Best Albany Poems
The line of people out the door.
The queue that snaked around the floor.
The building's sleek art deco style.
The carpets' faded plush red pile.
The "Coming Soon" in convex frames.
The "Showing Now" and big star names.
The James Bond pose in poster shots.
The tickets from the kiosk slots.
The heavy doors that often creaked.
The seats on springs that always squeaked.
The fan shaped lights along the side.
The screen that stretched up high and wide.
The smoke that swirled inside the beam.
The shapes and sounds of Pearl And Dean.
The adverts that had overrun.
The trailers for the films to come.
The feature that would come on first.
The sudden pangs of extreme thirst.
The usherette's cool ice cream stint.
The fancy names like Midnight Mint.
The expectations in the place.
The action of the opening chase.
The talking scenes that went nowhere.
The plastic cup beneath my chair.
The glance at watches in poor light.
The stunts and guns and final fight.
The seats that sprung as credits rolled.
The exit doors and night time cold.
In 1914 at Albany the first ANZAC soldier's fleet gathered
And on the transports the soldiers were by orders tethered
She was the Light-house keeper's young daughter so patriotic
Using semaphore signals she spoke to them on youth's topic
It was to the Great War battles fought and won ahead of all
Each word semaphored from ship to shore their excited call
Finally off to Egypt, Gallipoli shores and Western Front they went
There were tough trials of bullet, shot and gas towards them sent
They remembered this girl with her heart felt messages freely given
Their letters and postcards in her mind her thoughts of them still living.
© Paul Warren Poetry
A Victim of the war
*
Steve L. Siegel
December 2, 2014
Once there lived a fine young city boy,
once so brave, true and Restless, filled with
energy And somewhat foolish too He went to join
the US Army Adventure filled his mind He knew that
for a soldier's life, all of this he was destined.
He did his training in a camp at Ft. Ord Calif.
Than on to Ft Benning GA, home of the jump school.
Where he became a member of the 101 First Airborne
Oh, man did he ever wear those silver jump wings proud
and the Wings of the 101 First, Screaming Eagles.
He did not know it at the time, but maybe he did,
for he was destiny was Vietnam.
They stole his feelings, taught him how to kill
and walk those jungle trails And taught him
that the enemy were the evil men
Then he went off to fight a war that he might not
of believed in but the call went out, now
he'll serve his country's need; just as his dad
had done in the last great war.
Now the old young man of what was,
Only now he's a shell of a man,
A victim of the war now too.
He can't seem to find himself in this world.
His own nation has turned against him,
the nightmares never seem to go away.
His next door neighbor that he knew forever
called him a baby-killer. Don't that beat all?
Now he is on his fourth marriage, and they wonder
why he can not stay put, his wife wonders why
she end up going to bed alone most nights?
It's because he has to make sure that
everything is in place before
he goes to bed; Yes,
It's hell being a Victim of the damn war...
For my bother who was killed in May of 68 and
myself who I think sometimes part of me died
at Albany with the 120 brothers of mine who
did answer the roll call the next day in Oct of 65.
The grand, half-ruined Parthenon,
once a sublime, Doric grace,
Even now, in broken, stone blocks,
always takes my breath away.
The rich, classical detail,
fluted columns without plinths,
to imagine what it once was,
the mind can’t even begin…
That towering Coliseum,
the great masterpiece of Rome,
even half gone it’s staggering,
to be so tall, but made in stone.
Go down to the domed Pantheon,
still so perfect to this day,
these are not just random buildings,
they stand with something to say.
And those long, Gothic cathedrals,
so ornate and yet so light,
stained glass alone is enough
to make these churches a sight!
But all of that fine tracery,
those magnificent cravings,
the rows of flying buttresses,
inspire the soul to sing.
The Byzantines and their tiles,
Tudor masonry and wood,
Romanesque with its arches,
Art Decco looks oh-so-good,
Baroque with all its fussiness,
Victorians with their quirks,
Renaissance sports Italian flare,
Palladian’s subtle pleasures…
And yet in Albany, New York,
there stands the featureless ‘egg,’
That’s its name and its resemblance,
I am not pulling your leg.
No decoration, no windows,
as it stands there in the sun,
people call it ‘modernist,’
I call it ‘concrete abortion.’
Worse is the post-modern trash,
theaters shaped like hunks of cheese,
painted pink, spattered with portholes,
a mad-man’s monstrosity.
That is the product of our skills?
That is how we would inspire?
By building things that look like they
have been melted in a fire?!
They bulldoze down our heritage
to throw up more of these things?
And the big-wigs who approved this,
what the hell are you thinking?!
If these buildings of the future
are to have no beauty or class,
then you can keep ‘modernity,’
I’ll gladly live in the past.
