derelict floor by floor
memories floated
muddy in trenches
dug much to early
to make war

it is still early spring
unexploded mines
ruminate in the pale sun
witches congregate
with druids and drunkards
in forgotten parks

on the pale side of the Bowery
with all its cheap dresses
blowing in crisp winds
from the East River
there is an agreement
and a ransom

once the simple houses
of a favela in Rio
pleaded with bricks and mortar
for a different view
of the surf

Roma people in Istanbul
roll the daily dice
for more food and water
a decent place to live

there were too many slum lords
running up and down
the steep alleys of Vidigal
for anyone to really
take notice

a young boxer from Üsküdar
could just about pay
for his new bright blue shorts
when a yellow bet man
killed him
with a single blow

Poetry by Bob
Read 253 times
Written on 2017-03-30 at 19:56

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Ashe The PoetBay support member heart!
Life seems so sad. Powerful poems.