i felt it approach; the wind carries quickly down narrow streets
where on either side are high homes of stucco, white-washed
of the urban-dweller dream to stumble across the sublime.
it's a neighborhood nestled into a mountain and here,
they live and wash their clothes, hang them on a line,
eat lunch as a family, sip coffee on the terrace
overlooking more narrow streets, two little girls
taking turns riding a bicycle.

the plaza i walked onto was filled with people,
gyspies and locals, as weed smoke lingered
with the smell of the night. i sat on a bench
and watched two spanish dogs chase one another
and let a nostalgia, well ahead of its time,
come up and take that initial bite.
here, My Dear, here it is
I love the way you twist the imagery around. The first line almost brings an actively foreboding feeling, but the rest of the stanza is peaceful; the second stanza is filled with many different images, but they all seem to blend together nicely.

I don't like "they live" used so meaninglessly with no description, but it didn't really bother me. I tried to find something actually wrong with this, but I couldn't.
Really liked the way you wove imagery in with an atmospheric kind of sentiment... This piece is fantastic and the only thing I might change is the phrase "weed smoke". It seems a little out of place relative to the rest of the poem. Perhaps just throw in an adjective to replace "weed". That little detail aside, this was great, I really enjoyed it.


"Art is always and everywhere the secret confession, and at the same time the immortal movement of its time."

thanks, fellas. i appreciate the comments. i'll hit yours up as soon as i can
here, My Dear, here it is