John Steinbeck Poems | Examples

Of Mice and Men

and hopeless in between ~ who died like rats chasing american dreams


Book by John Steinbeck
Too late for Kim’s contest

Star Spangled Banner

Since I was a small child and would try to sing,
when we rise and sing the praises of "Old Glory,"
it brings tears to my eyes. Maybe it's because we
have endured much to keep our flag flying--too
many wars, too many injured, too many dead.
Or, perhaps, in this "Winter of Our Discontent,"*
whether Red or blue or neutral tan, we can, as one,
STAND UNITED.
                call me old fashioned
         but the star spangled banner
              brings tears to my eyes

*Winter of Our Discontent," novel by John Steinbeck,
Shakespeare's "The Tragedy of King Richard III"

February 9, 2023 
for "It Means A Lot To Me" contest
by Regina McIntosh

Grapes of Wrath Revisited

John Steinbeck wrote the story
Of the Okie family Joad as they
Travelled down their bleak 
Hard California bound road.
Tractored out by the Cats
After the bank had foreclosed,
No feelings of welcome as
They’d hoped and supposed.

Woody Guthrie sang the ballads
Of that desparate Dust Bowl
Spoke of the period 
From the heart and soul.
From those depths of despair
Solidarity brought hope
Gave the Okies some comfort
Perhaps helped them to cope.

Were lessons learned
Could it happen over again,
With global warming is it just
A case of not if but when?
Have we learned any charity,
Would we understand the situation,
Or would it sadly be as before
That same old case of exploitation?

A Writers Life

A WRITERS LIFE
 There is on Facebook pictures of dead film stars
 like Elisabeth Taylor, who was born in London 
and photos of her childhood. 
I don´t really care about this. We should remember her
as a great actress, see her movies and shut up.
Then we have Ernest Hemingway, who is one of me
 favourite writers, alas, he often appears in the picture 
of his life, not so much about his writing, more about
his adventures, which I do not care to read about.
Dos Passos, another great writer, lived a smaller amount
of daring-do, but he surpassed Hemingway in his  
say, The Bridge over San Louis Ray”, not to forget 
John Steinbeck, Theodore Dreiser and William Faulkner.
I like American writes, pre-word processor, 
and now they are going mad producing toms of too many words.
The thing is this. I don´t want to know about their childhood.

Influences

In youth I learned to jump
First off steps, then rooftops
Spirit of adventure
Nurtured in the heart of a child

Preschool acrobat twirling on my head
Grandma swatted my bottom
Repeated words like Tomboy
Never learned to be ladylike

Catholic school discipline
Uniforms, religion classes, daily mass
Never satisfied with any accomplishment
Even the nuns called me “perfectionist”

Blessed with storytellers in my family
Dad and sis would send me to dreamland
On the wings of a unicorn
Or Shakespeare’s amazing plays

Family and friends I hold dear
Each has influenced my thinking
I learned to offer support in troubled times
And to thank God every day for special people

Unable to have children
The most crushing blow
Accepted at a young age
But rued for a lifetime

Lover of Jack London, John Steinbeck
From Jack, I found adventure
From John, I learned compassion 
Dickinson’s poetry touched my heart

If I can find a way
To make a friend feel joy
Then this is my mission
Comforter, nurturer




November 16, 2020
For Silent One’s “It's a part of me - Life and the perceptions and philosophies you hold Poetry Contest.”

The Innheritance

The Inheritance
 
When my mother died, she had a flat
Belonging to social security and the was nothing
Of inheritance to speak about
She had a bookshelf full of books. Most belonged and
Were stolen at the local library and she was selective
When it came to literature.
There were also books Stalin would have approved  
Happy workers at a collective farm.
When I came the flat was empty; it needed a lick of paint
ready to receive other clients, the bookshelf was gone.
Relatives had taken furniture and pictures
Which I assumed needed the more than me.
I felt sorrowful about the books they were my mother’s
Soul, most likely they had been thrown away
By non- readers; mind I had read most of the books
She was particularly fond of Dos Passos and
John Steinbeck, but books never die, I remembered them.
My mother and literature go together I no longer
Read as much as I did, but my mother’s eyes are still
There, in my dreams.

I Wish Cesar Chavez Was Here

I wish Cesar was here 
now
Someone who know how important
farm workers are, giving them a strong
voice,
You got to see this empire
and how it has exploited all the life
that built it,
And all the money spent to fight needless
wars, 
And all the reasons why the rich invest
all their money in stocks and bonds,
And maybe try working in the fields
just for a day
And they grow wild flowers and
when the honey bees come in
they sing aleluya 
just because they are wild

I just wish you trouble yourself
to know, that they know
that they are no different 
that you

Aleluya Aleluya Aleluya
tell me about math
tell me about 
all this life in the universe
I just wish 
you cared enough to 
worry about thee
Like Cesar, and John Steinbeck 
did.
Is that even possible
Trust me when I tell you this
Aleluya yes it is.

