Best New York State Poems
My Childhood Home
My lovely childhood home, I miss it so...
built Eighteen Eighty-Six, so long ago.
Three floors, all rooms with mantled fireplaces;
carved woodwork, archways, spindled winding stair;
cathedral ceilings, sparkling chandelier
in dining room enjoyed on holidays.
Third floor not used but built with parkay floors
and doors that opened to small balconies.
Off the front door, a porch wrapped 'round two sides...
was like a fairy tale when I was young.
Such lovely grounds; garage with two horse stalls
and covered sleigh with velvet seats of red.
White gravel paths with gardens either side;
the rolling lawn, majestic tall pine trees
and rippling stony brook below the hill.
My childhood home fulfilled my childhood dreams–
so happy there with my dear family.
Until I married, it was home to me.
And since home now is not too far from it–
I often pass the site of my old house.
On left, before I pass under the bridge
that sprawls across the Hudson River now–
the empty view brings sadness to my heart.
To build that bridge they tore my old home down–
the only house to make this sacrifice–
The vision of my childhood home is gone.
As I ride by I feel them wave to me...
the ghosts of past, and my dear family.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Premiere Contest: Enchanted House
Sponsor: Nayda Ivette Negron
Judged: 05/23/2016
~1st Place~
Contest: A Child's First Home
Sponsor: Verlena S. Walker
Judged: 10/17/2015
Note: Newburgh-Beacon Bridge was completed and opened in November 1963
New York State claimed our home via eminent domain and purchased it in 1960
Yeah, I know,
It's "My Problem"...
No sweat to you...
Even though I might beg,
For help or advise what to do...
I'm cut off from the internet...
My last human link...
With my good poet friends,
Guess I'll just mix a drink...
Kind'a sad,
I gotta' admit....
When those I've helped,
Suddenly seem fit...
To ignore my calls...
Who gives a s_it...
You'd tell me to just join Yahoo,
But I don't know how,
With no internet connection...
I'm "having a cow!!!"
I sure tried reaching you,
You didn't pick up,
Suddenly I have no phone service..
Now what do I do??
And all the meds I need...
Suddenly my card is not honored...
I can only guess New York State...
Has decided my life to terminate...
Sure makes for a great day...
But I've got more to say...
I gave you a good lump of money,
Not too far in the past...
Said use what you need...
I think it should last...
Never thought I'd have this problem...
Another warning I failed to heed...
I still believe, I still trust you,
Maybe aliens have invaded,
And you know not what to do...
But for heaven's sake...
Don't know how much more
Bad news I can take...
Seems a cesspool of misfortune...
Is swimming around in my air...
How much, my God,
Am I supposed to bear?
I was once a man...
Of substantial means...
But find them now...
The Twilight Zone, it sure seems
And with my health failing...
Falling apart in big bits...
I feel hard pressed...
To hold on to my wits...
Even my remote did desert me,
I cried as I search...
He left me one channel
He left me in a lurch...
And when it seems...
No one gives a sh_tz,
I start to find,
Some scary angry head fits...
My pen has worked long...
And hard, be assured...
Fought off mental demons...
Hence, I have endured...
But betrayal, or indifference,
Bites one so hard...
There's no way in the world...
You won't wind up soul-scarred...
All I can say,
Some should be...
feathered and tarred..
For those they have marred...
Hope this never happens to you...
But if that should come to pass..
Just call me, I'll be there
My love will always last...
But, now, if you get a chance,
Please tell me what to do...
You know how to survive...
You know I idolize you..."
t
COOKING WITH JIM
actually, with him in spirit, in the kitchen
of his quaint brownstone on West 12th Street
in Manhattan, decades after his death.
And quite at home with him, I chop and slice;
bake, twice-baked potatoes — their skins crisping
to perfection; roast, the prime tenderloin of beef
he’d earlier instructed me to hand-rub with
coarsely ground black pepper and kosher salt.
