Sky City

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Poetry  |  House: Booksie Classic
This is a poem of my feelings about cities. It was first sent in by home school around September 2012 and titled 'The City', and I had written and sent in a first draft about a month earlier but it was sent back with a "Not Achieved" because it wasn't long enough. The second draft was longer and I achieved an Excellence rating for it which resulted in a certificate which I'm very proud of. The original version wasn't a poem and it didn't include crude pictures, but I thought this format would be more appealing and suit the picture & text style that I like so much. I hope you all enjoy

Submitted: March 21, 2013

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Submitted: March 21, 2013



The City

In Sky City, I have been

in every city anyone has seen.

From Argentina to Mexico, to Alaska brushing Russia;

Mongolia down to China; across the Indies into Australasia,

Throughout the world; in each in all,

and all identical.

No matter how much culture

had once existed there,

it’s the same old dear old tear

dripping into the same old beer.

The same old buildings; the exact same stores and

The exact same cars.

They're all occupied,

by exact same people in the exact same suits.

Like The Blob across the world, concrete poured on tradition,

With culture suffocated; the past berated.

Nature, hated.


Everything so big,

you're small by comparison.

And all so cheap,

you're expensive to get there.

And with their bigger mix of race

than anywhere else, I face

more racist words in these dirty streets

than I would right here,

than I would in the place where no-one greets

and no one has the time to meet.

I look up at the sky, at the tallest scraper,

that is, the Sky Tower;

The higher power

The one that semi-eclipses the sun

shining beside like a faithful bride,

working together to produce a shadow

that turns me into an ant

And while we can't stop buying,

It's devouring our image without even trying.


I wonder if the executives

in their pyramids can see me,

or what they can see, if they can not.

To him, or her, but usually him,

this place must seem beautiful,

glorious and irresistible.

From that perspective,

it could be admired to the heart,

like a work of art,

like a thousand and onebrilliantly crafted spikes

of all shapes and sizes,

reaching up to heaven itself, stealing all its prizes.

The higher you are; the closer you are

The closer to God you are,

although I don’t know what it is like

to work a job at that height,

but it must be something like heaven.

Far above your 7-Eleven

The towers, reflective; multiplying

their own greatness at every angle.

Crucifying, never dying

It is good for the mind

of the businessman,

like a strut through one of those glass mazes,

not caring if you are lost, when

your slick, attractive, egyptian cotton,

french seam, Mother-of-Pearl sin

is staring back at you with a proud, accomplished grin.

Let the alcoholism begin.


I wonder if those suits up there

know what life is like down here

In these ciggy butt ridden streets

when with the dark, none is seen,

but the lightscommanding their attention.

Stretching our rights

too far to mention.

They say to have your “head in the clouds”

is to be unable to concentrate,

full of distraction and disorientation.

It's to be in such a state.

What if your head is literally in the clouds,

or even approaching it?

Could you possibly fathom the sights; the smell;

the unbearable sounds that never ever end,

the earache that will never mend,

forcing your ears to become callous and dim,

like a stubborn, teenage roommate?

What is it like up there, and could you survive

as long if you lived down here?

I’ve spoken to foreigners of where they stand

in my country, New Zealand.

I recommend to them

the beaches; the forests; the world famous ice-cream.

But I never bother to recommend,

a visit to Sky City.

  • Douglas Wingate

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