Best Borough Poems
It can be kind of depressing,
living in upstate New York,
because of that damn city,
that grand ol’ attention whore,
I cannot go anywhere
without having to explain
that I don’t live in a borough,
I live three hours away!
Can’t go to vote in November,
without a voice in my mind
reminding me they cancel us,
that it’s all a waste of time.
Can’t expect rights protected,
not in the countryside,
not when Urban know-it-alls
think history has a ‘tide.’
And to top it off the upstate
lands are quite something to see,
overflowing with wilderness,
and quiet, pastoral beauty.
We got thunderous Niagara,
and Letchworth’s massive gorge,
Finger Lakes and wine country,
Ontario’s freshwater shores.
The rolling, lore-steeped Catskills,
shot through with mighty cloves,
the rocky Adirondacks,
break sky with ancient stone,
the grandeur of the Hudson
carves it was through the scene,
flanked by bucolic county,
and deep wilderness serene.
The north has the St. Lawrence,
of Thousand Islands fame,
the central lands have waterfalls,
and are shot through with caves.
The sheer walls of Shawangunk,
the rugged beauty of Lake George,
Champlain with its famous monster,
Lake Placid’s Olympic sports.
Yes, there’s quite a lot up here,
so much for folks to see,
all of it in the shadow,
of that oversized city.
Though now that I think of it,
if the city wasn’t there,
all those ten million people,
would have to move somewhere…
Oh, good lord, no!
Come visit the Big Apple,
it’s a magic place to go,
the finest experience
most folks will ever know!
With skyscrapers, museums,
great food on every plate,
come visit New York City,
I swear to God, it’s ‘great.’
I come from the borough of Queens, New York
My classmates call me a Klutz and a dork
Those names pervaded my soul, taking a toll
Being at the bottom of the totem pole.
Then Dad took me to the town of Tortilla Flat
I walked into a store, bought a ten-gallon hat
I started talking like John Wayne, also bought some boots
It’s funny how a costume can make a mind slip its roots
The ranchers nodded with respect; I looked like them
Cowgirls smiled in my direction, one shone like a gem
She said there’s a rodeo at half past three
Come join us there, my friends and me.
I said sure, I’ll mosey down there
I’ll bring some popcorn that we all can share
When the time came, I walked into the ring
But through the wrong door, that was the thing.
Two guys lifted me onto a horse, and opened the gate
I shouted, “I’m not a performer!” but it was too late
The horse bolted out, then tried a somersault
I held on for dear life, couldn’t them girls call a halt?
They told me later, t’was the worst horse in the west
I flew over its mane, but it was a personal best
The crowd went wild, but I threw the hat on the mud
Dropped all the popcorn, wiped off the blood
The cowgirl looked adoring, said “that was so cool”
I looked at her, but my mood was cruel
Said “I’m a nerd from Queens, don’t want to pretend
Keep that dang hat, this all got to end."
Dad took me home, the worse for wear
He got me a baseball hat so nobody would stare.
I put it on backwards, I don’t really care
Buy the wrong hat, and it’s dangerous out there.
In concrete jungles with hustling crowds and throngs,
Or where a quiet countryside, meets golden rays of sun,
The places we call home are, each individually unique,
Holding full years of happiness with heartfelt mystique.
Be it a humble little cottage nestled close by the shore,
With gentle waves, that caress white sand forevermore,
In its cozy little nook, there is complete solace and peace,
Where all of your anxiety and worries dissipate and cease.
Maybe a bustling borough of a metropolis’s grand design,
Where tall skyscrapers reach up toward heaven, sublime,
In the biggest of places where we chase after our dreams,
Where diversity and culture cascade like mighty streams.
Or a hillbilly’s cabin, high up in a mountain’s cool embrace,
Where trees and birds are united with tranquility and grace,
In the heart of nature, where we seek and find lost serenity,
The places where we reconnect, with our true self-identity.
A childhood home, with its stories, and memories of ole,
Where trite fairy tales and laughter are woven and retold,
In its warm, familiar walls, family values were firmly set,
The places where time cannot erase, nor ever truly forget.
The places that we call home, in all of their different forms,
Hold the essence of our lives amid, the toils and the storms,
No matter where we may ramble, never mind where we roam,
The places we cherish most will always be home sweet home.
“Home is where the heart repose,” so let us honor each place,
With charity and affection, while our heart’s desire we chase,
While looking for your heart’s desire is tiring, scary, and hard,
That’s why you shouldn’t look further than your own backyard.
