Best Streetcars Poems
Photo: RIVERVIEW AMUSEMENT PARK
~POSTED BY MY GUARDIAN ANGEL~
We were just kids in silken ribbons and braids,
Playing cut-outs in Chicago's summers toasty shade.
The clanging streetcars ran in front of our homes.
Who cared, we were licking delicious ice cream cones!
There was no such scare as " sugar is evil."
Anymore than the chance, that we'd find an intrepid boll weevil.
There was no TV till we were a tad older.
But we went to movies every Saturday and laughed so hard that
we cried on each others shoulders.
We shopped at Woolworth's Dime Stores.
Bought "Blue Waltz" cologne and little lockets, girls our age adored.
The big treat was going to magical Riverview Amusement Park,
The alchemy of the stars made it totally magic.....after dark.
Swimming back in the oceans of my heart's time,
I see how God blessed me to read books and learn how to rhyme.
Mom and Dad bought me many books.
I had a roll top desk, such a lovely, bright wooden look.
We loved saddle shoes, boy were they cool.
We'd sit and polish them,so lovely,we would drool.
We sat on the stoops and watched men in uniform, go to war.
Some sadly, with our tears, we saw their blue eyes no more.
On your back porch we sat on the great family swing.
Hearing songs and stories-the essence of my past,is so overpowering!
10/31/2020
Tribute to Joanie, my best friend since age seven!
Thanks for decades of memories!
Love, Panagiota
- a solo nijuin renku -
English version by Liviu Martinescu
entrance to an underground
crowds in winter's clouds
and an atomic clock to boot
the first snowflakes on
the punching bag in the yard
the jazz poem
the town is creeping into
the golden scale
enormous through teardrops
the whitewashed houses
symphonic white
out of scores of thunderbolts
some leaves on the moon
"and thus she sleeps awake
long after she's got up"
the motorcycle
that's carrying them entwined
is curbing the hour
raceless race-course
the loneliness of no-horses
the streets sweat out
in the glove of speed
no time for tomorow
seven doves go clink
against the rosetta of the cathedral
the pollen at night
migrates into saints' bodies
as well as violins
the lark's feathers
made iridescent by the moonshine
circling the deserted
merry-go-rounds the glider
a whirl of silences
only balmy tree-branches
breeze here not whispers
each body
leaks out its own time
two abysses
dark rails
pulsating under streetcars
yellow saxophone
toward the super-yellow sky
it's me in there in the sound
the concert eroticized
new swallow nests
the raw soil blooming
among cherrytrees
beyond the wall
in the shadow of the piano
the spring bread
The old, the new barely meet on the street of Bardstown road, yet diversity so unique, from Cherokee to the rarity, stepping forth in time with the antique structures surrounding you, from magnetic tape recordings to punk truly a highland of culture. The Victorian and the shotguns the two guns blazing an electric mix of the streetcars undesired prelude to hate Ashbury a lower height, thinking how Hunter S. Thompson may have mumbled a few gonzo words, on the way to decadent and depraved Kentucky Derby but where was I. The greasy spoons all in a row, out wrestle the dining rooms but the salons collage with saloons, somehow the college student gets passed the culture shock. A young man sits at the bus stop his guitar propped on the glass, maybe he is writing a hit single or maybe just hung over, as a young girl in a miniskirt with a quick flip of long hair and a glance over her shoulder hurries somewhere. My friends just want to look at girls and crack a joke or vice versa.
On a white board scribbled meet the author of Cornbread Mafia sometime in November. There is just a strange feeling about this road, as the politically correct are begging to slay the political satirist, like a living far side cartoon, making a statement, about which is more corrupt.They say, it takes one to know one but even more to know what you are not . Will corporate media continue to slowly suffocate journalism, with wet rice paper slowly, layer upon layer until journalism is dead? Then they will come for individual’s rights of free speech like a snail over a razor blade until the sword rusts with mucus. This began about Bardstown Road but ends as a Bard, a Town and a Road.