Blue Moon tonight which is very rare
It happens on New Years Eve once in nineteen years
Will you be watching to see if it peeks through
In New York City, Albany, or Calimazu
Maybe in Ormand Beach, Florida
Utah, Alaska a state so fair
How about in the United Kingdom
Africa, Asia, Malayia, or Bonnie Scotland where
It may shine on ice and snow
Or rain reflecting streets
Somewhere on the desert plain
Where the sidewinders sleep
Will the clouds part for just
A short time for you and me
So we can see this phenominum
That will be such a treat
I will be watching and hope
For just a peek, if only for a moment..
That would be so neat
My day will be filled with excitement
As I watch and wait
This could be the night
That I might stay up late
Sit out on the porch in the cold
Hoping to share with you
A night of anticipation
Of a moon that is blue
Will it cast a shadow
On my gray gray hair
Or hide all the wrinkles
That shows my character
So that youth is reflected
On this night so fair
On this night so rare
On this night to share
On this night be there
(Some explanation of Blue Moon. (1) Earth close to sun-so earth gets more sun and moon
will be brighter. (2) Moon will be closer to earth so seems larger. (3) Full moon rises to a
point nearly opposite the sun and because sun is low this time of year the full moon will rise
particularly high. Blue moon is not blue in color but two full moons in one month because we
do not use lunar calendar but one devised by man. Last blue moon on New Years Eve was
l990 and next will be 2028 or every 19 years.) (There are several explanations how the term
came into being but I will let you look it up.)
I listen to a lot of contemporary Christian music because it's inspirational and
heart-warming. Listening to plenty of contemporary Christian music makes me wanting to
read the Holy Bible every single day. It's also as if I'm going to a contemporary
Christian community church in either Carrollton, Arlington, Richardson, or Plano.What I
really like about contemporary Christian music is when it's fused with a lot of pop music,
dance/techno music, rock music, and indie rock music. And out of all contemporary
Christian artists, my favorite artists are Delirious?, Amy Grant, Mark Willard, Aly &
A.J., Third Day, and others. The list goes on and on and on. These recording artists,
whose favorite genre is contemporary Christian music, are a bunch of great influences in
the lives of all of us contemporary Christan music fans, especially when he and/or she is
going to a Christian music concert. After I will have bought a contemporary christian
music CD from one of the music stores, I'll put it in a CD player and when I press play,
it'll be like I'm at a contemporary christian festival in a Georgia town called Albany, an
Arizona town called Yuma, and in Grapevine, Texas. If I had a lot of contemporary
Christian music albums in my collection of compact discs, then it's going to be like an
endless music festival. Unlike gospel music, contemporary Christian music is really
soothing and very relaxing. And if there's going to be a bunch of would-be recording
artists wanting to enter into the contemporary Christian music industry, we'll all be
ready. I wonder if we'll be able to find God in the near future?
That I came back to live
in the region both
my parents died into
that I will die into
if I have nothing else
I have this and
it's not morbid
to think this way
to see things in time
to understand I'll be gone
that the future is already
some where
I'm in that somewhere
and what of it
it's ok to see these things
to be the way they are
I can be them
have been them
will be there, soon
I know why I came here
to be back here
where my parents went
I know that I'll be there
to join them soon
it's ok to think this way
why shouldn't I
whose gonna say I shouldn't
a doctor, some friend
I have no wife in this
at night, late, the dark
myself at the ceiling
the arguments continue
I'm with it, it's with me
I am quelque chose
something with birds in it
a storm high above Albany
I am ghost brain I
sister to all things cruelty
the mouse-back gray
of every afternoon
and your sorrowing
now that you're gone
and I'm here or now
that you're here and
I'm gone or now
that you're gone and
I'm gone what
did we learn
what did we take
from that oh
always dilating
now that you're here
and also gone
I am just learning
that threshold
and changing light
a leafy-shaped blue
drifting above
an upstate New York
Mohican light
a tungsten light
boxcar lights
an oaken table-rapping
archival light
burnt over, shaking
Considering all the people there, it’s a big state!
Many members from New York have talent that's great.
Poets hail from Syracuse, Rochester, Albany,
Plattsburgh, Scarsdale, White Plains, or Schenectady.
They may come from Niagara Falls or Binghamton,
or one of the five boroughs such as Bronx or Brooklyn.
From Long Island Sound, to as far west as Buffalo,
the poets from New York are the ones we should know.
These folks can write up a storm of impressive poetry.
Their fanciful works defy comparability.
They live anywhere between Yonkers and Utica.
The numbers of their great poems are a plethora.
So we salute all our members from the Empire State
You are the people everyone can appreciate!
