Best Greenwich Village Poems
Greenwich Village breathes,
She inhales exhausted tepid air,
And exhales blustery winds of possibility.
The lady blows away the veils of dishonesty.
Tangled streets strung together,
Knotted masses of pearls and poetry,
Entwining marbled heroes,rounded arches,
Crucifixes,and snakes penned on skin.
Artists, tourists, vagrants,and scholars,
Know the calling of its siren song well.
People living on the fringe of humanity,
And those from the upper crust, fuse.
The village is the one spot on earth
Where you can expose your primal desires,
And explore their depths unfettered.
She is a lovely harlot who lives to please .
Musicians and thinkers engage in chess,
Neighbors line the benches of it's central park.
Children run naked through its fountains.
The poor and idol rich roam, anonymously.
A reader of fortunes lays out his cards,
Lovers tango,who knows which one leads?
Perhaps all the seekers will find their way,
And the leaders will learn how to see?
Lady Greenwich Village,the canvas of New York life,
Her face painted with brilliant spattered oils.
Each of us can add our own divine colors,
Dripping and blending with individual uniqueness.
Born Joseph Ferdinand Gould, in Norwood Massachusetts, 1889.
A 1911 graduate of Harvard, and a
Greenwich village Bohemian from 1916 until 1957,
and the time of his death at age 68.
Joe was a filthy and disgusting man, who constantly smelled
like homeless shelter disinfectant.
Dirty fingers, greasy clothes but also an intellectual.
He was a writer, a poet, a lier and a bum, A thief and
A drunk, and other poets hated him and he hated them.
He once told them that "Not only is your poetry bad, but
also stolen from other bad poets."
One night he convinced them that he had written the
most wonderful poem, and that they should allow him
to stand and recite it, and they did.
Joe stood up that night back in 1942, in the Raven poetry club
in New york city`s Lower East side, and read his poem.
" In winter I`m a Buddhist,
and in summer I`m a nudist."
With that I raise my glass to you Joe Gould. I wish I had known ya!
Riding in a taxi cab through canyons of concrete,
you will see thousands of inhabitants on each street.
This one of the five boroughs has everything complete.
What an island that is a city within a city.
It stretches from Harlem in the north to the battery.
If you are riding a bus, or a subway train underground,
so much fascinating scenery can be found.
There is Broadway, Central Park, Greenwich Village, and Times Square.
The bridges and the tunnels will all lead you there.
This is a jolly old place that nobody can deny.
With this “Big Apple”, you can make one hell of a pie!
In New York City, where do you go
if you want to compete in some rodeo?
In order to rent a studio in Greenwich Village,
you need extra high income and a privilege.
Living there means signing a long-term lease.
The only men seen on horseback are the police.
In the midst of the high-rises, it would seem quite strange,
to find a wide open prairie and a home on the range.
In this urban setting, cattle do not roam the streets.
You can only find them in grocery markets as meats.
I want to get out of the city; away from the rest.
Get me a plane ticket. I want to fly out west.
The “Saga” of the Lonely Cactus
by Miriam McCue
Introduction:
:
Characters in order of appearance:
Lonely Cactus: He is a 6 foot Saguaro cactus with two arms (kind that looks like a man from
a distance.) (In real life these cacti have to be around 75 years old to get an arm.)
Kieran - My granddaughter
Aunt Mikey - My youngest daughter
Alphabet City - Part of the Lower East Side of NYC
Desert - This refers to desert surrounding Phoenix AZ
Manhattan - Name for the island of NYC, not including Brooklyn, Queens, etc.
Super - Nickname for the superintendent of a tenement or apartment building.
Assorted city street characters - Anonymous
Greenwich Village - West of the Lower East Side NYC
Lower East Side - Part of NYC ( name of it describes where it is)
Alphabet City - Part of the Lower East Side of NYC
Assorted city street characters - Anonymous
Central Park - Large man-made park in Center of NYC
Big Apple - Nickname for NYC
U.P.S - A delivery service (In poem pronounced by letters, no as “up sss” )
Casino - We all know what that is.