Before Trolleys, the Streetcar
A streetcar could write a book of its own,
It could tell of love and hate.
Young girls proud of their very first job,
Men in ties and suits, their fate.
Ladies in hats and gloves shopping,
Laborers, waitresses in uniforms,
Mothers with babies nursing,
Anyone who rode, rode was the norm.
One time on Hallowe’en, the boys
Played a trick on the downtown line,
The conductor let down the steps for board,
The boys tied their shoes, said “that’s fine.”
It was humiliating for people of color
To have to move that hideous sign one back,
Sometimes they were crumpled all together,
Before Rosa Parks taught us better.
Boys didn’t have cars in those days,
Rode the streetcars to go to the shows,
We wanted to be proud he was “cute,”
He’d slip his arm around you, it goes.
Parents would demand the schedule,
We waited on corners in heat and snow.
Older, we had midnight breakfast at diners,
Waiting for the next one to go.
They rattled along over bridge and street,
Bouncing with human stories to tell,
When crowded, hanging on straps above,
Men were polite, gave their seats to the gals.
Rich and poor alike rode the streetcars,
A drunk man on mine, would say,
Tipping his hat with a goofy smile,
“How doin’ day.”
In the beginning, the fare was three pennies,
Though that didn't last very long,
Still they stayed economical,
And punch cards came along.
Bright advertising on sides and in corners,
Electric lights good for books inside,
Dependable were those clacking old street cars,
Wouldn’t mind another nostalgic ride
© Ben Burton 8/16/2015
As my time on this earth dwindles
Toward those final sips of coffee
After appetizer, entree
And dessert have been devoured
I grieve all those wasted moments
When I only saw forever
Endless time to make it happen
Led me to procrastination
Watching days turn into leap years
Without leaping on the streetcar
Where desires aren't mere illusions
Many kindred spirits gather
To encourage other dreamers
But those streetcars start to vanish
For the reckless and the agèd
Never reckless, merely clueless
Now I'm leaning 'gainst the latter
Pining that which will not happen
For the only recognition
Is a Facebook 'like' or comment
And best wishes to the pauper
Just another starving artist
Less than middling art to offer
DVD's that few are buying
But no trying, pleading, begging
From a heart that's barely beating
Will stave off the wolves demanding
What's no longer in the coffers
Take a sip of cold, black coffee
From the large cup, almost empty
In a house that's pre-foreclosure
I await the hooded reaper
To relieve me of the mis'ry
With regrets, I go too gently
Wrapped in coils of indecision
Never lacking in discretion
But my diffidence contained me
Made no mark upon the middle
Now it's late, I'm cloaked in darkness
That good night has seized the moment
Shed no tears, but heed the lesson
Let no barricade dissuade you
Don't glimpse back and see a wasteland
Strewn with unaccomplished longings
Not that every step was wasted
I gave more than I accepted
But with nothing left to offer
And no streetcars heading my way
To a happier conclusion
With a wistful resignation
I reach for my cup of coffee
And I take the final sip
The road seems endless
Nighttime quickens fear
Unfamiliar, a stranger
In this bus
The air, humid and thick
With danger, angry
Glances swim upstream
Avoiding fallen hate
At first, some were friendly
As hours and days passed
They disappeared, maybe
Changing direction, or
Means of transport, as
Streetcars rattled down the
Middle of the road, always
Heading back to sadness
Women keep their heads
Cloaked tightly, not drawing
Attention, counting on safety
In numbers, various maladies
Afflicted many, silently praying
God is leading them to help
At various moments, fights break
Out, angry words, punches, flotsam
Sometimes wildly swinging knives
Clanging off the sides, a middle
Peace ensues, imaginary walls
Erected, unspoken truce shifts
Uncomfortably
The end, unknown...
There was a time
not so very long ago
when clopping horses
and sighing sleighs
and paddle splashing canoes,
and then, later, trains
and electric streetcars
were the resounding heart
of multicultural transportation.