YOUR MORNING BAGEL Doylestown PA
Consider this, as buds break out on trees
not yet a leaf, the sight that no one sees
as walking through the borough mesmerized
past ancient mansions seen, not realized.
Through early morning air, our sence of smell
arouses to a bagels morning bell;
it tells us to awake, this is a day
we gain another try to make our way.
Past tiny shops of books and pottery
of artists who record what used to be
and at sidewalk cafes, we take a pause
considering what's real, or never was.
We hear the groan of traffic come alive;
the buzzing of our time and constant hive;
but who can see the budding of the tree
that's made for us to always never see?
Consider this, of time we've none to spare
to capture in our heart the birthing there;
no longer for a blinking of the eye;
what time has brought along, too soon will die.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
A pretty oak sits outside my window pane in the snow and in the rain
Covered with life, outside the balcony fifty steps away
Decorating the tree with flashes of red, black, grey, yellow and white,
are his friends the cardinals , squirrels , chickadees and the tufted titmice
They sing , chirp, and chatter in harmony of song
As the seasons pass, we live thru heat, drought , cold and rain all year long
I keep my feeder close at hand and watch as they load up in waves of two and three
to make their run at the seeds and grain
The leaves are green now and vibrant with life, in the fall the acorns grow and my tree stands tall
At winter they covet the warmth and provide a shelter for the thick furred grey squirrels
A lovely little hole in the crook of the branch big enough for two to snuggle and borough
They race down these pathways in the sky, playful as skilled acrobats
October mornings the leaves are falling , making noisy whispering sounds
the first rays of sun turn frost into a million twinkling stars on the ground
The two winged take refuge in their nest , built carefully for warmth and rest
To nurse and raise their young , making them fit for another generation of the best
The seasons flow as a quiet pond and like our beautiful life
everything is real with very little strife
Among the colorful citizens of this merry place I give life in equal exchange
for joy and a chance To sit and watch my friends as I grow old and enjoy life in the sun
But life changes, very unfair , and I am denied my playground in the sky
one day some men came and cut all the beauty down
Now its gone all butchered and bare nothing left but a big hole in the ground
Pushed to the edge by reality, yes, these verses will stifle.
A revolving door always present; New York City....Vicious Cycle.
This is a poem about the hardships, and monotony of this age
The world unchanging in its essence....many problems to assuage.
Why is our purlieu in such predicaments, the morass so intense?
It seems the fire has been extinguished; in other words we've acquiesced.
Hallways, alleys, subway stations/where the weak and troubled roam.
Considered dross by our society, that's why the streets became their home.
Our youth in dire straits, how can they be redeemed?
High school dropouts, teenage suicide, and for meth my brothers fiend.
Homeless people are anathema; we seldom love the poor…
New York City...Vicious Cycle....where daily living is abhorred.
A nimbus cloud, can't see the acme/ Where Then Can Love Be Found?
The cacophony breaks the silence; the voice of weeping does resound.
Welfare parents in a quandary, just barely scraping by.
Elderly people doing no better...though receiving S.S.I.
New York City....Vicious Cycle, spreading like a deadly cancer.
Minority children disenfranchised; drug dealing is their answer.
Boys and girls, young and pretty/ jailbait, nowhere to run.
A perfect target for a pedophile; their tender lives have just begun.
Dark specters in every borough; people lost and living trifle.
Eight million stories, naked truth...New York City...Vicious Cycle.
Surrounded by heavy tomes
Chronicling the history of
countless generations
One can only feel a sense of
awe that the weight of
the past has upon the living
A brief look around me
allows me to see the coming generation
Working diligently
to achieve their goals
What will become of these youth
in the next few years?
Some may die fighting on foreign shores
Otheres will die young due to bad habits
Some may achieve great success
Picking up my pen
I try to evoke the scene in the library
of the Borough of Manhattan Community College
Where many different
nationalities
Merge into a quilt of hope!
While crossing Verrazano Narrows Bridge
recurring mem’ries of New York recapture
history and civilization of the two boroughs
provide me with deep interest and emphasis.
Brooklyn in its old Dutch for “broken land,”
and Staten Island named “Staaten Eylandt”
named in the early 1600s by Henry Hudson,
trailed off on a tangent through centuries.
A myth or perhaps a legend, the island thus far,
was like a quagmire of townships and disputes;
its meaning to immigrants’ culture and religion,
favored silence, security, peace, and integration.
