100 Poems Project: Living street sounds, and Urban nights

A couple of poems out of the “100 Poems Project”, both are inspired by real locations, new friends and old friends a like, all of whom connect their lives together with music, love and laughter.  The first, “Living street sounds”, came from going out to buy some takeaway (the healthy kind) and meeting a twenty something girl whom has been traveling around the world, just sitting on a bench playing her guitar to her own songs from her journeys.

The second “Urban nights”, is mix of fact and fiction to a real location and dreamy nights, just a fantasy mix of friends I know as artist with various instrument in their hands. I don’t think this one is finished yet, but it is well on its way.

Urban street night

Living street sounds and Urban nights.


Living street sounds.

The daylight has faded; the streets now emptying,

The soft brush of her bare feet, warm pavement, the motion,

Turns up a big, little street, closer, closer, her small steps,

Passing, so many shop doors locked, no one be here, listen,


A girl with her guitar, seeks a little peace, a bench seat,

Low the spring sun drifts down, she picks a new note,

While the fresh cool, her brow trickles at the sun’s humid last press,

Time, the girl sets free her lyrics, a rising sound of folk fair at dusk,


As she grants them their freedom to billow, between street shadows,

In this old, a not so faded stretch of a new town,

Free, her words breathe an echo along glass shop fronts,

Where in time they invite the odd passer by,


To catch her sad and upbeat, folk lit tunes,

Every word her own, from travels wide and far,

Stories about a little life, love, and free laughter,

While a small tear, it trickles from her eye,


In memory to each one, the almost empty streets she’s played too,

Each with friends she’s met along the way,

The living and sharing within their stories,

As each small season’s, old weather changes,


Live the gifts of a tale, from every new spring.

Playing underneath the streetlights as each hour passes,

The scent of fresh mint starts to fill the air,

She finishes her stories, 4am breakfast on her mind,


Just two doors down to go share a meal with some new friends,

Her evening’s over, time to rest, find a bed……..


Urban nights

Out from the sporadic lit dark of an urban night,

The sounds of steel crawling slow through the city,

Long haul drivers wait for the flashing lights to pass,

As people stroll from pub to pub, time not so fast.


Some music fills the air, coming from a dim lit upstairs room,

An old Queenslander at a distant crossroads by Depot Hill,

While conversations emerge and fade into the shadows,

Living the story of a musician life, to each generation follows…


Sitting on the wide verandah, a world wrapped by three sides,

Out walks a slow guitar, and an old friend on mouth harp too,

They find their comfort on a stool and an old squatter’s chair,

As they mix their notes with the urban sounds that surround,


Hey Paul, you know this one; just grab that straight pipe of yours,

Break in anytime where your fine, to lull us off in a dream,

Here on another urban night, where the river winds and weeps,

Before the patience of a spring coastal breeze as it rounds each swept reach,


Soon there’s people of all kinds, gathering in the street,

They’ve paused between the pubs to listen to our beats,

Soon we’ve a garden party, as the word travels from pub to pub,

They’ve all enjoyed it till morning, so now it’s time to sleep.

2 responses to “100 Poems Project: Living street sounds, and Urban nights

  1. The first one is filled with the melancholy freedom of life on the road. I may not know the exact words that she’s singing, but I know the song.

    • Songs of the living times and what it’s like learning to fly as the earth reaches up to kiss our feet. Been a little while since I’ve read the one above, not sure where she is now, but I hope she still has strings, what ever a new day brings her way. Yes, the song, always a little different and the same in kind when singing our words.

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