And local newspapers
with indigenous,
perennially planted village editors
among ecoschooled
one-room patriarchal chiefs
competed only with local gossip
in barber shops
and beauty parlors
for communicating hearts,
listening among each democratic trusting,
sometimes mistrusting,
but rarely anti-trusting, other.
These were slower
and in some more nutritional
ways more goodfaith experiential based
and less indoors extracted,
distracted from outdoor Earth voices
singing resonance,
preaching resilient multicultural climates
of and for co-redeeming health
as Original Intent
of Paradise WinWin Wealth.
There were these times
when horses and sleighs,
mules and oxen,
cattle and pigs,
camels and llamas,
and then, later, bird flight imaginations,
bikes
and ecoschools
and organic composting gardens,
electric streetcars and trains
were the heart of multicultural
PositivEnergy communication.
*VIDEO of San Francisco by Scott McKenzie, Cheers to Tony Bennett.
City of Hearts and Home by the Bay
Day star's mist yields to its grip of a bridge,
Span steel strands, harp-like, golden tags a smidge,
Light drapes the streetcars, up and down the hills,
Chimes, mass speeches, music, and painted stills,
Juggling pantomimes, street fair atmosphere,
Haight and Ashbury crossing yesteryear,
Fisherman's Wharf nearby Pier 39,
Seafood platters and fine dining with wine,
Downtown Union Square, lunching alfresco,
Market Street, Tiffany's, a Broadway show,
San Franciscans, whenever we're in Rome,
Ideal for some, but we call this home.
2022 December 31
*2nd Place*
Take Me There
~~Margarita Lillico: Judged 2023 January 21
*RZ & HMS.
I was here when television wasn’t…
Movies in color were still a new thing
Cars were mostly black
I was here when jet planes weren’t…
Telephones were bulky and hung from the wall
Most every town had a railroad track
I was here when satellites and smartphones didn’t exist
Cars were smoky and clunky
And streetcars were the best way to ride
I was here when school buses were still in the future
When calculators and computers were Science fiction
And kids actually played outside
I was here before electric cars were ho-hum
Before TVs became huge and slim
And fridges were actually cooled with ice
I was around before there were Adidas or Nikes
Before slim legged jeans and Bikini bathing suits
Gotta admit… those last two are nice
I was old enough to be able to read the “whites only” signs
Before there was such a thing as “Equal Rights”
And blacks always got the short end of the stick
I was around when fried chicken was always home cooked
And Tater Tots were not thought up yet
Fast food still in the future takeout definitely not quick
I was here before Supermarkets were…
Here when we feared being bombed at night
I was here when clocks tocked and ticked
I lived when milk was delivered
And the only kind had cream on top
When coal smoke clouded the air
I was around when curse words were reserved for pool halls
Radios and pianos were the sounds that filled our ears
And orange and purple were not for hair
I was around before constant change became the norm
When things were repaired instead of thrown away
And plastic instead of paper took hold
I used to pine for the good ol’ days
Now I wish I could change with the times
But I’m just too damned
…old!!...
309 words
her hands: blooming. sugar, hot
and humming. those wrists, sweet,
no longer sticky. yet stubborn,
reigning the laughter of two years ago.
her lips: fruit. ripe, or rotten, you
no longer remember. still, they remind you.
sin is where your body overruns your soul.
let nature trespass you once in a while.
all she wanted, to be left alone
with sky and sea. something you,
not even you, could give her. life
began to leak away in her voice,
“if the world does not stop, darling,
i just might.” and you could taste
the blood in her sigh, all those
leftovers from two years ago.
her body: gardens. the former home
of such a lovely pulse. you liked to visit
her a lot. she was once a prison of colour
in your foggy seaside town.
but the air that day: salty. streetcars unfolded
in faces you did not know. you felt the world in
past tense. “it is not only the city you have left
behind.” and your message did not reach her.
