Long Borough Poems
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Her two biggest hits were "Lay Down" and "Brand New Key"
Most fans knew her only by her first name, "Melanie".
She was the pride and joy of the Queens borough of New York City.
Later, Melanie lived in the town of Red Bank, New Jersey.
In France, a song achieved number one with "Bobo's Party"
Later, in the Netherlands, "Beautiful People" attained popularity.
Relatively few were aware Melanie's last name was "Safka".
"Brand New Key" reached number one in the U.S. and Canada.
As a singer/songwriter, this lady proved to be prolific.
Melanie still performs today, and is considered terrific.
I thank wikipedia.org for valuable information I obtained to write this poem.
Although it's been several years since we drifted apart
I still dream of you for you hold a place in my heart.
In the zenith of the full moon's glow late last night,
I dreamt of you, my lost loved one as you took flight
on a journey, but this warning to you I must impart...
What dire fate befalls you is not completely clear,
but I know you'll be in danger, and for your life I fear
that somewhere within a city borough you'll fall ill.
The thought of you sick or injured gives me a chill.
Someone follows you on a street, dark and drear!
If you could read my thoughts, you'd be forewarned.
Some would say my premonition should be scorned,
but in this reverie of you the vision seems so real.
I hear you calling me, and I sense the pain you feel.
I've Deja vous of losing you again, for I have mourned.
I'm filled with dread after having this mystical dream,
and woke in a sweat, trying desperately not to scream.
Raced to the window and gazed at the gold gilded moon,
praying that you are well, and I'll hear from you soon.
I wish it with all my heart on the light of a moonbeam.
October 7, 2022
The Mystical Dream Contest
Sponsored by Anoucheka Gangabissoon
A flannel-washed-out school.
Unsullied nuns in a sullen line.
Again hearing the quacking of ducks
as new brown leathers shoes
stepped and skipped,
though skipping was a serious offense
behind the school fence.
London, eons ago,
a blighted borough
lost in the scant gravy
of rationed times.
Was I six, was I even aware
of my eyes? What they took in
or let out?
How to recall
what I was, or who all others were.
Ad hoc groupings of tabula rasa
jostling to be known
unto themselves.
We were collated, tagged, and fed,
led to cold block toilets
guarded by black and white sentinels
as we scrubbed ink off fingers
with bricks of green carbolic.
Rosery beads clicked impatiently
outside as a bride of Christ listened in.
Then were returned to the inky wells
to spill once more.
Blank slates were our minds.
I do not think anyone wrote on mine
or I on other slates.
When we stepped out of line
we were chastised by
a thin whip-lashing cane,
it was the way of our Lord
we were told.
Whimpers and snotty noses
from ill-nourished late developers.
We were an almost,
happy to be
that unquestioning flannel grey,
all quacking in a row
and waiting for the light.
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)
Atheism is a schism
Defined by naturalism
If that’s the case
You may as well erase
And deny supernaturalism
But that's sedentary
Miracles are extraordinary,
That’s not an argument against them
Into the horns of a dilemma your hemmed
Without omniscience,
you must appeal to ubiquity
But it’s not that easy
You can’t just redefine things or deny things
(With these onion rings I thee wed
I say I hate onions, so do I just pretend
There’s no existence for all onion rings?)
The impossibility of the contrary
comes over hill and dale
Christianity is not a fairytale,
or an airy flail
All other worldviews fail
False gods, and self-deception curtailed
So, what has crept in?
What have you let in?
We must take all thoughts captive
To The One and Only Captain
The Reason for reason
So, look through the spectacles of Scripture
Let the Holy Spirit surround you as a cincture
This ubiquitous view
Presented (to the saints) that's me and you
To this conclusion (through human reason)
you did not picture
It’s a revelation from God
Swift are the feet with the Gospel shod
A commission to you and I
That came down from the Face of the sky
To where we all trod
Every tribe, tongue and nation (and borough)
To the Greek and the Jew here below
Jesus making us whole again
Washing us in His blood, all men
The blood making us whiter than snow
Looking through rose-colored glasses
Is adequate if you are the blinded masses
Seeing things through
An autonomous view
An argument succumbed to,
surmounted slower than molasses
Summatim in/de poetica:
(So faith and reason do not have to part
Like the stunted philosophy of Rene Descarte
And do not assume like David Hume,
or be in want like Immanuel Kant
Be more like Augustine,
who said "credo ut intelligam"
"I believe in order to understand)
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
klaus says humanity has lost its trust' so i guess to regain
It is his new must??
trump has won and now presides.' As many people are
Opening their eyes.?]
