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| Topic: My Queen of the Night(story in verse) | |
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Edited by
Gossipmpm
on
Tue 11/10/09 05:18 PM
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Sitting in Central Park
Dusk is falling I sit on my usual bench Armed to the gills With paper, pen, and Marlboro Reds Looking upon the city My own personal muse Watching the people shuffle As if they actually have somewhere to go I watch the homeless Begining their nightly rituals Of setting up their boxes and guarding their shopping carts And here she comes My Ana My lady of the night In all her glory As I sit huddled under fleece She sits beside me Barely clothed In lime green platforms Elton John would die for Hey writer girl she whispers Breath smelling of cigerettes and gin An ebony beauty Face chisled Like an African goddess At dusk This becomes her park She becomes a princess of the night I watch as she twitters From car to car Pleasing men under the city lights Accepting whatever they say Whatever they do Whatever they want from her For the power of money For the power of womanhood I never judge her My queen of the night For she knows not what she does I tell myself So I write To give her a voice And she reads Slapping me on the back "Your damn good she says" I look at her Her soulful brown eyes twinkle "Why do ya do it?" I ask She looks at me long She looks at me hard She laughs like only she can She answers "Why don't you?" My Ana My queen of the night. Tammy |
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Very nice, really portrays the reality of life for some.
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very nice loved it. wonderful job. Can't wait to read more
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very nice,makes me want more
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Edited by
iam4u
on
Tue 11/10/09 07:20 PM
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 I stand on this street everyday to break for a smoke. Flipping away one and lighting up another, when this man dressed in rags,says,,,hey got a toke? As a hand him my last one, he smiles as I light it, his teeth tainted and chipped, he said, 'cool' then, s`h`i`t'. As he looked at it, then back at me saying, ahh, my ex's brand. He talked of her and him, so much in-love they were,,, He said they were perfect, till he got canned. Then she started staying out late, and coming home with money. I told her I could get a job, and 'please',don't do this honey. After a month she threw me out, told me I wasn't good enough. Thats been twenty years ago, and 'this', is where I stayed. She's still around these parts, her face now looking kind-a rough. Never wanted another, and she never wanted me back You might see her if ya go for a walk in the park, Her name is Ana,,,and she works there a lot, wink Sorry Tammy, wink,,YOU bring it out in me,,,,,lol And,,,wink,there is a flip-side to every action,,,,,  But it was written with such great "seeing" it as it took place in your view,,,,so vivid and cool,,,I am impressed and I NEVER READ,,,,but THIS WRITE is truly,,PERFECT!
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Sitting in Central Park Dusk is falling I sit on my usual bench Armed to the gills With paper, pen, and Marlboro Reds Looking upon the city My own personal muse Watching the people shuffle As if they actually have somewhere to go I watch the homeless Begining their nightly rituals Of setting up their boxes and guarding their shopping carts And here she comes My Ana My lady of the night In all her glory As I sit huddled under fleece She sits beside me Barely clothed In lime green platforms Elton John would die for Hey writer girl she whispers Breath smelling of cigerettes and gin An ebony beauty Face chisled Like an African goddess At dusk This becomes her park She becomes a princess of the night I watch as she twitters From car to car Pleasing men under the city lights Accepting whatever they say Whatever they do Whatever they want from her For the power of money For the power of womanhood I never judge her My queen of the night For she knows not what she does I tell myself So I write To give her a voice And she reads Slapping me on the back "Your damn good she says" I look at her Her soulful brown eyes twinkle "Why do ya do it?" I ask She looks at me long She looks at me hard She laughs like only she can She answers "Why don't you?" My Ana My queen of the night. Tammy i love this poem
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Thank you all for reading
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That was you sitting on that bench writing....
 Ana said you had talent....   Excellent write..... 
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 a clear visual. |
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Thank you up2us!
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Sitting in Central Park Dusk is falling I sit on my usual bench Armed to the gills With paper, pen, and Marlboro Reds Looking upon the city My own personal muse Watching the people shuffle As if they actually have somewhere to go I watch the homeless Begining their nightly rituals Of setting up their boxes and guarding their shopping carts And here she comes My Ana My lady of the night In all her glory As I sit huddled under fleece She sits beside me Barely clothed In lime green platforms Elton John would die for Hey writer girl she whispers Breath smelling of cigerettes and gin An ebony beauty Face chisled Like an African goddess At dusk This becomes her park She becomes a princess of the night I watch as she twitters From car to car Pleasing men under the city lights Accepting whatever they say Whatever they do Whatever they want from her For the power of money For the power of womanhood I never judge her My queen of the night For she knows not what she does I tell myself So I write To give her a voice And she reads Slapping me on the back "Your damn good she says" I look at her Her soulful brown eyes twinkle "Why do ya do it?" I ask She looks at me long She looks at me hard She laughs like only she can She answers "Why don't you?" My Ana My queen of the night. Tammy "As if they actually have somewhere to go"... scurrying hastily like wasps trying to make honey... so true. "For the power of womanhood" ... weighed against societal mores or monetary indices?.... how sad. like the write... |
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Looking upon the city
My own personal muse ^awesome, thanks for sharing where your inspiration comes from, you should sit on that bench overnight sometimes, it will make your pen go crazy, ha ha...much enjoyed |
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Thank you all!
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what a story-I like it!!
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Thanks!!
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