Long Brooklyn Poems
Long Brooklyn Poems. Below are the most popular long Brooklyn by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Brooklyn poems by poem length and keyword.
AntiPoem 31 “Rita Montero”
(Poet’s instruction: Kindly play “Ay, Mama Inez”
by Rita Montero while reading this AntiPoem)
a red trolley finds Ebbets Field behind a pigtown ditch
significant hotdogs and burnt singles melt into the pitch
Jackie Robinson squares off with an ash tree riding the sky
the flag of our fathers dancing in center field poised to fly
“honey, I hope you like these seats here in the bleachers
you can see Bedford on the phone looking for preachers
an endless parade of white-walled tires scurrying on by
can you smell the Nathan’s dogs downstairs on hot rye
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
“Una mujer negra se asoma en el teatro de Buenos Aires”
Argentine goddess with roots in the dark seeping prairies
musically squeezes the brass ring as the black cloud dries
“Rita Montero, you are as lovely as your sweet empanada pies
your wonderful sidewalks through gardens of lapacho trumpets
please come sit with me here, to talk and to eat these crumpets
to speak of your forever glissandos and sad asado whispers
your electric shadows finding humble graces at vespers
retrieving lost spaces from opera teachers and stupid men
to step forward again with singing eyes and a ballpoint pen
Rompiste la puerta blanca maloliente!”
please Rita meet me in Córdoba next wednesday”
she sits in her bleacher seat with a Nathan’s dog on hot rye
“honey, I hope we can see Jackie Robinson hit a deep fly
high up into the airy Brooklyn blue arching yet over Bedford
the democrats in section seven will applaud the proud leopard
Rita Montero, I can see her in the grandstand behind Shotton
she is giving absolution for all the skin sins now long forgotten
let us hurry hence dear, before this inning comes to an end
and our Jackie Robinson comes barreling up to bat again”
When I was old enough, my mom
Would send me to the store,
Specifically, the bakery,
For treats I did adore.
But first, I had to ask them for
A rye bread they would slice,
With seeds, of course, or else
A pumpernickel would suffice.
And then some Linzer tarts for her,
Those filled with berry jam;
Then finally, the cakes
That made me happy as a clam.
Their name was Charlotte Russe,
A sponge cake in a cardboard sleeve,
With whipped cream and a cherry –
Just too perfect to believe!
They put them in a cardboard box
For me and my two bros
And tied it with a red-striped string,
As all of Brooklyn knows.
Today I wouldn’t like them –
Linzer tarts have more appeal –
But with a Charlotte Russe, back then,
How happy I would feel!
There was a store in Brooklyn selling
Food we’d often crave.
The owners were a couple
Known to all as Ruth and Dave.
On weekends I was sent there
Walking just a few short blocks
To buy bagels, cream cheese, whitefish
And some thin-sliced salty lox.
At times there was baked salmon
And if my mom had the urge,
On chocolate-covered jells
And graham crackers we would splurge.
It wasn’t every week we’d get
Those yummy foods to eat.
We knew a trip to Ruth and Dave’s
Was for a special treat.
So many years have passed I’m sure
That Ruth and Dave are dead,
But I can see them smiling,
She with braids piled on her head.
An actor returns to his Beverly Hills mansion –
blows his brains out with a 38 special.
I must have dozed off,
cops at my door,
a line of chain-smoking flashbulbs
in baggy turn-ups.
I watch myself being taken away in a body bag.
The movie is badly spliced.
Black Packard’s keep morphing into flying saucers.
We are all wearing hats,
even the writers in the backroom
are wearing wide-brimmed hats.
The women are wearing hats.
They wear pencil thin skirts,
and talk out of the side of their mouths.
A screen flickers;
a skinny man behind an obscuring microphone
apologizes for the delay.
Meanwhile, space aliens have landed in Brooklyn,
and are exterminating people in hats.
It’s a radio show hoax,
but I don’t know that –
until I wake-up
into a world filled with terror and chaos,
there are no aliens and few brimmed hats.
I can’t sleep.
From Ebbett’s Field, they had to move away.
This team sought greener pastures in LA.
What they needed was a little change of scene.
The team moved into a park at Chavez Ravine.
Back in Brooklyn, the boys had a good home.
Their fans didn’t want the team to roam.
A reason to move was the advent of jet travel.
Coast to coast flights were made practical.
The appeal in Southern California didn’t seem to stick.
The boys in blue were getting a little homesick.
To their old Brooklyn fans, they felt regrets.
New Yorkers became less than satisfied with the Mets.
Here’s a little news that may astound:
The Los Angeles Dodgers are now Brooklyn-bound!
Modern sonnet
December 22, 2012
In Hip City/Tony Adamo
where rhythms collide, and no jive is spoken/
Guru laid down the truth, a fusion of jazz and rap/ no holds barred streetwise rap talk/ Just as Herbie’s touch on keys/ his Headhunters laid down their stretching rhythm with Mike Clark, drums, and Paul Jackson bass, (God Made Me Funky)
echoing all over the ears in the streets/
Digable Planets breathed life
into conversations, with their subgenres into rap, jazz and hip hop/
The DP’s spoken word rap jazz hit the airwaves with their debut album (A New Refutation of Time and Space)/
Brooklyn NY was the Digable Planets home base in 1993/
Donald Byrd’s trumpet bustin' out/while the Black Byrds jazz funk blows your mind sky high/ Groove Collective stirred the soul pot with afro-pop/ Latin jazz funk/and old skool hip hop till ya drop/
while Jazzhole’s sick sound wrapped us in rapid-fire bop rap jazz-a- lot dialogue
of funky bass lines and drum machine hot grooves/
Drums beat, turning our feet to the dance floor/
turntables double scratchin’ in time/
congas and the horn section called out with their sweaty beat in funky time/
we jammed under urban lights/ and held each other tight/
where the echoes of legends lingered/ into the hot New York night/
Miles, Wynton, Diz, Trane, and the Bird/ their spirit souls
and massive tones bustin’ out a thousand-fold/
we are the new jazz of today/ with new sounds and a new way to play and listen to what’s being said in our life and political ways/ Ya dig?