The burden of too many choices based on clans,
growing businesses and stories of interactions;
new immigrants in droves through generations
like an orchestra combined with a sense of drama.
Reflections of their struggles to make ends meet,
reminded me of articulation through interpretation;
in sobriety of heeding of the composer’s intent,
such a musical piece made me suffer and sweat.
Oh, the pedal, rhythmic vitality and expression!
all these elements comprise what piano playing is,
the technique, in a special way, a benchmark item
indeed, a struggle to interiorize those conventions.
But as a human person with some limitations,
with my own history and capability in playing,
I see where I can be fit and freely express myself;
through movements in diverse missionary works.
As it says in French, “bon débarras, il est partí.”
my life continues with a backlog of other issues,
a different world focused on service to the Lord;
with my own repertory – its beauty to humanity.
It’s true that my prayer for the church at large,
is also a bridge across the gulf of separation;
coming to this borough of Staten Island
a hodge-podge of concerns, covenanted within.
Now that relationship with God and people
brings me to nourish that faith and commitment;
with that long stretch of Verrazano Narrows Bridge,
a metaphor to my own journey as a missionary.
The Brooklyn Cyclones
now represent the borough
of Brooklyn
where I spent my
formative years
Memeories of the long - departed
Dogers
Linger over Keyspan park
like clouds
Duke Snyder, Jackie Robinson,
Sandy Koufax, Carl Furillo and
the rest
are engraved in the borough's heart
The Brooklyn Cyclones
now represent the borough of Brooklyn
I came into this world
during the legendary 1955 World Series
When the Dogers finally triumphed
Let's hope the Cyclones can
follow in theit footsteps
Bringing joy to
Brooklyn aka Kings County
dead end street …
mostly elderly when we came
always quiet …
empty nests side-by-side
aching for spring
but winter came instead
(the winter of life)
friends … good people -
town folk who raised this little
borough with pride
came to this blind alley to wait for God
and He obliged …
one-by-one, this road of
retirement rolled over …
the reap saw these quiet abodes
flipping fast and furious
and the once-aged occupants were
replaced with families -
young professionals and upstarts
fresh-woven nests filled with
chicks and younglings -
little voices and wings to test
upon the breeze
training wheels and swing sets
where lounge chairs once grazed lazily
backboards and rollerblades
and a valid reason for the ice cream
truck to loiter, it’s silly music box
jingling the afternoons with cold, tasty
wonder-in-a-cone …
time - passing like a subway car -
just a flash in the dark …
grain-by-grain the
hourglass steadily sifted
and a once-peaceful lane became
a circus of activity -
giggles and screeches replacing the
silence with the music of life
the rarely-a-car avenue, vibrant and joyous
picnics and lawn parties
birthdays and showers and fireworks
playballs left unattended
bicycles laid at the curbs in a rush
pets being walked
and the commonplace, everyday things
started being … every day …
oh, no mistake -
I loved the quiet when we came
and tho’ I dread the winter months now -
the post-Christmas cold, dead and
long-dark days, grinding on me
like a ragged old dirge -
that quietude and peaceful contemplation
is STILL one of life’s greatest
“little pleasures” to me …
yet … it’s the NOISE that I’ve come to
miss the most this time of year -
those little voices of
youth and vibrancy that sing me
through the warm months,
reminding me what being here is
all about, and making me
yearn more than ever
the sweet, joyous, callow kiss …
of Spring.
(Photo of Maplewood Drive by yours truly)
Every one I know has a girl friend
Every one except me
And that is why for special occasions
I don’t like to go by the family
Because they will always ask me
If she’s out side parking the car
And I will always have to make an excuse
How she gone to see her mother
But inside I wish I had a girlfriend
Because my life is so lonely
The only thing I have is my poems
That is all that keesp me company
I been looking for one secretly
But finding one is a problem
Cause so far no girl’s like me
But I can’t really blame them
I went shopping for this Christmas
Buying gifts all for my self
Then come and open my closet
And stack them all on a shelf
When I walking through Macy’s
Upstairs in the Staten Island mall
I wish I had a girlfriend with me
To take her shopping and buy her all
So I’m looking for a girl friend
But one is so had to find
The last girl I ask out on a date
She ask “if she look stupid or blind
I once ask a Trinidad girl
But she curse me up right away
Then she even call the police
And I had to run out of Claxton bay
Another girl had a flat tire
So I help she change it yesterday
But when I ask what she doing later
She takes out a can of pepper spray
Since then I lost my confidence
Because I’m really kind of shy
So now I stand in the corner watching
When I see a nice girl passing by
I search the borough of New York
Even over the Bayonne in New Jersey
I even try some online dating
But I struck out miserably
So I call and ask my nephew riad
To find me a girl in Trinidad
He said “boy them women in Trinidad crazy
But none of them women eh that mad
Sugar boy has a girlfriend in siparia
She has a sister living down in penal
He tells me send my best picture
Then said “boy that girl eh like you at all
So this Christmas I have a dilemma
And I don’t know what to do
All of my friends have girlfriends
And I want to have one to
But I will keep on trying
It’s the only thing I can do
And one day out of the blue
I will find me a nice girl friend to
YOUR MORNING BAGEL Doylestown PA
Consider this, as buds break out on trees
not yet a leaf, the sight that no one sees
as walking through the borough mesmerized
past ancient mansions seen, not realized.
