Strike a pose.

The Statue of Liberty takes a well-deserved break on a Manhattan sidewalk.

Love how the green bottle complements the light bulbs.

Would the last hipster to leave New York City please turn out the lights.

A school of chairs.

This chairs are safely stacked out of the rain at Wicker Park at 3rd Avenue and 83rd Street in the Upper East Side.

In tune with NYC sidewalk life.

Another rainy spring day, but with a stand-up bass in a wet shopping cart near 18th Street and Fifth Avenue. Not something you see every day. Hilarious.

Lights out New York City.

This about sums it up.

Spring is here. Have fun everyone.

West Village Sidewalk Poet.

There was an era when humanity revered poetry as one of the premiere forms of communication. Unfortunately, poetry has been fallen out of the mainstream consciousness, and is now largely regarded as a spiritual endeavor – like bird watching or glass blowing. And that’s fine for most poets and fans of poetry. It’s an extremely difficult craft, and the last thing we need is the American Idol-ization of poetry.

It’s simply too important.

Our voices.

For now, poetry resides in the hearts and hands of the people who are talented enough to write it, and those curious enough to contemplate it. Indeed, poetry is safe – especially in New York City – thanks to organizations like the ones listed below:

Bowery Poetry Club & Cafe

Poem in Your Pocket

Nuyorican Poet’s Cafe

The Poetry Project at St. Mark’s Church

Literal Latté

Poets.org – New York

Poetry Calendar for New York City

New York at Sunrise

By Anna Hempstead Branch (1875 – 1937)

When with her clouds the early dawn illumes 

Our doubtful streets, wistful they grow and mild
As if a sleeping soul grew happy and smiled, 

The whole dark city radiantly blooms. 

Pale spires lift their hands above the glooms 

Like a resurrection, delicately wild, 

And flushed with slumber like a little child, 

Under a mist, shines forth the innocent Tombs.
Thus have I seen it from a casement high. 

As unsubstantial as a dream it grows. 

Is this Manhattan, virginal and shy, 

That in a cloud so rapturously glows? 

Ethereal, frail, and like an opening rose, 

I see my city with an enlightened eye.

Make some noise.

This pink elephant and lion on a flatbed truck are just a few of the animals that roam the streets of New York City.

Because sometimes being a leader means going it alone at the back of the pack.

Perhaps dogs are affected by rainy weather the same way people are. Perhaps the rain makes them sad. Or introspective. Or nostalgic for a lazy Saturday afternoon on the couch with the faded memory of a lover and a time gone by. Fittingly, Tom Waits’ 9th album is titled “Rain Dogs,” which features a song that is an esoteric interpretation of New York City’s “urban dispossessed.”

These dogs, however, didn’t appear to be anything less than happy. Except maybe the dog in the back. The only one without fashionable rain gear. The dog with the tight leash, who clearly needs to be yanked into being part of the pack mentality. The dog who has a soul that wants to contemplate the rain on its own. A level of happiness the other dogs would never understand.

“For I am a rain dog too.” – Tom Waits

Reservation for one.

This city may never sleep, but there are times when all of us need to sit down, reflect on our life in NYC, and wonder what the hell is going on. Who knows why this man is carrying a chair, clamped against his body by his left arm. But it is clearly valuable to him, which makes it valuable to us – the people who can appreciate an anonymous man, walking down Fifth Avenue, with a folding chair. Another life in New York City, going about its business.