Long Chicago Poems
Long Chicago Poems. Below are the most popular long Chicago by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Chicago poems by poem length and keyword.
50 Jews are attacked
No one fights back
A pro-Israel rally in Naper Village* *Naperville, IL
Attracts Palestinian thugs and bullies
'Palestine from Sea to Sea,' they yell and scream
'Murder the Jews,' they shout and mean
With the Palestinians starting fights
The Naper police show their true lights
They cancel the rally, because they claim
They can't prevent Jews from getting maimed
On May 23, fifty Jews are attacked
No one fights back
____________________________________________
Read about this disgrace on 'Arutz Sheva Israel News'
for May 23. And btw, the Chicago papers are so cowed
by the Palestinians and their supporters, they didn't
print one word about this. Another disgrace!
We suddenly strolled down Lakeshore drive
facing Goethe street named after Wolfgang von
Goethe famous German poet just at the crosswalk
while waving to the hidden Walter Payton
nooks wandering steel of recycled metal
forming beautiful art found beneath the
Gold coast and shorelines of ancient buildings
surrounding the Drake hotel while rust erosion
casted away sticking to the bottom of stalled
sail boats awaiting the thaw of Lake Michigan
dashing for coffee mingling with the chess
players when a lady stepped on my sketchers
right at the heel I continued strutting reaching
Lincoln park zoo in time for the giant Tigers
to pounce my finger tips began to frost a bit
I took a few easy steps to the museum I always
love the museums of Chicago dazzled by creativity
art and history settling down the Dusable atmosphere
I supposed I'd wandered to far facing the cheese
building on Lasalle and Van Burean that housed
all the serial killers over looking Navy pier in a faint
distance I approached Maggie Daley park named
after Mayor Daleys precious wife finally resting for a
calming respite overlooking the cities shoreline
walking backwards I notice the water tower behind
a quiet bench empty calming glancing over the hustle
and bustle of Lakeshore drive last stop the sign reads
do not enter only way Goethe and Lakeshore drive the
old homeless shelter salvation army chaplin services home
That's Chicago
9/22/1983
I drove your shining,Cadillac, Daddy!
The lead car to the cemetery.
A stuffed bear, your Borsalino,
In the August, back window,fino!
You, in the hearse, a few feet behind..
Tears on the, wheel, almost went blind.
Silent pallbearers, waited, white gloved.
Upset was I,.into earth, you'd be shoved.
Priest stands in prayerful solemnity,
Oh,God, take not my Father from me!
Family, friends around the grave stood,
Then, gone, into the silent, earth's hood.
You, who presented me as a debutante.
Beside myself, now, not nonchalant.
You left me to a world,full of want.
For your lost love, I always have sought.
A few days later, I came to sing you, your song.
The one you sang, though many years long!
"Daddy's Little Girl", you sang to me,
When I, was still the star in your tree!
Lyrics
Bobby Burke and Horace Gerlach
1949
" You'e the end of a rainbow, my pot of gold.
You're Daddy's little girl, to have and hold.
A precious gem, is what you are!
You're Mommy's bright and shining star.
You're the Spirit of Christmas, our Star on
the tree.
You're the Easter Bunny to Mommy and me!
You're sugar, you're spice, you are everything nice...
And you're Daddy's little girl!"
"""""""""""""
Song is also on. You Tube
Still love you, Daddy!
Panagiota's First Elegy
Dedicated to you, Dad!
*****************
Golly , I was just thirteen and coming back from school.
In winter, in Chicago, to not walk fast on ice, was
near a golden rule!
The wind was howling like a hungry wolf on the roam.
There inside, I saw my dog, asleep on warm alpace
blanket, indoors at home.
The sidewalk surfaces, all covered with sheets of ice.
Carefully, most carefully, my steps on the driveway,
were light and silent as mice.
Suddenly, I saw no house, just the sky staring at me.
Quite honestly, I could not breathe,feeling attacked
from behind by a giant Sequoia tree.
I gathered up my school belongings, crawling up the
driveway with a cut on my knee.
Never so happy was I to be indoors, welcomed by my dog,
worry in his, eyes could I see.
12/21/2021
During the time before television came to our home, My dad sat there in his car on many a dark Southern night. And I was somewhere close by, enjoying a wonderful
game of Major League Baseball on the radio.
O, there were several teams in the majors like The Pirates,
The White Socks and The Red Socks were popular
teams. But in my town in Northern Mississippi, baseball was all about the Cardinals, the Dodgers, and the Yankees.
There were many sights and sounds of baseball beaming from radios and television sets. I must say that I mean no disrespect to other good and decent sportscasters,
but Harry Carry and Pee Wee Reese made us feel like we
were there in the stands.
My dad had lots of friends, but two were rivals in the game.
There was his friend, the Yankee man name Mr. Baines;
And then, Mr. Mon, his other friend, was a Dodger fan.
But my dad’s heart was in St. Louis with Stan the Man.
In the memory of my mind, I can hear those games now on the radio.
Those nights were dark and hot, but the baseball captured and calmed me.
Reading newspapers and enjoying a baseball game on the radio were two
things my dad and I shared together. But also, later on, we obtained a television. With the snapshots tucked away in the frames of my mind, after 50-plus years, I can still see the Baseball Game of the Week.
I'm rather certain that neither my dad nor his two friends ever graced the stadiums of their teams. I'm proud to say that it was through them that I developed a deep love for the game. So, in a way, when I saw two games at Wrigley Field in Chicago, they were there also; or when I enjoyed two games of the Giants at Candlestick Park in San Francisco, they sat right next to me.
They say that baseball is America’s great past time experience;
but for me, baseball was always about ‘now and then’, ‘today, and
‘tomorrow’ too. It was about a little country boy fantasizing
and dreaming today about what could be tomorrow.