Through early morning air, our sence of smell
arouses to a bagels morning bell;
it tells us to awake, this is a day
we gain another try to make our way.
Past tiny shops of books and pottery
of artists who record what used to be,
and at sidewalk cafes, we take a pause
considering what's real, or never was.
We hear the groan of traffic come alive;
the buzzing of our time and constant hive;
but who can see the budding of the tree
that's made for us to always never see?
Consider this, of time we've none to spare
to capture in our heart the birthing there;
no longer for a blinking of the eye;
what time has brought along, too soon will die.
© ron wilson aka vee bdosa the doylestown poet
Here is my teacher,there flies my teacher
One who taught me to be higher the Reacher
Do not lose hope she said,For morrow
Strive hard and walk through every borough
Might you be, what I was, that today
Forget not,I fly with wings above the airway
What they call,she said,really doesn't matter
What you is what you become is the charter
Might you be an ugly,crawling,torny worm
Get in the cocoon,straight and still without a squirm
Don't be gloomy,she said,never mind the bully
They will brick you,stick you and make you feel silly
Might you be calm and hundred Buddhas to come out,
come out fly away with vibrant colors crying aloud,
And lastly she taught me this,
For my life to be an endless bliss,
You will receive nothing you want,
But you will receive everything you need,
Here is my teacher,there flies my teacher
One who taught me to metamorph to change for better.
WHAT ABOUT WOLFS
shel silverstein: a bit childish, his giving tree my kids remember, though its parts were dismembered as it gave to the bitter end of life.
ogden nash: well, he gives us moo and milk, until the utter end, short and brief. reminds us of the soup’s - wolf.
wendy cope: born in kent in the london broil (ahem…borough) of bexley. things are going clunk and your face has too much gunk, a hoarder with thirty years of junk and especially she doth remind us don’t answer email when you're drunk.
william james collins: a hoot, billy! only child, born in manhattan, dear old dad worked on wall street. a poet laureate’s big recital on two poems about what dogs think (probably) - what about wolfs?
gershon wolf: he’s flower power-ful in his jest. for example - hippies pulled the triggers and out came flowers. though other comedic poets might create a chuckle, gershon always makes us smile.
7/21/2022
come to me.
to the floor where i kneel
in front of you.
follow me- pay attention close
and bend.
your will.
your beliefs,
your promises.
your boundaries.
your comfort.
follow me with your stare as i slither back above the floor.
and crawl over
your expectations
your judgments
your rehearsed words
dripping like drool from a baby's lip.
delight, devine
as i slide off this good girl's skin
contain your
greed
disbelief
desire while i
take you up mountains in your mind, lover.
i raise you from the center of the sky.
while i blind you with lust
'till you feel silken places inside-
so fragile they will tear
ill bring the goblet to your mouth sir-
and the richest ruby reds slither down your throat as if it were alive.
oh yes, we will climb,
feel the mount behind us holding us up... wind up so high must be stealing our breath
I will give you touch, lover.
the kind you never found in all your searches.
the kind that does the touching with it's shadow not it's skin
and the shadow dances to tickle in the most promising of places.
yes ill give you whispers up here-bounce them around
like a helium star
slowly whisper here, bouncing, slowly whisper there.
rake what used to be my fingers....
now though they are sticks from the forest bound together to
glide through your silky hair and leave their beautiful piney scent.
come to me, and share old magic
just a baby of the woods-
lay you on a bed of branches
cold leaves, borough in your naked skin...
bring to me now your empty pallet
and fill my sorrow with your fight.
sahn.
11/23/2018