New Amsterdam

New Amsterdam
by Keaton Foster



New Amsterdam
This is a tale,
So as it will go,
A place never home,
But an ideal sown.
There are men,
Ones in wooden shoes.
They hobble around,
Making sounds,
Announcing themselves.
They cannot hide,
They cannot avoid being seen.
New Amsterdam.
There are ladies,
Ones wearing dresses,
In various shades
Of distinctive blue.
They move about
In the tiniest of groups.
They speak kind words
And whisper harsh lies.
They wish not to be judged,
But they are the biggest
Judges of them all.
Perfection is not real,
But from where I sit,
This is as real as it gets.
Everyone knows what to do
And how to get it done
For each other and themselves.
The symbiotic method
In which they coexist
Puts aside all that should
Otherwise keep them at odds.
Their examples are profound
In a world increasingly unresolved.
New Amsterdam.
At the end of a street,
There are boats in rows,
Well-crafted vessels.
They have stood against time,
They have resisted the elements.
In those boats are nets.
I guess it could be said,
A means to an end.
Swimming in the nearby sea,
An endless bounty of broods.
Food for the masses,
An idealistic approach
Of a wider cohabitation.
In such a place
I have never once been.
In my mind,
Behind these eyes,
I have further lived.
Where I am is not the same.
People in this place don’t care.
Coexistence means least of all.
I am right where I want to be,
And these words
Will hopefully get me there.
New Amsterdam…




New Amsterdam
Written by Keaton Foster Copyright © 2024