I JUST HAD, TO ASK THE QUESTION,
WHAT'S REALLY, GOING ON?
SO I OPENED A DOOR IN THE UNIVERSE,
FOUND A PEAK TO PONDER ON.
ODD THINGS SEEM TO HAPPEN
AND NO ONE SEEMS TO CARE.
ONCE IN FICTION MOVIES,
NOW, IT'S EVERYWHERE.
NO ONE, SAW THE UPRISE.
NO ONE, SAW THE THE FALL.
OTHERS, WERE SIMPLY BLINDED,
NOT NOTICING, ANYTHING AT ALL.
PEOPLE WERE BEING BRAINWASHED,
CONGLOMERATES WERE BEING FORMED.
NO ONE SEEMS TO NOTICE,
TRANSHUMANISM, IS NOW THE NORM.
" "SLAVERY" IS A WAY OF LIFE."
MEANING "STAYING INSIDE THE BOX."
NEVER UNDERSTANDING,
THINKING LIKE A FOX.
NO ONE SEEMS TO REASON
SOMEHOW LOGIC DISAPPEARED.
FROM SOMEWHERE, INSIDE THE DARKNESS,
ANDRONIKOS REAPPEARS.
STREETCARS WERE ONCE ELECTRIC,
NOW CONSIDERED, IN THE PAST.
ANOTHER WAY OF SAYING,
NOTHING EVER LAST.
THOUGHTS AND WORDS ON PARCHMENT,
HAVE STOOD THE TEST OF TIME.
ELIMINATING HISTORY ,
SHOULD BE THOUGHT UPON, AS A CRIME.
Michael E. Harris
07242022
Though I’ve walked these streets
To one block or another
I never saw what was
Laid down under
I saw some old photos today
That took my breath away
A place I never knew
A place I never stayed
I saw hills and farms
In place of these busy streets
I saw people in black
And butchers selling meat
And the way to travel
Was horse and buggy
There were roads of dirt
And some that were pretty muddy
Buildings that once housed a movie theater
That is no longer here
Buildings that sold straw, and hay and beer
Streetcars that ran on wires
Hang up there
The faces on many looked so worn gray
Most of the families worked so hard
To bring this town to what it is
Today
I saw historical monuments
Of the famous people that passed by
I saw the faces of children
With excitement in there eyes
As they stood celebrating a parade or fair
They were all happy just hanging around here
I must say I am fascinated by what I saw
To see my old town this way really put me in awe
So now I see how streets and buildings got their names
And I will continue to walk in this town
Never viewing it quite the same
Chicago.Long,long ago.a tribute..
Perfectly sweet, State Street.
The Chicago Theater, beautiful to a fault.
Going to Woolworth's for a twenty-cent chocolate malt.
No maniacs to fear.
No people walking about with stenchy
beer,
Their gigantic boom boxes attacking
my ears.
Mothers wore dresses, their lovely
Daughters, too.
Daddy wore a suit, his sons
Very proudly, too.
Marshall Fields stood, strong, silent and regal.
Beautiful and strong like our glorious
American Eagle!
Streetcars clanged their charming bells,
A time of innocence and elegance"
That unfortunately..fell!
Panagiota Romios 2/11/2019
That circular object that brought revolution,
That, like greased bearings, made human labor easy;
Like machines many, this made its contribution,
The times to change and the cultures to be breezy...!
Carts moved fast; war chariots advanced gorgeously,
This brought out, in agriculture, green whirl, and twirl;
Windmills functioned smoothly; crafts grew enormously,
Spaces grew near as in cars and bikes it did swirl...!
Automobiles, trains, streetcars, wagons, farm machines,
Wheels, like Oxygen, are at work in everything;
In Industries, like nutrients, wheels are sure means,
In quality and quantity richness they bring...!
With the movement of time, the wheel too moves gladly,
Cultures, vivid, join hands with the wheel comradely...!!!