(I used sea salt and that was ok with him.)
Right now, he’s reminding me to stir my roux,
then I should add the crisp bacon bits, made earlier,
to the finely chopped spinach I just finished sautéing.
He says I should wait till the last minute
to toss the mélange of local field greens with
the lemongrette he had me make in lieu of
vinaigrette, because, it seems that vinegar
often spoils the taste of wine. As for the wines
with dinner: for the salad, I’m chilling
a 2011 Seyval Blanc from New York State;
with the beef dish, a 10-year-old California
Zinfandel; this followed by a 2010 Pinot Noir
from Oregon, paired with artisanal cheeses
from Vermont and Connecticut, plus
crisp sourdough rolls and flatbread;
and, in the frig, chilling, a late-harvest, Long Island
Riesling to complement the secret confection hidden
away on a silver tray till dessert-time.
According to Jim, red wine should be served at
room temperature, and since older reds have a layer
of sediment in the bottle, he said the Zin will need
to be decanted, and that, right before serving;
he wants the Pinot to breathe 15 minutes, or so,
in the glass before being drunk.
(The aeration of younger reds will rid those wines of
their chalky tasting tannins.) All this for my guests
who’ll soon be sitting round my dining table akin to
Jim’s 60 inch round green marble slab of a tabletop,
where, before the first bite of the Jim-inspired,
5-star meal, I’ll raise my glass to the big bald guy —
James Beard, “The Father of American Cuisine.”
September eleven, two-thousand-one-
dark age of homeland terror had begun.
If only I could change this horrid past-
alleviate deep pain from grief at last.
Three thousand souls were lost forever, then.
Three hundred forty-three were brave firemen,
so many whom I'd come to know before,
when they'd stop by our fire equipment store.
Our County is just sixty miles away
from New York City, South of us, and they
would often live more North in New York State,
commute each shift- but many met their fate.
One family resided on our street.
That morning, he left home for death to meet.
So many others we will never see
who purchased goods from us so faithfully.
For those who died, whose bodies were not found,
we gifted presentation helmets bound
to loved ones for the funerals they held.
Such awful, somber days, unparalleled.
If I could change the past and turn back time,
erase that day of tragedy and crime,
my heart, with all the others, would rejoice
that these poor souls could live a life of choice.
A polite rain
joined me briefly
before heading uptrail
to leave me standing, alone,
in a suddenly steaming forest.
I wrote this on a hike in the Adriondacks to to Mt Marcy, the highest mountain in New York State. My Adirondack Guide indicated that Tahawus was the a first Nation (Iroquois ??) name for the mountain and it meant “cloud-splitter.” I decried that the mountain is now named "Mt. Marcy"after William L. Marcy, who as Governor of New York (1833-1839), authorized the geological survey that explored the area. I speculated that this is why there is so little poetry in our time.
However, a later Wikipedia search revealed that the name was likely never used by the aboriginal peoples of the area to refer to the mountain, and its meaning, may have no roots in any language.
It's a pretty little town in northern New York State.
To visitors of the region, everything looks great.
There was one obscure fact of which I was not aware:
A big War of 1812 battle was fought there.
A large British and Canadian force started a campaign
to seize control of upper New York and Lake Champlain.
British ships under the command of Captain George Downie
fought American ships and armed forces unsuccessfully.
The British captain became an unfortunate casualty.
Not long after, all hostilities would cease.
The Treaty of Ghent ended the war and brought peace.
I thank wikipedia.org for valuable information I obtained to write this poem.
Both the ignorant and wise
Have the nerve to criticize
But I've heard the crocodile cries
And the smiley-faced lies
Of those New York cynics
I’ve been bloodied and bruised
Wrongly blamed and bemused
Now negativity’s infused
All my patience has been used
By those New York cynics
Now I step on those stones
That once broke my bones
But I’ve become one of those drones
Just another of the clones
Yeah, I’m a New York cynic
Dear diary, I write these words, so sad and true,
and etch my heartfelt thoughts forever in this book.
