Long Greenwich village Poems
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Hustlin' Soul Jazz to the beat on the street/
Straight ahead Hank Mobley Art Blakey Seven Steps to the cool sounds of Harlem, diggin' deep into the subway, Harlem-148 St get off, take off/
whatcha say, bright moments, Man, bright moments the Pharoah Sanders way Milestones on the eight track Blue Mitchall's trumpet at the Sweet Basil, a jazz club in New York City's Greenwich Village/ a great place to play jazz and hang with no big pay day/
Wow, what a scene, Cecil McBee, Leroy Jenkins, Junior Mance, heavy heavy hitters of the jazz day/
So dig this, don't forget Wynton Kelly and his trio/
cool jazz covers and slick sleeves to get the record-buyin' hipster to hit on vinyl. Man, let me get you a bird's eye view, cause there ain't no cover charge to dig these words to view
Once twin towers stood.
In the city king kong fell in love.
Yellow taxi's swarm like stripeless bees.
and a sky line thats silhouted on your mind.
with police sirens screaming
and broadway calling.
Times Square lights hurting your eyes.
With Central park its breathing lung
a countryside oasis in a concrete corsett.
Greenwich village with its arts and crafts
and wall streets big business and brash.
United nations share this town.
musical and big fight nights.
basket balls globe trotters strut thier funky stuff.
and the yankees play class baseball.
all in all
new york as blown my mind.
(10/13/12)
At the beginning of “64” - I packed up my uniform
And walked out the door- it was the beginning of
The Vietnam war.
By August of that same year
President Johnson started the draft
Under protests and jeers.
Then he made it a full scale war
And sent our soldiers to Vietnam shores.
The Beatniks in Greenwich village
With their long hair, beards, and
Flip flop sandals - wrote their poetry
About this undeclared war, and why
Our men were going to those shores.
This created a new generation called ‘HIPPIES”
The hippie generation was groups of protesters
Against everything that they found wrong
The draft , the war , pollution
And loved to stay high with pot, hashish
Coke and acid (lsd) which kept them blasted.
This also created the “ flower children”
Who like the hippies loved to be high
And on certain flowers they would fly.
But they spoke of loving one another
And gave out flowers as a sign of peace
Which to the president was a relief.
They all started painting this “53 Chevy impala”
With the words “ flower power”.
Now the “ flower children and hippie movement
Was in full swing, and everyone was doing their own thing.
They had Greenwich village under their control
And not one coffee shop would ever be sold.
Every coffee shop had a poetry night
And going there was such a delight.
Then in AUGUST of “69”
The WOODSTOCK festival was on the rise
Over half a million people drove to that farmland
And set up tents , hammocks, sleeping bags and such
And the police found it was much to much
So they had no choice but to see it through
Because there was nothing else that they could do.
The WOODSTOCK festival had become world wide
And to this day it still thrives.
© L . RAMS
From Queens to Manhattan, I rode the subway.
I will never forget that late spring day,
when I walked into that Greenwich Village café.
This young girl practically stole my heart away.
With a long white dress, and a six string guitar,
she was just another wannabe star.
I was sitting not far away from her at the bar.
Between sips of my glass of seltzer,
I listened to each sweet note sung by her.
The end of her performance brought a light ovation.
She sat next to me for some casual conversation.
After an informal introduction came a sweet little smile.
I was attracted to her all the while,
even though she was Jewish, and I a gentile.
I told her I also performed in a band.
She wrote her phone number on my left hand.
Everything with this female appeared just right.
I asked if I could see her tomorrow night.
She emphatically said “okay” and smiled with delight.
Later that night, disappointment would encumber.
When I tried to call her, I got a wrong number.
An Occurrence in New York at 4.45 pm on March 25th, 1911
True faith, liberty, the flag, our holy soil!
Is it the cause that grants the martyr’s crown?
Should martyrs owe this crown to tyrants or some evil foe?
Are banality, indifference and callousness less cruel?
Anno Domini nineteen eleven was the year,
(on Annunciation Day according to the Church),
Greenwich Village in New York the place,
an overcrowded sweatshop on a ninth floor the scene,
a quarter to five on Saturday, the Sabbath, the hour,
when it befell, ‘it’ being in this case, as the annals state,
‘the worst industrial accident’ this great city ever knew.
The culprit was probably an unextinguished cigarette
thrown nonchalantly into a bin of discarded bits of cloth.
One hundred and forty-six young workers, mostly women,
realized too late their hopeless plight. Hopeless, but why?
Their employers, with healthy profits and public order in mind,
to prevent the pilfering of garments and skiving before five,
prudently kept all exits from the shop floor firmly locked.
A young man and his girlfriend embraced before they leapt.
It was anonymity for the rest,
no parting dirge or priest to bless,
unlike Saint Joan suffering at the stake
Forgotten, did they suffer less?
In New York City, where do you go
if you want to compete in some rodeo?
In order to rent a studio in Greenwich Village,
you need extra high income and a privilege.
Living there means signing a long-term lease.
The only men seen on horseback are the police.
In the midst of the high-rises, it would seem quite strange,
to find a wide open prairie and a home on the range.
In this urban setting, cattle do not roam the streets.
You can only find them in grocery markets as meats.
I want to get out of the city; away from the rest.
Get me a plane ticket. I want to fly out west.
On a summer night in Greenwich Village,
when neon trembled against wet pavement
and fear wore the uniform of the law,
a spark leapt from the shadows.
It was June 28, 1969.
The night the people who had been told
to lower their voices,
hide their hands,
change their walk,
bury their hearts,
finally said:
No.