Peace!

Favourite Novelists

Favourite Novelists 

Of all the American writers I knew of
some favourites remain, like Theodore Dreiser.
John Dos Passos, John Steinbeck and 
Ernest Hemingway. I mentioning him the last,
although I admired his writing, still does 
immensely, he was a master, like Dos Passos,
in short sentences, but I disliked his theme 
often about hunting and shooting, personally
I think he was a big softy never killed  
A thing in his life. These days if I read a novel
I rarely do – lack of patience- I prefer 
the way John Steinbeck wrote.
I`m thinking of writers using the English 
language, I find some English writer like
Martin Amis practically unreadable as he 
appears to need to impress
readers with his erudition; in all should know I sit 
down and read I would prefer an American 
novelist

Towards a New Home

Once there was an end of the war in sight,
they built their John Steinbeck ship,
hoisted the Ayn Rand flag
and sailed to the promised land.

Upon the honeyed shore, there she was,
their old enemy, milky arms wide open in welcome.

Blood and spit dripping from her mouth, she said,
kindness isn't a two-way street.






-------------------------------------------------------------------------
Date: 17 / 11 / 2016

Delusions of Poetry

She was half past metrical
   quarter nonsensical theatrics, 
    bordered south of burbled oddities, 
fashioned herself enigmatically stated
    whorling an overly zealous lexicon,
recklessly aimed for macrocosmos
   bust a rhyme on defeated asphalt,
whereupon she never ceased to
  waver from gumption's potential 
     'tween vast illusions of poetry

“The writer must believe that what he is 

doing is the most important thing in the 

world. And he must hold to this illusion 

even when he knows it is not true.” 

John  Steinbeck

Charles Phillips

The modern immortal -
 man of open heart, singer of the stars.
 Professor at the prestigious university.
 Prose stylist as John Steinbeck.
 
In your poems,
 your prosody has melody –
 rhythmic scansion
 as Paderewski’s music.
 
You described us in your poems:
 The New Poland,
 thoughts of Holland
 and the American States.
 
Edward Burne-Jones
 painted what you described
 so did Leon Bonnat, Styka
 and many others.
 
The sculpted words of your prose
 are with us. We are lifting the covers
 of facts and truth in your pages.
 Myrrh to you for prophetic words.

Fully Booked 1

We harvested the grapes in late autumn	
when ripeness of love was at its best,			
but deceit in the time of maturing		
changed the passion to wrath and unrest.	

Acerbic vinegar replaced sweet wine 	
and richness of flavour ceased to be mine.	
Betrayed was the pledge of a tender vine.	

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -  
Syllable count: 10-9-10-9  10-10-10
Rhyme Scheme: a b   c  b   d   d    d  

Novel: Grapes of Wrath (John Steinbeck)
Contest: Titles of Novels 
Sponsor: Nette Onclaud
Placed 3rd
© paul callus ~ 10 June 2016

The Summer of My Enlightenment

4 matches left
for John Steinbeck @ Annabel Lee@of course E.A.POE

Chickens; a roaring rooster
An old house filled with flys
and many bugs
Many Mexican neighbor
   Friend
no water no elec
   No Amends
Romans 11: 29
" For the gifts and calling of GOD are without repentance"
Cold beer sometimes-mostly hot
and a cheap cigar
   Romans 12:9
dissimulation means Hypocrisy-Scornful-psalm1vs1
Noise heat sweat no work no shower no money no respect
          NO REGRET
nO FAMILY NO CHURCH
A FEW RARE FRIENDS
I WILL NOT USE
       Enlightenment

I AM embedded in a bunker on the front...
Know I Love You and all the little Children too...
I do not like Zealots who work for money!
I like people that work for GOD

Bad Luck Pearl

I have found what I consider a great prize:
In an oyster was a pearl of enormous size.
The villagers have all flocked around me.
This great jewel is what they have come to see.
This could bring my wife and I some money.
Now, I can see a future for our baby.

However, my once friendly neighbors hate me.
My wife and I are victims of their jealousy.
They are trying to get my pearl out of trickery.
Having no value is what they want to convince me.
For medical care, they demanded I pay.
My baby got very sick and died the other day.
Bad luck and misfortune have hounded us all the way.
This pearl is unlucky and not welcome anymore.
I will throw it back into the water where I found it before.

Based on the short story “The Pearl” by the late John Steinbeck.

March 15, 2013

Kiss the Rain

We farmers are sliding deeper into the hole.
The drought has caused a devastating dust bowl.
Unlike the Joads who moved out the California,
this family wants to keep its feet in Oklahoma.
Failures of the crops has really been a pain.
Can’t the Almighty be merciful and bring rain?
What we see is another dry and desolate day.
The only thing we have left to do is pray.
If the rain finally comes and brings an end to this,
the very ground we walk upon is what I will kiss.

Based upon the novel “The Grapes of Wrath” by John Steinbeck

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