Sunday Poem

Big City Dreams



Do you ever look around this city, this place you call home,

Can you look beyond the buildings, passed the glitz and glamour

Do you ever see the real life hiding in the shadows of plain sight,

Do you ever wonder where the homeless go at night?


Have you seen the old war vet walking down by the river?

His clothes are in rags and he gazes to the sky,

All he wants is for those memories to die,

Alone at night he cries, for the living and the dead, all those spirits that wont ever leave his head.


Big city dreams aren’t big city realities.


Jay’s a singer,  off to another show,  guitar on his back, walking on his own

In some west side dive bar, he pours his heart out to a beer smelling microphone,

He’s travelled all over the world, seen to all kinds of places, drives a big fancy car,

But you can travel ten thousand miles and still stay where you are.


And you know, big city dreams hardly ever become big city realities.


Sue over there works in a grocery store downtown.

She keeps the shelves stacked just right, from morning to night,

Yet deep inside her head she’s wearing her white lacy wedding gown,

For you know one day she prays, she’ll find her Mr Right.


And whilst it hasn’t happened yet, maybe one day big city dreams will become big city realities.


You see that boy waiting at the corner with the crooked  smile and hair of gold,

Not even out of his teens, yet he’s learnt how to work his assets and turn on the charm,

He hasn’t much to sell,   just lay fifty bucks down and he considers his ass sold,

This wasn’t how it was supposed to be,  but dreams don’t protect you from harm.


And the city streets bleed me dry, big city dreams always make me cry, for big city dreams hardly ever become big city realities.


So I ask again, do you ever look around this city you call home?

Do you ever see the real life hiding in the shadows of plain sight?

That place where the invisible people roam.

Do you ever wonder where the homeless go at night?


Big city dreams ain’t big city realities,  no quick fix solutions, no streets paved of gold,

Yet every hour they come with heads full of dreams and hearts full of hope,

It wont take long on the streets for the young to grow old.

The only hope comes from an empty bottle and the end of a piece of knotted rope.



Big city dreams never do come true, never become big city realities.

© 2012 Copyright 

Maud XVIII - Tennyson

Maud XVIII: I have led her Home, my love, my only friend
BY ALFRED TENNYSON

I have led her home, my love, my only friend,
There is none like her, none.
And never yet so warmly ran my blood
And sweetly, on and on
Calming itself to the long-wished-for end,
Full to the banks, close on the promised good.

None like her, none.
Just now the dry-tongued laurels’ pattering talk
Seem’d her light foot along the garden walk,
And shook my heart to think she comes once more;
But even then I heard her close the door,
The gates of Heaven are closed, and she is gone.

There is none like her, none.
Nor will be when our summers have deceased.
O, art thou sighing for Lebanon
In the long breeze that streams to thy delicious East,
Sighing for Lebanon,
Dark cedar, tho’ thy limbs have here increased,
Upon a pastoral slope as fair,

And looking to the South, and fed
With honeyed rain and delicate air,
And haunted by the starry head
Of her whose gentle will has changed my fate,
And made my life a perfumed altar-frame;
And over whom thy darkness must have spread
With such delight as theirs of old, thy great
Forefathers of the thornless garden, there
Shadowing the snow-limbed Eve from whom she came.

Here will I lie, while these long branches sway,
And you fair stars that crown a happy day
Go in and out as if at merry play,
Who am no more so all forlorn,
As when it seemed far better to be born
To labour and the mattock-hardened hand
Than nursed at ease and brought to understand
A sad astrology, the boundless plan
That makes you tyrants in your iron skies,
Innumerable, pitiless, passionless eyes,
Cold fires, yet with power to burn and brand
His nothingness into man.

But now shine on, and what care I,
Who in this stormy gulf have found a pearl
The countercharm of space and hollow sky,
And do accept my madness, and would die
To save from some slight shame one simple girl.

Would die; for sullen-seeming Death may give
More life to Love than is or ever was
In our low world, where yet ’tis sweet to live.
Let no one ask me how it came to pass;
It seems that I am happy, that to me
A livelier emerald twinkles in the grass,
A purer sapphire melts into the sea.

Not die; but live a life of truest breath,
And teach true life to fight with mortal wrongs.
Oh, why should Love, like men in drinking-songs,
Spice his fair banquet with the dust of death?

Make answer, Maud my bliss,
Maud made my Maud by that long loving kiss,
Life of my life, wilt thou not answer this?
“The dusky strand of Death inwoven here
With dear Love’s tie, makes love himself more dear.”
Is that enchanted moan only the swell
Of the long waves that roll in yonder bay?
And hark the clock within, the silver knell
Of twelve sweet hours that past in bridal white,
And die to live, long as my pulses play;
But now by this my love has closed her sight
And given false death her hand, and stol’n away
To dreamful wastes where footless fancies dwell

Among the fragments of the golden day.
May nothing there her maiden grace affright!
Dear heart, I feel with thee the drowsy spell.
My bride to be, my evermore delight,
My own heart’s heart, my ownest own, farewell;
It is but for a little space I go:
And ye meanwhile far over moor and fell
Beat to the noiseless music of the night!
Has our whole earth gone nearer to the glow
Of your soft splendour that you look so bright?
I have climbed nearer out of lonely Hell.
Beat, happy stars, timing with things below,
Beat with my heart more blest than heart can tell.
Blest, but for some dark undercurrent woe
That seems to draw—but it shall not be so:
Let all be well, be well.

Stolen words

Do you walk in beauty,  like the night?
Please tell me, for I’d love to know.
Can I compare you to a summer’s day, do I have the right?
Maybe we could walk hand in hand through a distant meadow,
Or down beside the lake and beneath the tree,
Would you allow me to paint your picture with bright orange poppies all around your head.
You’d laugh at all my thoughts, desires and dreams if I let them wander free,
Yet what else can I do when even my reality is equal to a dream.
I wish we could talk for hours and hours, there is so much to share,
But time is a gift so precious, there’s not a second to waste,
Oh this feeling that toys with my every waking thought is so rare,
Therefore it will not be something I’ll give up in haste.
These emotions are not new,  as all the world can tell,
Even the words that tumble here have been used before, second hand for sure.
But does it matter, does it break the spell,
Of the truth that in my heart I could not love you more.




© 2013 Copyright


A Sunday poem