Brooklyn Cyclone number nine
Is not ready to decline
Clipity clop it climbs
Into the blue sky where the sun shines
Until it turns orange while enjoying evening wine
There is magic in the air
Summer loving with the one who cares
Flashing lights all around
Tradition of a rural community fairground
Instead this is on an island
Architectural feats worth admiring
Outside the big city
That never accepted any pity
National League remembers the past
Mets audition potential players to cast
As all the cotton candy melts
Everyone with a hot dog can’t tighten their belts
In the middle to a season
Enjoying weather supposedly pleasing
Where relaxation is the reason
Cousin Brucie
Has rocking facts that are juicy
About that Palisades Park
That was a long trip for the late Dick Clark
Brooklyn Cyclone number nine
Takes the big drop right on time
Screams are heard
By the flying birds
Down on the beach
Where NYC is in reach
He’s a broken leg performer with a crooked second act.
Went from Brooklyn to Las Vegas with his sarcasm intact.
Does a Smith and Wesson stand-up, voice as sweet as antifreeze.
Tells you how he lost his cherry to some hooker overseas.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as salty as a used spittoon.
MCs the neon circus
Where he shines just like a plumber’s moon.
Doesn’t pander to his critics. Slanders movie stars for laughs
Wielding heavy-handed put-downs like the jawbone of an ass.
Always orders top shelf vintage; likes his girlfriends under-age.
He’s the truth behind those rumors they found bloodstains on the stage.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
Claims a hammer as his only tool.
A shylock rooked his agent,
Left him face down in the swimming pool.
He’s a smoke and mirrors pundit; all his opinions are strong.
Pegs some yokel as a sucker and he slams him all night long.
Bet the house at Caesar’s Palace; he was shaken, never stirred.
God, I hope that pregnant widow didn’t take him at his word.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as wholesome as a canker sore.
Don’t ever lend him money.
He’ll just blow it at the liquor store.
He’s a poster child for rehab at the bottom of a slump.
Tried to come back with a wisecrack when Aunt Sophie found a lump.
He insinuates his poison to the marrow of the bone.
He’ll be praying for an encore on the night he dies alone.
They call him Mr. Sunshine.
He’s as funny as a dry monsoon.
He isn’t Mr. Starbuck.
He’s just a prick with a sharp harpoon.
Did ya hear the one about those crazy corporate chemists?
They’ve crossed the ebola virus with e-coli bacteria.
It’s being marketed in West Africa by Monsanto as Ebo Cola!
Being happy was my wish for cynosure,
in living, I sought either fame or wealth...
having seen the results of utter foolishness;
although I claim nothing, I have everything.
No villas in Hollywood with a big screen and pool,
no ranches on the wild prairies of Southern Texas,
no suites on the Upper East Side* or Greenpoint,*
only a studio in Queens*where I write and compose.
Cynosure can enrich or even destroy someone's life,
it's a light we are attracted to, its brilliance is delusive;
and following any dream we must stay on the same path,
not diverge and go astray to find something so destructible.
Many have a cynosure for arts, others for law and science;
whatever your vocation is: follow it and be very successful,
on the contrary, the majority of us must settle for much less,
leading a normal life and raise children who'll become leaders.
Let your cynosure for contentment fill you with great delights,
learn from the wise and the smart, choose wisdom and life;
drink wine, celebrate each given moment with sheer thrill,
and despite your rank, you can't be denied the joy of living.
* Upper East Side: New York City
* Greenpoint: Brooklyn, NY
* Queens: one of the four counties
which make up NY City
Written on 6/27/2016
POOR MAN'S GREETINGS
It's a world full of misconceptions and jest,
Riches of the rich makes the poor oppressed.
Though greetings are sincere and heartfelt,
We might often raise brows, leaving us upset.
The poorman's "Goodafternoon," is like backlash
Because desperate demands causes a splash,
So we'd scoff & assume he'd beg for some cash.
But little did we know his sole intention
Might be to spread joy & genuine affection.
"Please, can you spare some sunshine, if you may?"
He'd chuckle, hoping to brighten our day.
But we lie on the network when we hear "Please, can you..."
Making him feel flat and like a failed fool.
Oh no, how we misjudged his humble plea,
Thinking it was a beggar's desperate decree.
With a twinkle in his eyes & a radiant smile,
He'd simply wish to be happy, even for a while
And say to himself, "Not all paupers beg for bread."
But wouldn't forget the insults or what was said.
His greetings, mistaken for pitiful appeals,
Yet he never ceased to spread his good wills.²¹
Though not rag cladded, he's perceived as filthy.
A poor man's greetings might be sincere & pretty.
Some broke dudes might hail you in a jiffy
In order to make a request & set your pocket free.
That's when the broke bloke is broken to brooklyn
Even though he might be looking sharp & clean.
But some greets you with kindness and cheer,
No motives attached, they show it's sincere²8
Give them a smile in return, and hold them dear!
Vick Manuel Poetry {VMP}
Copyright ©? December.