Now, with a broken heart, I share my pain with you.
My childhood home, in wooded setting near a brook,
I now will have to leave with permanent goodbye,
and etch my heartfelt thoughts forever in this book.
For many years it stood, pure white, three stories high...
our home on a grassed hill, old-world design and proud
I now will have to leave with permanent goodbye.
My childhood home now stands below a stormy cloud;
is doomed to action that brings us lament and pain...
our home on a grassed hill, old-world design and proud.
For, New York State has now ruled eminent domain;
a bridge between two towns is planned, all set to build.
is doomed to action that brings us lament and pain...
So, on this page, my bitter, weeping tears are spilled:
Dear diary, I write these words so sad and true;
a bridge between two towns is planned, all set to build.
Now, with a broken heart, I share my pain with you.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: A Poem Called, From My Diary
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 11/07/2017
True Story ~ 1960
Written in Iambic Hexameter (12 syllables, 6 feet)
Something is missing from our winter days
which seem irregular from former years.
This is mysterious in many ways-
although convenient, winter has changed gears!
Here in our Hudson Valley, New York State,
scant dustings of light snow we've seen to date!
No ice on ponds where country folk could skate!
The temps each day are warmer than before-
buds waking up! Such fair clime can't ignore!
A milder winter- should we ask for more?
But wait! Our March is gearing up her phase!
Will she make up for what's kept in arrears?
Should we stand by for blizzards at her gate?
Let's see what fickle March will have in store!
February 23, 2023
Premiere Contest: Fragmented Rhyme
Sponsor: Emile Pinet
Checked With RZ and HMS
Lately, the weather has dropped drastically,
and Fall holds up serenely and beautifully;
green trees so stately gently fluctuate
against a sky of transparent blue as hummingbirds make plans to migrate,
but the downy woodpeckers interrupt their chat
with their unbearable drumming that disturbs their peace with intent.
Summer in New York State has been humid and stormy,
temperatures rose above a hundred degrees as pavements smoked,
sprinklers in streets made children happy as they were being soaked...
so very thankful to live in a rich country offering such a commodity;
adversely, a water shortage caused drought in the South allowing tragedy
as gasoline and food prices soared and spouses couldn't pay alimony.
Hot summers predict cold winters, and we await a harsh winter...
stock up on shovels and salt, keep your driveway and sidewalk snow-and-ice-free;
will you get help from your kids when snow falls...having you think of electric bills?
No, let them play and have fun...their blood is hot and they feel no chills!
And should you think of joining them, drop your shovel as if stung by a bee!
Which other way is there to endure the wintry weather living as an Alaska bear?
THE INTERVIEW AND THE TROOPER
I was on my way to apply for a job,
My interview was for 2PM that day,
I wasn’t dressed for the occasion yet,
So I pulled onto the shoulder of the parkway.
My suit was in the rear seat,
So I had to move back there to change,
This way I could look professional,
For the meeting we had arranged.
So I moved the passenger seat forward,
In order to gain more leg room.
I felt a little uneasy doing this,
Since I usually get dressed in my bedroom.
I barely slipped into my pants,
But they were still down by the floor,
When all of a sudden, there was a knock, knock, knock,
On the window of the door.
It was a New York State trooper,
Who seemed to come out of nowhere,
He asked me to roll down my window,
But I was still just in my underwear.
I could not lower the power window,
Because the car was not on,
I was hoping that the officer,
Would not have to use his baton.
So I opened up the door,
He saw me sitting in my shorts,
I was having several thoughts,
Of making an appearance in the courts.
I gave an explanation to the trooper,
Why I was changing in the car,
But I’m sure he thought this incident,
Was still a little bizarre.
He let me finish getting dressed,
While he explained his point of view,
So he let me go without a summons,
And I arrived on time for my interview.
There Is A View
There is a view that haunts me so
and breaks my heart each time I pass.