Many Americans phoned and texted when a new bill was
Debated' and we saw things got really affected.'
I don't know how ( that went down ?)
With all those evil? davos clowns?
soros gates claus and carny, atten-borough thun-burg they'd send you barmy!
In listening to such fifteen minutes? it is plenty.' Of time
To escape the ' forever citys' and before they're built.!
Like a hive.? Do we have a mind.? Hmm think..Think think.?
Also action will do fine.' What will be the next distractions.? Maybe
Its simply best to do as above.? Get involved to devolve.!
Give the agenda a shove.? Which is like a train on its track
Of lies.?? If you remove some sections off a cliff it
Fly's
The jungle drums have throbbed in Neasden
The message has swiftly spread about
So if you’re travelling around the area
Its suggested you carefully watch out
For the call has been answered
The length and breadth of our fair land
Certain heroes not been found reticent
Back here at the nation’s command
It started with just our Lawrence
But his example aroused so many more
Now in the back streets of Neasden
Camps our own elite camel corps
The camel’s throaty braying
Out sounds morning cocks
And the borough has no need now
For any morning alarm clocks
They are dedicated veterans
Fierce warriors to a man
All there craving for action
Since this campaign began
It’s a sight of heart stopping beauty
A hundred and thirty camels smart and neat
All drawn up in parade order
Down the whole length of our street
The nation owes it all to Lawrence
Who without any idle flaunting
Knew just where his duty lay
And was not found wanting
The jungle drums have throbbed in Neasden
The message has swiftly spread about
So if you’re travelling around the area
Its suggested you carefully watch out
This dusty rocking chair hidden for, at least, two decades
in a corner of the dark attic, where a white-haired man
used to sit in and rock himself to sleep, cuddled in a wool blanket:
can tell many how and when it was made
by that cigar-smoking grandfather of yours...
It just lay there picking up much space,
silently abandoned and not needed by anyone to lay back and gaze;
so ignored were the mastery and love that took in making it;
when I heard him stump on the long stairs,
sunshine filtered through, the unwashed window, to engage his wit....
Curious boy, staring at me with awe, you should know
that I originated from a timber forest too dense;
and the hard and thick wood was cut down by a sharp saw:
bought in the quite borough of Queens,
to be worked on by very rough hands:
with the intention of creating charm and elegance...
Take a soft rag and some furniture polish from the tiny closet,
and bring me back to the previous life of my self-importance:
my luster lasted only for fifty prosperous years,
then suddenly I was put away to face darkness;
and I longed for someone who could listen with interest,
and keep me company to forget my wretchedness...
Sympathetic boy, as I speak, write down this worth-telling story,
in your brand-new composition book with an interesting essay:
to let others know that I was a jewel that dazzled from all four corners;
when Americans fall again on hard and unacceptable times,
they can look it up to be comforted and be told how to cope with their woes,
or even how to see their hardship and deprivation a momentary demise...
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
Side-walk treks along concrete ribbons.
Listening to the passing cars,
to the slipstreams of travelling minds,
their encapsulated lives
humming electrically just as mine.
I don't know this part of the city,
people in my neighborhood
tell of dark days and violent nights
in this borough.
Maybe I should whistle,
stuff hands in pockets,
as if I had a gun,
or a bible?
Occasional smiles
as folks swing-on by,
even the kids are happy,
to be just where they are.
This walk is leading me onward,
and if I get more lost
than I am now,
I shall have found my way
into, a better roadmap
of myself.