Written 042010; Entry122422PS Contest, Matt Caliri, Poetry in Motion
The National Pastime, Phillip Garcia
also: (Screwed XV11 Contest, Rod Carmack; 10th Pl)
Why don’t you get in the kitchen Peg and stick your head in the oven?
Peg rolls her eyes, wishing she had stayed in safety of her witch’s coven.
Al, if I put anything in the oven, it will be your head, not mine.
She said, with a sweetness that made her Chicago accent sublime.
Yes, the sparring has begun because these two are married and awake.
Kelly and Bud are not downstairs yet, couple’s snide remarks no mistake.
There is nothing healthy to eat in the kitchen maybe a bit of lemon or lime.
For to shop for groceries would take Peg away from clothes shopping time.
Al is sitting in front of the TV, his stomach growling for some kind of food.
He is thinking things about Peg, his wife, and most of these things are rude.
Their banter is hilarious to watch on TV, fun to watch, gives us a laugh.
The eighties was when rudeness on the screen was a sought after giraffe.
Here come Kelly and Bud to add more sarcastic comments to the screen.
For some reason or another, this is when mean became a lot less obscene.
His name was Lattie McGee.
I never met him, and he never met me,
but he touched my life in a profound way
when I saw his face on the news one day.
His little body was bruised and battered,
every bone in this child was broken or shattered.
He was tortured to death at the age of four,
on the south side of Chicago, like a prisoner of war.
He was beaten, he was gagged, then hung upside down.
He was burned, he was starved, and then he was bound
inside a dark closet to hang there and die,
for no one heard the little boy cry, no one heard the little boy cry.
Thirty years to life, Johnny Campbell received.
He showed no remorse, he never even grieved
for the tiny boy named Lattie McGee
who died so young and so tragically.
If the time ever comes for Johnny to be free,
I pray the parole board will look at him and see
that no man who tortured a child that way,
should ever again see the light of day.
Let him suffer alone, let him rot in his cell!
For what he did to Lattie, may he burn in hell!
Before he takes his last breath, before he can state his case,
I hope that he sees Lattie’s innocent face.
May he look terror in the eyes, may he feel Lattie’s pain.
May he struggle to survive, but let it be in vain.
When the last light goes out before Johnny Campbell dies,
may he forever and ever, hear Lattie’s cries…
forever and ever, hear Lattie’s cries…
Charley Lou is a mouse who is totally hip
At age thirteen, she thinks she has a grip.
She wears plaid skirts that flip at her hip
A pro at giving truant officers the slip.
I have it on authority from a likely source,
Charley Lou’s high-top shoes are from Chicago of course
Dangling in her ears are clip gears from her cousin Boris.
She wears Scottish plaid skirts from a Celtic source.
The teenage mice sometimes give Charley Lou the eye.
She is dangerous though, says my cousin Bri.
We know she is crafty, conniving and sly.
She lured one guy into a trap that made him die.
What kind of a trap? We asked, horrified.
I hoped the gossip had been outrageously glorified.
No one could attest that the rumor was one bit true.
Just one of many stories about sassy Charley Lou.
Kids of different
nationalities gather
every day to play
in the streets of Chicago
once their daily chores are done.
They play with marbles,
scummy top, pitching pennies,
or a rambunctious
game of stickball in the old
neighborhood cobblestone streets.
Children stand and watch;
the pitcher keeps a firm hold,
throwing the tattered
ball, placing it hard right down
the middle of the chalked square.
With broom handle in
both hands, batter swings, striking
the small tattered ball.
With excitement the kids jump,
clapping and cheering, "Run! Run!"
8/21/2017
For the Poetry Contest: Form T
Sponsored by: Broken Wings
On the theme of ............. 1. Tattered
READ ALL ABOUT IT
AS THE DAY BEGIN THE NOISY CROWD THE SOUND
OF PEN PRESSED CLOSE TO THE DOCKET OF NEWS
HOT OFF THE PRESSES WAIT FOR NIGHT CRAWLS TO
ENJOY CARESSES THE BUISNESS CROWDS ARE ALL
SO LOUD UNTIL THE TRAIN OF THOUGHT LEAVES
AS SHE ENTERS THE WRONG COACH MAKING THE
WRONG TURN AS THE LIGHT READ GREEN TO GO
SO IT SEEMS BUT HENCE NOT BE TRUE AS THY
WANDERING EYES PIERCE THE SOUL OF THE DOVE
BURNING HER FEATHERS WHILE IN FLIGHT SHE
APPROACH THE LEDGE AS THE MASTER OF THE GAME
SAY'S BE SEATED AS THE CASE OF THE DAY BE THAT
OF A HOMELESS MAN A KNOWN STAR OF OUR TIMES
WHAT A WASTE OF TIME AS TUPAC BEGINS TO CHIME
THE GHETTO RHYTHMS JUST IN TIME FOR MS. TILMAN
TO TAP OUT A NEW HAT OF SUDDEN KNOWLEDGE OF
THE LAWS OF THE CITY WHILE THE NAACP BRIEFS
CAROL MOSELY OF THE HIDDEN AGENDA'S FOR THE
MONTH OF AN INDEPENDENCE DAY BRUNCH THAT YOU
THE PEOPLE MAY NOT ATTEND AN YET CANCEL A BET
WRITTEN BY MRS. YOLANDA NICHOLSEN 5-25-2004
2610 PROVIDENCE STREET FORT MYERS FLORIDA
RECOVERING FROM TRAUMATIC BRAIN INJURY
WRITING BECAME MY LIFELINE GOD BLESS CHICAGO
AND GOD BLESS AMERICA