Although it happened long ago,
strong memories of past amass.
This sacred place
I can't erase.
My childhood home stood there, I know;
our 'castle' on a hill of grass.
For a new bridge, torn down with woe,
our home we lost; State won, alas.
With grief, I sigh
when I ride by.
Sandra M. Haight
~1st Place~
Contest: Rhyme Me A Posie
Sponsor: Broken Wings
Judged: 03/11/2018
Note: The Newburgh-Beacon Bridge was completed and opened in
November 1963, after New York State, claimed our home via
eminent domain. Since I live close by, I constantly have to pass
the site where my childhood home stood.
Dying Is Horrifying
Has been sad to me;
Dying is horrifying;
Will never forget.
My wife Jill is in intensive care right now
under sedation. Sunday morning she had
shortness of breath. An aide car came out
and gave her oxygen and she started to
get better. They said to take her to the
Emergency Room at Novant Hospital in
Bolivia, NC. She was admitted to stay
overnight for a check up. The next day
in the morning she received a call from
Stephanie Lynott then was visited by
the Jones's who had dropped by. She
received an email on her cell phone
of the choir singing Sunday on January
27, 2019 at St. James Episcopal. At
around noon yesterday she had more
severe breathing problems. They had
diagnosed her as having Pneumonia
and fluid on the lungs. The put her
on a ventilator but that did not solve
the problem. She is now in ICU and
they have put a trachea in her throat
and inserted some other things in her
throat. Needless to say, I am scared
as hell and have been crying and
really upset. She is under sedation
right now and won't be coming out
of it until about eight am. I cried
myself to sleep at around nine last
night. I awoke at midnight thinking
that I was hearing Jill calling me.
Shawn just had his 50th Birthday
on January 24th. I am afraid to call
him. I am driving over at eight AM
to see her again. She is supposed
to start coming out of it by then
and I should be able to talk to her
hopefully. This is the latest and will
keep you updated. Dr. Doran is
her doctor. There is a Doran Garage
in Shallotte, NC but she is not related
and is here from New York State.
I still am afraid to call Shawn.
Love,
Jim Horn
tapping my feet to Uptown Girl
Captain Jack, Say Goodbye to Hollywood
Swinging my partner to Piano Man
Billy Joel, Billy Joel, Billy Joel!
New York State of Mind
Only the Good die young
Good night Saigon
It's still rock and roll to me!
Billy Joel, Billy Joel, Billy Joel!
unsure if this epistle (possibly
coming across as all mixed up)
like some mish mashed verse
ye might arrange and rearrange into a song
living social in the country of upstate New York state
epitomizing spartan holistic existence
somewhere over the rainbow with a hefty purse
exemplifying decades of fame and fortune
that odds on favorite moost did highly rate
your fount of endless lyrical musical
natural playing style auditory tunes ears did immerse
themselves from just one man’s hand
whether newlyweds who did marry a loving mate
or others exhaling their final breath
afore crossing the river of Jordan inside the hearse
while the convoy chants the favorite chorus
abiyoyo with that standard amen for the late
mortal, whereby such preferential fanfare
for said loss of precious friend family doth curse.
little or no great expectations
(by dickens) feedback
will be forth coming to this average joe
who merely chose to plunk himself down here
and simply let spontaneity take full rein
this spur of the moment ode
(perhaps difficult to comprehend)
to a fellow you do not know and travel down
a shady lane (more akin
to a boulevard of broken dreams) in the main
with elusive passion to live in tandem with nature
whereby a garden this dad could hoe
reaping from sweat of thine brow afterward
upon festival of flowers this body will be lain
but the spouse prepared the siesta meal,
and hence now end this rambling poem to go
to ponder all my trials and tribulations
whilst in need to feed this body and brain.
I ENJOY A SATISFIED MUSICALLY INCLINED MIND
AND WISH THE WORLD FILLED WITH MORE OF YOUR KIND!