SANDS OF GALLIPOLI’S BLOOD
On the sands where diggers bled
As they came ashore,
To fight the good fight,
Puppets of a master’s whim
Of loyalty to a crown of way beyond,
No hesitation to join and follow fellow brothers here,
From the land of hard toil of country life,
From the landscapes of city folks,
From mining deep down in mining coals,
From the fields where they dug for gold,
To butchering beasts on the hooks,
And from behind the counters of banks, post offices and desks in offices,
They came not hesitating,
They came in droves,
Some were boys who lied about their age,
And some were older who lowered the time
of their existence here on earth,
And many here were wanting to escape an existence of being bored,
And many fathers and sons said goodbye to mum,
And for the majority
They were in their prime,
The cream of this young nation’s crop,
And in their droves descending strong
Upon the place where they swore allegiance to a King they didn’t know,
Then on a meagre practice of scantily put together months,
They left our shore,
Packed like sardines in their ships,
Off on their great adventure and escape from a relatively known to unknown,
And from Albany Sound that day in November
First of convoy of ‘Zacs departed,
And on the way a decision made to bring together this motley crew,
To land upon a foreign shore
And storm the shores of a place,
That’s gone down in history to be
Where on that fateful day
A legend was born,
And became widely known as;
The sands of Gallipoli’s blood.
Francis Cooper – Mac © 30-Jun-20
In a old old rambling structure
Down on the street called Broadway
Upper floors that had been deserted
For many and many a day
Lighting a fire
Starting to pondering
Things from long ago
Remembering songs and legends
Stories that I had been told
The fire light began to flicker
Then undressing for the night
By only a little candle light
Once in bed down under the covers
Slowly going to sleep
Off to dreamland I remembered
Then something pulled at the sheet
Starting to hear chains rattling
Whining through the loosened glass
Then deciding it was nothing
Pull the covers up past my calf
No more than I had pulled them
When something or someone
Snatched them away
That's when I grabbed them
With my heart beating away
Up over my head and snuggled
Hoping that they would stay
But that was not possible
So up I sat in bed
Looking around was when I saw It
Footprints as big as an elephant head
I decided to start talking
Facing my fear straight on
Is when I discovered
Cardiff Giant ghost in my room
I told him to sit down
But then on second thought
Was going to say don't
When he sat, the chair
Fell ascunder and broken
Parts were over the floor
Pieces of tail bone and broken chair
Even a rib and wrist bone was there
Then sat on the bed and in a heap
We're on the floor
Finally I told him
No more, no more
Just sit on the floor
I gave him my red blanket
He used my chamber as a hat
Then we talk about his
Situation what do you think of that
I finally told him
That he really wasn't a wondering ghost
He was just plaster of paris
An imitation to trick folks
That he was really buried
In Albany and was haunting
A cheap plaster form of himself
So off he went in the darkness
Saying don't let this story get out
That I don't even know my own remains
As he laid the pipe on the mantel
Down the street he lumber along
(Idea taken from "A Ghost Story" by Mark Twain. Please forgive me Mark Twain because I
did not do this story justice and definitely not the poem.) (As they say there is a big
difference in having something to say and having to say something.) It did stretch my
thinking and creativeness.
From hills and orchard row to the Queen’s chain
plume the toetoe, the ponga’s silver gild -
in planted grove and fertile dairy plain
droved is the fatted calf and the earth tilled.
White breasted native wood pigeons cooing
leap bearing fruits and leaves to feed among,
and up above in splendid chorus wing
the tui, bellbird, and grey warbler song.
O’ to see that autumn sun’s gentle fade
on the dew shine of fallen crown of leaves,
and macrocarpas betwixt light and shade
when April rains fall its bowers and eaves.
Soon the solstice will a changing invoke
and idle woodfired stovepipes fill with smoke.
Written: April 1996
I received a letter from Toronto,Canada...
stating that I had won the De-Lotto North
American Sweepstakes in the amount
of $ 150,000.00 US dollars! Oh, I went bananas!
So I called the office line with much surprise:
1-416-939-8265 and a gentlman,
with an accent, answered the phone;
I asked him if the winning was real,
and he replied," Of course it is! "
I thought to myself, " It sounds like a scam! '
This morning, my bank returned
the forfeit check to me,
with a return fee of ten dollars;
and I was furious and mad
to have fallen for that scam!
But the good news is:
they didn't get any of the money,
the tax amount of $2,850!
Cringe your teeth,
you miserable thieves:
you are being exposed
by someone who's fearless and outraged!
Today, I have sent an e-mail
to the fakecheck.org in Albany,
telling them about the scam letter...
alerting the other would-be-victims anywhere,
so they don't go singing to their bank;
I hate to see them cheated out of their money!
These unscrupulous people, stealing your identity,
should be persecuted to the full exent of the Law,
and when they're caught, I like to be in the judy's row:
I'll stare at their deceitful faces and read the verdict loudly!
