By James Wallace-Lee

New Yorkers” (A haiku)

“Why are New Yorkers

so rude? They won’t talk to me!”

Do you want them to?

The Subway” (A Limerick)

The MTA sells you a card

for two dollars, it’s really not hard

It’ll take you quite far

in a big subway car

but the trip just might leave you scarred.

My New York” (A Haiku)

My New York is not

like Times Square. There’s grass and trees

But there’s no people.

Vegan Hipsters” (A Limerick)

You’re walking down a hipster street

and you’re looking for something to eat

“These vegans!” you groan,

“They won’t leave me alone

when all I want is red meat”


Here are two poems also modeled after the poem “Dawn”-


Dawn in the West

Dawn in Battery Park hasAn extravagant twilight

As mysterious as a black hole

Devouring everything in its path

Most elegantly

Dawn in Battery Park symbolizes the existence of the non existent

And only rejects what is proven

Dawn in Battery Park is the death of sleep

And the birth of awakening

The birth of light

That is seldom appreciated

By the ruthless world we call New York City

Dawn in Battery Park is filled with the gleaming perception of reality

And with the endless possibilities of imagination

But is still not noticed like mid day

And midnight

But is rather appreciated by the complex minded
     By: Brandon Diaz


Noon in the East

Noon in the East is

silently waiting for life while

bald headed men listen to music

with the expressions of happy cows.

Noon in the East is

the streets like irregular aisles

and Yellow silk women blowing

clouds of tobacco smoke through the alleys.

Noon brings the desert to the East;

dust balls could roll down the streets and

no one could see them, cramped as they are

in their homely towering skyscrapers.

No one really knows what happens at Noon as

men with calloused hands and business suits

stare out their windows at the great

green-hued hall of the world.

The night knows its place among the

mass of people and the dark alleys.

The morning is muted by voices and steps,

but Noon is the desert time, the time of nothing. 

     by: Jacob Soiffer

Dawn in New York is:

A breath of fresh air,

An inhalation

Of new life and opportunity.

Dawn in New York is a marvel

Of sun, emerging atop silver horizon,

Of glass and steel buildings, towering over the city

Glimmering with hope

That the day to come shall be one filled with success.

Dawn of New York watches:

When the birds glide through the sky;

Dotted with clouds and saturated with wonder

Crowds run through the diverse maze of people,

Businessmen cling to leather briefcases

Students run clutching their books

 Citizens see scores of yellow cabs, green starbucks, countless pizza shops,

And tall skyscrapers, ablaze from the morning sun.

Dawn of New York heralds:

To members of every borough,

To awaken

To begin the rituals of the day’s beginning.

To grab a cup of coffee, scramble for a Times and desperately hail a cab is a rootless science.

Dawn of New York proudly:

Exemplifies the perfect city,

As the world looks to it in awe,

A land resting above a hill

People jubilant knowing that they just escaped the boredom of regularity.


Walking to Nest in the morning –

a crowded train station, a hundred people

move to the exit.

We pass the sleeping homeless, and sleeplessly trudge on.

Walking to Nest is

evading the puddles and the angry people –

the thousand clowns that report to work day after day.

In the morning, you dodge the papers:

the AM New York in your face is a bee that doesn’t leave.

Men walk by with metal machines that are bent on our suffering.

You turn a corner and the light that shines from the sun is unbearable.

But the blinding light illuminates the sidewalks, and improves the feel of the streets,

which are suddenly so clean and happy, with gum stains and beggars.

Even so, the sun, always wished for at night, is will be blocked out and ignored.

You walk on.

Many languages around you are yelled from gruesome doorways.

As we turn again, the monster of a street cleaning truck lets nothing rest.

The busy streets and the withered persons with shopping carts and bags of cans

must rummage through junk for another day.

But you come into Nest,

and you’ll see the scaffolding, the ugly surroundings.

And yet, the small grizzled children come in and greet their friends.

And the junkyard of a place starts another day, the same as the last.

And behind the careening buildings, in the winds of early autumn,

the endless cycle starts again.

-James Wallace-Lee

Over the next few days, Raus and I will likely be adding some poems (New York Themed). Here’s the first one, by me:

Rooftop games- 10/26/08

The rain pattered down on

the rooftops of the factories

of smith avenue

We waded, our shoes heavy

from the growing puddles

on top of smith avenue

The ball skims from my shoe

to the goal, and over

down onto smith avenue

The train roars by, the faces

of hobos and bankers staring

out at smith avenue

The school children trudge by

no rain day for them

not on smith avenue

I sit on a ventilation pipe

kicking my knees against

its hollow surface

and together we all

look out on smith avenue.