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Poems Where We Are

By P.M. Jang

Copyright © 2017 P.M. Jang

All rights reserved.

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The Window Washer

The Violinist

Going Up

Song Walking

Walking Through the West End


Sunday Morning

City Rain

July First

Freighters Waiting People Walking

At Lost Lagoon

Outside Our Windows


These Tall Buildings

The Park

Sand and Camels

In Springtime

The Woody Suburb

For Best

Cemetery Day

She Kept It

Love’s Cafe

To Celebrate Our Birthdays

On the Way to England


Now and Then

The Morning Sky



Don’t Go There


The Bus

The Ending



balconies stacked high sky high

and morning shining and

a man who smokes and dreams

leans upon the rail

sees the street below and all around

and watches

balconies the open sides of lives

piled up are stages set for

voiceless plays with pairs of chairs and

tables barbecues and flowers and

the inconsistent but persistent bicycles

in a repeated pattern like pen lined afterthoughts

inked over glassy curtained backgrounds

at times white curtains billow out of

open doors and windows in the breezes

at times a person sits out in the late day sun

while unseen others have their blinds drawn

closed against it

down below where sidewalks run

across the flattened world raccoons and

skunks emerge

people walk their dogs are quiet

at dusk love happiness contentment

and things begin to be

and do become mere light and silhouette

and shadow

late in the darkness when the conversations

of those homeward bound rise up

louder than intended and while

the city all around them sparkles

those sitting standing leaning

on their balconies are cool and still

and thoughtful

The Window Washer

on the shady side

on a sunny day

on that contraption made of

rope and board

suspended from the rooftop of

a high-rise a lone man washes


doesn’t hustle

leans and sways

his legs dangle or extend to

balance easy swinging reaches to

the corners and the edges

when required gently his feet bounce

him off the concrete

rhythmically with gracefully repeating

well known and knowing motions

too loose to be a real ballet but

something like it anyway

like dancing

he glances out inspects and oversees

observes the world so high so low

so wide so deep around him

and in a timely tender way his

confident manoeuvers with the

rope take him to completion back to

earth as he moves downwards

The Violinist

on the corner near the entrance to

the department store

a young woman with red and

yellow hair earrings like diamonds

painted eyes closed

for dreaming

she wears lace and shorts

and bold striped stockings

clothes combined for clashing

unlike the music she intently


for tinkling coins to

come her way

the open case beseeches

the music begs offers

provides on this grey pavement

joy anguish grief and longing

Going Up

cement trucks roar honk beep

back up and turn on days they pour

and mirrored in the windows

of the building that’s behind this one

the crane with its calm gesture

lifts the hopper

loose heavy muck sways

upward to the summit

to become another layer of the

many layers of that tested

boxed and measured heap

grey gritty mush soft looking slush

pierced with steel and left

to rest and be what it must be

will summon all its courage

and pull itself together

until its

strength is gathered and its

heart is hardened

a lure a nest a come-on for

screens that shine lamps

that glow lives cups of tea

suppertimes easy chairs

soft beds to lie on

Song Walking

when I want the bank the library

the grocery store I walk there

instead of heading down the street

straight to the beach I make

a turn along the way

but first I pass the holly bushes and

cross the cluttered lane and if I’m

lucky meet the street smart cat who

lives around here somewhere

then through the parks paved wide and

planted that break the street with

benches and big concrete

bowls filled with flowers

tulips and violas together in the spring

pale pink impatiens now with

something that has lime green leaves

next year if I’m still around

it will probably be different

naturally the bush for butterflies

will be here every summer dripping

pointed purple blossoms composed of

little flowers that have tiny orange centers

there’s the mailbox being red and

quite important very handy

standing off apart from

those huddled buddies that sell news

never mind it and those it shuns

there’s nothing for the post today

and I read the paper

with my tea this morning

walk by the stucco walls the many windows

and see a cat a black one sleeping

darkly inside on that sill from where

when it awakes it will be able to watch

people and be entertained by branches

moving gently

do mind the road don’t let the flowers

grass and trees and tall silent

buildings lull you

cars do go by so be

aware and look both ways

along here they go so quiet

continue on past these high

towers these low buildings

there’s grass in front of most

and always blots of shrubs and

shaggy bushes

sometimes also season willing

a bed of mauve petunias at the

corner near the sidewalk or red

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