Mr. Greg Peters And Brian McDonald,
whether your names are real...
and wherever you are right now:
remember, you can defraud others...not me!
Milo and Me raised by Mom and Dad, in that small mountain town-
A little more than 66 miles from Albany.
Dad and Mom faithfully provided their best for Milo and Me.
Yes-it would have been better if we had been sustained-
by some rich family.
Most things that happened on that street have NEVER been spoken of-
by Milo and Me. To painful, to dreadful and DARK, even for the Spirituous heart.
I guess we made an unspoken pact, between Milo and Me, to-
Never, Reveal what took place on that mystifying,Non-illuminated, Murky Street.
You see for Milo and Me--we always knew of HIS Devine Majesty.
Tales have been told and fabrication declared- to even the most paramount.
But--for Me and Milo- we always knew of GODS providence.
We knew- that someday, HE would overtake the misery-
that happened about 66 miles from Albany-on that Street.
For Milo, he went into some Rehab--you see?
Somewhere Near Albany. For Me, got married a second time to a wife-- and had a family.
I guess this is where Milo and Me, took different paths into life- or it seemed.
I definitely miss Milo and those GLORY days of our youth-
all the beer and reefer parties, can’t you see?
On an old abandon meadow and STREET called Solders Field-- is where we partied.
Only GOD and the few that were there in those days would know
what Milo and ME did on--THAT STREET!
Tales have been told and fabrication declared--But--I will leave it to that.
This re-memorable time I will never forget.
I lasted a short moment-- maybe a week at best.
Then it came to pass for Milo and Me, to part life’s path-
with seemed repeatedly. For Me and my family, we stayed and lived in
that Historic Town-just about 55 miles from Albany.
So-- once again- let Me take you to the end of this story.
We will travel by a make-believe time machine.
Close your eyes- Close your eyes- so you can’t see.
Fast forward we go to the year 2010- now you may see!
But-- for Me still there-just 55 miles from Albany.
I have most assuredly miss Milo, after all, it’s been ten years-
can’t you see? I miss him as one of our family, even though he marched so far away-
into some foreign state. Milo, Milo--- wherever you are, I will always remember you-
-just as you were.
By :REV, Dr. MEW/WEM/EMW
I awoke this morning
To a brand new day
The sun was shining
Neighbourhood children played
Then i heard on the news
That made my hair stand on end
The Reapers elves
To our world they descend
Dressed in black
These creatures of death
To take earths life
It's very last breath
With them he marches
Dictating who dies
Enrolling the weak
As he casts his eyes
First Toronto and Buffalo
Near these beautiful falls
Cities, towns and villages
In darken deathly maul
They reach Albany
Near route 87
Many people are praying
As they look towards heaven
They are now in their thousands
As they walk with the dead
The discarded are left
In bloodied stained shreds
Our countries are in cry
For a saviour so strong
To turn this dark evil to right
Cast them out, to where they came from
Semaj is summoned
Once again
From his Kingdom in the Highlands
Master of, the Mountains and Glens
With Etto his droid
New York they reach
To call up the followers
In world wide preach
He summons the Knights
And hero's of old
To rise for the right
And join his fold
In Churches and Cathedrals
All throughout our nations
Burial vaults are opening
Civilisations salvation
Even the gargoyles
Leave their resting places
To join the fold
Their faces now grace us
To the North of New York
The old and the new stand
To rid this evil
From our righteous free lands
The Reaper cries
Hell is for hero's
As King Richard replies
Hell is for zero's
Both armies clash
In bloodied spoil
But there's no spill of red
On this free countries soil
Where all around
Lie fallen elves
The Reaper on his knees
For this is where he fell
Semaj stands over
This evil of the dark
With his claymore he strikes
We are now worlds apart
The clean up begins
As they are gathered en-mass
With the divine waters
This evil has passed
The very next day
All the old hero's have returned
To their place of rest
For on this day they have earned
Nations stood together
To fight all evil, as one
The corner has been turned
A new world has begun
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/fantasy-10.php
Surveying
northern autumn afternoon
Pitcherelli, ex-marine, body-builder,
Lussier, long-haired father of three dark-skinned children
and myself, sharp-edged loner, ex-lover of a fair share of women
are belly-laughing in the dying sun. Clouds.
The crew, in timber.
Laughing
over recent visits to marvelous cities where
we could not keep ourselves from touching the terminal buds
of numerous exotic trees
and attracting ridicule of stylish girls and tame boyfriends.
Pitcherelli before the Albany bus station
shaking hands with a red pine planted thirty years ago.
Lussier, one hand in a child's hand and the other
feeling scabrous bark of urban woody plants.
Myself among partially shaved heads and leathery aromatic jackets
getting close to the hairy bud of an unidentified poplar or sycamore.
People
laughed, but we laughed best
back on our mountain
under the blackening weather.