Donald Trump - Famous prominent business man
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with pot, hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
Head bent
His eyes firmly fixed on the ground
Guitar in hand
There he goes
Trying to keep the biting winter’s wind
From nipping at his nose
Baby faced with a bouncing gait
Bob Dylan is walking the streets
Of Greenwich Village
It’s sometime in the late 1960’s
Now, I’m not saying that I’m old
But I remember those times
And when I close my eyes
It was just the other day
That the Village
Was a mystical portal
Of finger pickin’
Music and words that kept you thinkin’
Moonlit nights with lots of coffee drinkin’
And smiles of friends who are no longer singin’
‘cause they’ve gone far, far away
But these days
I can still hear their harmonies walking
Down the streets of Greenwich Village
Past the old Coffeehouses
That no longer have a name
Except for the ones we remember
And on those cold winter nights
When the wind blows chilly to the morning
I can hear
The clickety-clack
Of Bob Dylan’s boots
Walking around the 1960 streets
Of the Greenwich Village I once knew
-----------------------------------------------
While I was writing this
A funny thought occurred to me
… it was this…
Who remembers?
Why Pepperidge Farms remembers
That’s who!
Another Tale Of Musical Madness...
It was in the early seventies...
My friend and rhythm guitar man,
Mark Trotiner, worked in a well
known musician store in NYC...
Another one of those so rare
"light up the room types"-
He played great rhythm guitar,
Couldn't play a lick of lead,
Sang proudly with an awful voice,
Was the arch-typical Hippie of the 70's,
Knew all about music and bands,
Was friend to Frank Zappa,
Blues Project men, had met Jimmy Page
and countless others, the first
of the Greenwich Village Super Hippies
All the bands knew him...
He could charm your socks off...
Swore till the day he dies,
He inspired Mark Knaufler"s
"Money For Nothing"..
And I'd long learned how
to catch a bullshooter in crap...
Listen to his story....
Wait a good amount of time,
Ask him again about it...
See what has changed...
Repeat this process about
Three times,
You're sure to expose the lie,
I did this to him repeatedly
Over the course of years,
And he passed every test...
(that story itself worthy of
a great work...someday soon...)
However, he was the core figure
In the Grateful Dead Cover Band
I was in...with his guitar player friend,
Mark "Bone" Diaz- 6 foot three,
80 pounds, curly red hair tied back...
Greatest musician I ever played with...
And another anxious singer
with no voice...
Well Mark was always meeting
musicians of various levels...
And so charming, so unassuming
he appeared to be...
He had that aura, like cousin Bill
In all my life, those two still..
Stand out with this gift...
Oh, give me a spoonful of that gift...
And what a boost in my life it would lift
Anyway, (and this happened twice...)
Hope I don't get mixed up...
It's like tossin' them ol' dice...
This band, named "Koala"
Early 70's recording band...
Invited us down, based on Mark's word,
To open a set for them..
At their Bond Street Loft...
We wound up there twice...
Were told to bring naught
but our guitars...
Their equiptment world class...
Now I'll compact these 2 stories
To make my point...
We didn't know what we had
stepped into...
Should'a never entered the joint...
First gig, just like the "Big Day Gig",
All other musicians crapped out
on us at the last minute...
And I wound up doing this job
With Billy, Mark T., a drummer,
and me..
From Queens to Manhattan, I rode the subway.
I will never forget that late spring day,
when I walked into that Greenwich Village café.
This young girl practically stole my heart away.
With a long white dress, and a six string guitar,
she was just another wannabe star.
I was sitting not far away from her at the bar.
Between sips of my glass of seltzer,
I listened to each sweet note sung by her.
The end of her performance brought a light ovation.
She sat next to me for some casual conversation.
After an informal introduction came a sweet little smile.
I was attracted to her all the while,
even though she was Jewish, and I a gentile.
I told her I also performed in a band.
She wrote her phone number on my left hand.
Everything with this female appeared just right.
I asked if I could see her tomorrow night.
She emphatically said “okay” and smiled with delight.
Later that night, disappointment would encumber.
When I tried to call her, I got a wrong number.
Saga of the Lonely Cactus
Part 2: A Present from Kieran
by Miriam McCue
A present from Kieran came one day,
To Aunt Mikey in Alphabet City, so far away.
It was a cactus from the desert forlorn,
Complete with a red bow stuck on his thorn.
He arrived with a note which did say,
“I came to keep you company today.
I was restless in the desert.
And did want to roam.
So Kieran sent me to Manhattan,
Far away from home.”
Mikey then stated, “This is really great!
Now I’ll not be alone, early nor late.
I’ll go get the Super to help take you upstairs”
An then she ran up, unawares.
Along came a wino with a shopping cart,
He stole the cactus to pawn it,
At the Greenwich Village Mart.
He stumbled and mumbled,
“First, I think,
I’ll go and find a good stiff drink.
He pulled up the cart and put the cactus inside,
And took the scared plant to the Lower East Side.