At the doors of Stonewall Inn,
the pursuit of happiness ceased being a promise on paper
and became a demand carried by living, breathing souls.
Drag queens.
Runaways.
Dreamers.
Workers.
Artists.
Lovers.
People whose names history almost erased,
yet whose courage became a torch.
The world would later learn the names of heroes like
Marsha P. Johnson
and Sylvia Rivera,
but that night belonged to thousands,
each carrying a universe inside them,
each deserving the simple freedom
to exist.
To love.
To dance.
To breathe.
The journey was never straight.
It wound through funerals and protests,
through silence and song,
through years when hate marched openly
and hope marched anyway.
Yet every generation carried the banner forward,
stitching new colors into an unfinished quilt
of human dignity.
And as fate would have it,
the uprising began on the birthday of
Judy Garland,
whose voice had long offered refuge
to those searching for a place
somewhere over the rainbow.
Perhaps that is coincidence.
Perhaps it is poetry.
Today the rainbow flies in cities and small towns,
in courtrooms and classrooms,
in places where it once would have been dangerous
to whisper its name.
Not because the struggle is finished,
but because courage is contagious.
The pursuit of happiness
was never about chasing wealth,
or fame,
or applause.
It was always about the right
to wake each morning
unafraid of being yourself.
To hold a hand.
To speak your truth.
To live openly beneath the same sky
that belongs to everyone.
And so the voices continue.
Different accents.
Different stories.
Different songs.
Yet together they form a chorus
so powerful
that even history must stop and listen.
A chorus born in resistance,
carried by love,
and still marching
toward freedom.
The Village Halloween Parade*
Is famous through the land,
The costumes so creative
That they surely beat the band.
But I was sent some pictures
And some video as well
From a local school parade
Much cuter, far as I can tell.
The kindergarten students,
Dressed in various disguise,
Sang their hearts out in the schoolyard,
An adorable surprise.
They’d been practicing for weeks
And their performance a delight,
With choreography to mimic
Witch’s broom or vampire bite.
Of course, you’ve figured out by now
This was my grandson’s school,
Which, with him inside, will always
Be the best. (That’s Nana’s rule!)
*in New York City’s Greenwich Village
Non-bachelor (batch chiller)
"FAKE" horror thriller
available Netflix starring
ghost of Phyllis Diller
stand up comedienne killer
brought down haunted house
witch sea hunt accompanied
theme song referencing Argonaut tiller
Greenwich Village location Barney Miller
lite precinct brewed fare of corpse
unearthed dead comedy duo Meara and Stiller
with surreal stalking candy corn canes
as bon appétit gnashing
gobbledygook filler.
Ice scream aghast with
blood curdling shriek,
the dearth of satisfactory
FIOS shows bleak
readying jump into polluted creek
thus, I bury alive yours truly
except his sharp pointed beak
exhuming him after rotted
flesh doth reek
perfectly tricked out
for Halloween treat
masks long haired
pencil necked geek
October thirty first when freak
alias Gadshill gadabout
poetaster doth sneak
feigning antonym anthem of meek
oh my dog, I lyft hind
uber leg to take leak
hoop fully haint nobody dares peak
urinate kidding ma bladder weak.
I long since waved
channel surfing adieu
much prefer silence
meditating under blue
skies peering into
infinite space nary a clue
intellectual conversation many disvalue
perched edge of seat and hunched over
how riveting story doth ensue
ah... time for commercial break
culinary wizard abracadabra
whips up fondue
easy as pie (are squared)
with consistency of glue
methinks Elmer stole patent,
cuz secret formula Hebrew
what with identical hue
as aforementioned adhesive liquid
doubling up to keep igloo
air tight even against
global warming, anyway would Jew...
aye betcha already knew
yes believe Yahweh endowed Semites
like me with high ike kue
of course after dumping
a load (reed) I feel sue
per ream intelligence dumbed down
(mine), especially after using loo
naturally decrease smarts
stings like poisonous
scorpion size of Eee moue,
which aforementioned papa's
poetic poppycock nonissue
saturating plethora home entertainment
most people overvalue
linkedin - shoot all stemming from
"idiot box" I rarely view.
How refreshing to experience
a reprieve from sultry weather
when hazy, hot,
and humid warm front
unleashes a very short sweaty tether.
Man hat tin dar overcast skies
hint potential rain on the way
perchance avast dastardly
flickr ring instagram
kickstarter linkedin shutterfly
Taurus headed soundcloud
skidding across celestial
(span hushed) rink
surprising forecasters by yowl
ling whimsically, unexpectedly oye vay
training (laser like),
Asian outsize dark cloud
climatological frontispiece
randomly making next stop Old
Rotten Gotham's Greenwich Village
zero wing in on
Poor (Chuck Keys) Uruguay
neighborhood possibly confidently
foretold by meteorologists today
pointing at map showing
cold air mass as it doth sashay
July twenty first 2018, though
Mother Nature defies pre
diction pulling out all (busted) stops,
vis a vis via "her" quay
zee bag of tricks nay
saying trained forecasters klan
hush all self importance
also to humble those mere mortals
getting paid a handsome buck
by anthropomorphizing viz cluck
king in tandem with duck
billed Baritone Horn
Trumpeting "FAKE" luck
trotting out obstreperous
Sunny Rays, who doth beam
with radiance a
diametrically opposed extreme
over zealous call for precipitation
instead raining one after another quanta
bright blinding meme
outsmarting the seem
ming airtight (cat in the bag)
prediction leaving once supreme
vouchsafing without a doubt forecasters
left holding the empty bag
large enough tuff fit the whole team.