Long New yorker Poems
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We took Henry* on the subway,
On the streets and on the bus
And he got into the rhythm,
Rarely kicking up a fuss.
Just as long as we all boarded
While the doors were open wide
He marched in like a New Yorker,
Taking all of it in stride.
Though we’d planned on a museum
(After seeing dad at work),
He preferred to hang at home with us,
An offer we’d not shirk.
So we read and ate and danced and played
And laughed and checked things out,
A day we all enjoyed so much;
Of that, there is no doubt.
When in time we met with daddy
For their railroad ride back home,
We were filled with smiles and stories
And the fodder for my poem.
*my 4 year old grandson
(mostly Senryu poems)
Why do people attempt to engage?
When I'm so obviously disengaged.
Ok, tourists, when
I'm communing with my phone
please leave me alone.
I'm shopping, waiting
for the metro, I don't like
talking to strangers.
People in Paris,
think people who stop you on
the street are scammers.
I'm not here to help,
like a theme park employee.
Take your own pictures.
Your phone is equiped
With GPS, and very
exact directions.
This is my home, I'm
on my way somewhere, like school,
I have a schedule.
I'm not Mickey Mouse
or a Blues Clues character.
Jésus, go away
Are we unfriendly?
No, we're living - would you stop
a New Yorker? No.
.
.
Songs for this:
Comme ci, comme ça by ZAZ
A hands-on workshop was such fun
In Montreal today.
We made real bagels, all from scratch
In a yummy, local way.
Our teacher made us feel at home
(Makes sense - he lives there, too!)
As, patiently, he demonstrated
What we had to do.
Eleven of us washed our hands
And tied our aprons on,
Then measured the ingredients
And mixed ‘til they were gone.
We kneaded and then shaped the dough
With Will to supervise,
Then watched them boil and added seeds
And, much to our surprise,
We made delicious bagels
And our group felt really proud!
As a born and bred New Yorker,
I was thrilled and also wowed.
If you visit Montreal, make sure
You find Will’s class and go
For a wonderful experience
That will delight you so!
Hillary, dear Hillary—where do we begin?
In your tale of deceit and corrupt political spin.
First lady, poor victim—
‘Vast Right Wing’ to blame,
A Chicago born, carpet bagging, New Yorker—how lame.
For over four decades, you ruthlessly fought,
Every virtuous ideal the forefathers sought.
With convictions as sound—as a lifeboat that sinks,
You’re a Chameleon, Hyena, a slithering snake,
who for votes flip flops often—just whatever it takes!
Stolen funds meant for Haiti, Clerical errors to blame,
at the foundation “helping po folks,” that bears your last name,
problem is—no one knows, where this ‘help’ can be seen.
while your net worth exponentially expands to obscene!
Fat chance ‘crooked Hillary,’ parts with the cash
from your “pay to play” system, illegal and brash.
Your condescension exceeds, what most tolerate,
like a child who needs spanking, or a belligerent inmate.
The fawning from media, won’t take you to task,
over emails, Benghazi, Russian Uranium—they won’t ask!
Liberals, dead voters, and criminals don’t care,
‘bout your pile of dead bodies, or ELITIST fanfare.
Just a history of coincidences—corpses intact,
and secret home email server, foreign governments hacked.
while two former presidents’ lies had your back!
You’re the Eva Perón of the United States,
Your red badge of courage—a life of mistakes
As queen of all feminists, their abortion namesake
Whose politically correct mantra remains,
WHAT DIFFERENCE DOES IT MAKE?
The New Yorker said Casablanca was “pretty tolerable”
No one expected it to do great things.
It was surprising when it won Best Picture of 1942.
Eighty-one years old, and it is now iconic.
My husband has a six foot poster of it in his office.
He watches it six to ten times a year.
I remind him that Bogart had to stand on a couple of blocks.
Ingrid Bergman was over two inches taller than he was.
Paul Henreid aka Victor Laszlo called Bogart a mediocre actor.
Bogart called Paul a “prissy prima donna”.
“Here’s looking at you kid” is attributed to Bogart.
He said it to Bergman when he taught her poker in between takes.
It snowed last night which pleased me - but hardly enough - it just teased me.
The thin, white sheet of snow looked bright and fresh
the dull, browned hedges of fall became holiday dressed,
the air had a sharp, chill perfume and the ground a new, sparkling flesh.