It was strange and scary.
It fill the cactus with fear.
He cried, “I’m sorry I left the desert for here!
I want to go back to my home far away,
In fact, I want to leave TODAY !
(To be continued)
How refreshing to experience
a reprieve from sultry weather
when hazy, hot,
and humid warm front
unleashes a very short sweaty tether.
Man hat tin dar overcast skies
hint potential rain on the way
perchance avast dastardly
flickr ring instagram
kickstarter linkedin shutterfly
Taurus headed soundcloud
skidding across celestial
(span hushed) rink
surprising forecasters by yowl
ling whimsically, unexpectedly oye vay
training (laser like),
Asian outsize dark cloud
climatological frontispiece
randomly making next stop Old
Rotten Gotham's Greenwich Village
zero wing in on
Poor (Chuck Keys) Uruguay
neighborhood possibly confidently
foretold by meteorologists today
pointing at map showing
cold air mass as it doth sashay
July twenty first 2018, though
Mother Nature defies pre
diction pulling out all (busted) stops,
vis a vis via "her" quay
zee bag of tricks nay
saying trained forecasters klan
hush all self importance
also to humble those mere mortals
getting paid a handsome buck
by anthropomorphizing viz cluck
king in tandem with duck
billed Baritone Horn
Trumpeting "FAKE" luck
trotting out obstreperous
Sunny Rays, who doth beam
with radiance a
diametrically opposed extreme
over zealous call for precipitation
instead raining one after another quanta
bright blinding meme
outsmarting the seem
ming airtight (cat in the bag)
prediction leaving once supreme
vouchsafing without a doubt forecasters
left holding the empty bag
large enough tuff fit the whole team.
greenwich village
karaoke night
down at the ymca
Yellow cabs and pavements they call sidewalks,
Grand Central Station and the Metro too,
Central Park as big as a small city,
The Empire State’s great panoramic view.
A walk through Greenwich Village or through Chelsea,
The Hudson flowing deep beneath our feet,
Madison Square Garden for the boxing,
Musical named 42nd Street.
Take a ferry over to the statue,
That’s situated on Liberty Isle,
Stand at the base of the one World Trade Center,
The tallest u.s. building for a while.
Brooklyn Bridge and Rockefeller Centre,
A symbol of amazing self-made wealth,
Times Square to welcome in a brand new year,
A Macy’s trip to help your mental health!
The yankees stadium lies in the outskirts,
Back to the centre for a Broadway show,
Bloomingdales the height of any fashion,
Museums and Parks everywhere you go.
So get a cycle or hire yellow taxis,
To see most though I’d recommend you walk,
To see sights of a 24 hour city,
The magic and the beauty of New York!
An Occurrence in New York at 4.45 pm on March 25th, 1911
True faith, liberty, the flag, our holy soil!
Is it the cause that grants the martyr’s crown?
Should martyrs owe this crown to tyrants or some evil foe?
Are banality, indifference and callousness less cruel?
Anno Domini nineteen eleven was the year,
(on Annunciation Day according to the Church),
Greenwich Village in New York the place,
an overcrowded sweatshop on a ninth floor the scene,
a quarter to five on Saturday, the Sabbath, the hour,
when it befell, ‘it’ being in this case, as the annals state,
‘the worst industrial accident’ this great city ever knew.
The culprit was probably an unextinguished cigarette
thrown nonchalantly into a bin of discarded bits of cloth.
One hundred and forty-six young workers, mostly women,
realized too late their hopeless plight. Hopeless, but why?
Their employers, with healthy profits and public order in mind,
to prevent the pilfering of garments and skiving before five,
prudently kept all exits from the shop floor firmly locked.
A young man and his girlfriend embraced before they leapt.
It was anonymity for the rest,
no parting dirge or priest to bless,
unlike Saint Joan suffering at the stake
Forgotten, did they suffer less?
Where Upper West and East Side ended in sounds
Showing me the way where the female singer Carolina and I
Together shall meet the Law of Natural was translated
Into glorious flesh and in fire all
My body and tears emerged in the flow.
Till the vigilant noon
Took us away since we could swiftly
Speeding through the floating water.
I did not mind who's waiting there
For the moonlight after she said to tell me
Goodbye.
I just wanted to see her more, with a short uneasy blast,
In my Greenwich Village apartment
Quietly sailed on and on my back;
And then, after midnight for another jazz night --our Song, I guess
That made history so thinner and heavier
Let my vision went away with my female singer
In jazz night.