America Revisited
put down your crack bowls
and your republican flags...
and let's go walking thru
the streets and alleys of America....
let's walk past the empty houses
with foreclosure signs in the yard...
past the vacant factory buildings
where the homeless break in
at night and sleep...
past the lily white churches
and the dead zone schools...
past the county jails and the courthouses
and the rooms where lawyers
buy and sell justice...
past the housing projects
where babies buy groceries...
down to the tent cities where
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Someone Cares....
soft cold early autumn rain....
kept looking for ghosts on the way home.
there is a stillness now, and a waiting,
though i know not for what.
i've always been different,
heard voices in the shadows.
and often i dont know,
whether i'm dreaming, or a dream.
i've seen things that should have been nightmares....
i've seen the hungry child dying in the rose that blooms!
i look at people and feel their sorrow.
i hear what they're saying when they cant speak.
i go with old people into their graves,
and weep with addicts in broken alleys.
i have no color, or nationality....
those with religion spurn my company.
i'm not a patriot for any man,
i follow only the law of my heart.
i feel the guilt of injustice and indifference...
and carry responsibility like a cross.
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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Wind Of The Human Spirit... (Part Three)
i slept in your homeless alleys,
grieved for the baby in the unwanted dumpster.
walked the streets with the pregnant young girl,
just turned away from the clinic.
watched the family that lives in their car,
buying sandwich food with food stamps.
saw the old man pull the plug on his sick wife,
and walk down the hallways to forgotten.
and when each had finished their task,
mine had just begun.
i broke the window with the angry young man,
crawled in and stole what i could.
i felt the junkie inser the needle,
and the whore being beaten to death.
i saw the boy raped by gang members,
down on cellblock C....
while the guard turned his head,
texting on his cellphone.
and when each had finished their task,
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poem by Eric Cockrell
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The Inky Night
How really eerie becomes the inky night,
Which street lights illuminate with pitiful glow,
Revealing alien shadows in swift flight,
And ghostly noises that echo 'in vacuo'.
Night gradually darkens all this world of ours,
Silence reigns, except for nature's cries,
The elements engage us, with their salient power,
And far flung stars sit quietly in the skies.
Whistling winds, down alleys, wing their way,
Hats fly off, and umbrellas invert with ease,
On pavements, the homeless, with nowhere to stay,
Curl up in cardboard boxes, and slowly freeze.
Between those hours of sunset and the dawn,
A fox sneaks out in search of needed fare,
To hunt until the awakening of the morn,
Returning thence, to cubs within her lair.
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poem by Ernestine Northover
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The Reality Of Touch
not everything can be imagined
lest your words become the 3D leeches
that do not really exist
pure breeze from a mountainside of nowhere
it is safe to open the door
go down the stairs
walk along the street
feel the sun on top of your head
swim in the air of this city
dive into the crowd
hear their open conversations
listen to the horns of the cars
create more distance
tire your feet
sweat things out
making thoughts more sensitive to the twitches of the faces of all the people
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poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Chirping
I have a story to tell. A familiar one of a kind tale.
Colored by pigment and biased with a name.
Breeding contempt or some other monstrous thing
in hearts that pump fear as if it was life itself.
It's a story that comes in pieces, chunks or ragged whole
cloth, though it can seem stitched into a tapestry, or
quilted by an Amish maiden fresh as this morning's hay
and full of lies.
It's a story that cracks my voice.
About the cost of freedom.
About these wounds in my arms
bleeding secrets I once kept,
staining my bones like a Maori tattooing ceremony.
It is a story about blind alleys.
About mountains and trails meant for goats.
About walking in light and shade.
Learning to live in the light
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poem by Ronald Shields
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Vacant Chambers and Cigarettes
The Gods have spoken
Of what I am, was, and shall
In a telegram of impious sighs
Marauding an open door
That I had left ajar with my eyes
Always sleuthing in askance
For a serenading knock,
And the castigators
Riding the yuletide wind and cars
Revved a gyrating silence
Of a lamented psyche
That I have naught but
Black lips made of cinder and derision
Engulfed by a daft genocide
And my chest hangs on a scaffold
Whilst the sun sprawled in recumbence
When the clock divulged
The barren quarters
In the teeming alleys,
The unrequited eyes
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poem by Norman Santos
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In Many Ways
Of elite athletes, celebrities and the rich and famous the praises you will hear so many sing
But they are mortals they don't live forever for human life is a temporary thing
All I ask of life is to be happy just for the remainder of my life span
It would be nice to grow old free of sadness and die painless in my sleep a happy man
In many ways I do feel very lucky when my lot in life with others I compare
So many people poor, hungry and Homeless and Stateless in the bigger World out there
What they would give to be lucky as I am at least I have a roof above my head
So many poor and hungry and sad people who sad to say feel envious of the dead
So many poor people in refugee camps they are the people of no fixed abode
The victims of Warlords and droughts and famines their life journey has been a hard old road
'Tis sad to think of the sadness all around us the Homeless children of poverty street
Who search in rubbish bins in the dark alleys for food that others have refused to eat
In many ways I do feel very lucky so many people far worse off than me
In the bigger World out there much want and sadness and many people live in poverty.
poem by Francis Duggan
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