Lisa, a New Yorker who knows snow, gawked at me as if I were insane,
“You’re excited by NOTHING,” she sarcastically complained.
I replied, “When it snows there’s a quiet solace, and the world looks clean and flawless.”
The weatherman is promising us a blanket of snow this weekend
and that would be nice, a storm of ice, to lock us in as the week ends.
Three museums knocked us out
(Also, lots and lots of walking)
When at last we stopped to eat
And we somehow got to talking
With the couple to our right
(Quite delightful outdoor seating)
When they pointed to our food,
Asking, "What is that you're eating?"
So we offered them a taste -
All agreed it wasn't good -
But a conversation followed,
As we somehow knew it would.
He, like us, was a New Yorker;
She, Canadian, but still,
We had lots of things in common
And we all had time to kill.
They were younger than our kids
But nobody seemed to care,
As we spoke of this and that
In the balmy evening air.
So we chatted, trading stories
As we ate and sipped our beers,
Such an unexpected pleasure,
Crossing borders, lives and years.
another day in the woods. on Strawberry ridge
looking out over undulating green hills to
the next great wall of mountains. the last
morning clouds left from last night's storm
hanging in the valley mistily. the sun eventually
burns them away.
the respect between old Paul Karlsen and I continues
to exist. even though he's a Mormon and I'm a fallen
New Yorker. the work is comparatively easy, lifting
hundred pound bags, so you can just imagine what
we do other days. in fact, it's fun, especially for
young Bates. we get all white (and our lungs dusty).
on the way to and from the work site I read
in Silent Spring, the chapter against herbicides, gathering
inspiration for the upcoming controversy. in the end
perhaps I'll be fired for refusing to lay down Tordon
beads. realizing this, as I drive with Bates,
I see the dark green conifers and begin to miss them.
Rocks and rattlesnakes, bluebells
and mountain daisies, grasses and cactuses, mahogany
bush, lodgepole pine and quaking aspen, lush forest
and dry sun-tortured mountainside, wind and seed
carried by wind, ants, streams, hummingbird
and hawk, deer, badger, ground squirrel, wolverine.
Two years ago I left New York,
to find my luck somewhere else,
and in Waterbury, Connecticut I settled in a ranch-house,
which overlooked middle-class homes
groping on verdant slopes;
the night stars may have shined
a little brighter than in Manhattan,
without a trace of pollution or smog,
but the harsh winters made me dream again
of living in the warm streets of wonderful New York!
As I step out of my car into Fifth Avenue, by the entrance,
old acquaintances welcome the sweet return of a New Yorker;
and unto Columbus Circle I run toward Central Park:
it used to be my park, and my dog loved it by barking lauder,
and over little bridges I jogged as he chased me fervently;
there was no day in which I felt lonely...to want to escape from this city!
Here all neighbors met and chatted with a kind of stylish accent...
that all tourists love and find it extremely attractive!
When I look up...there the Empire State Building
is one of the wonders of my glamorous city that never disappoints anyone;
even night can't put it to sleep with its gloom;
and holidays always decorate it with spectacular lights:
like the yellow-bright daffodils that begin to bloom...
as happy faces greet the sweet return of a New Yorker...
driving on the Brooklyn Bridge bound for the New Jersey shore!
O greatest city, let me begin to write an ode that your people will sing!
Other cities are certainly beautiful and captivating as this one,
but none of them can spark inside that something so special...
the breath-taking view of the sky-scrapes in the August' moonlight,
the gracious waves of the East River and the ships that glide up and down the harbor;
and in this spot I met my sweet-heart with eyes like a Virginia sky, and hair
so soft and as red as the cheeks of a stuttering, drunken man!
Lady of a mysterious night, you vanished as the summer'
dawn erupted from the ocean's deep to forever preserve your delicate beauty!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
My husband won a contest
On a weekly FM quiz
To prove to all who listen
What a “know-it-all” he is.
The prize is a certificate
And maybe some acclaim
From the kith and kin tuned in
When Jeff*, the DJ, says your name.
A call came through soon after
For the winner’s home address
And Jeff playfully explained to us,
As if it would impress:
“Now when you get your certificate,
It’s valuable to you.
When you go out to a restaurant,
This is what you need to do…”
So we thought, free meal or discount,
But that wasn’t what he said,
Though he had us both in stitches
By what he exclaimed instead:
“If your table has a wobble
In one leg a little bit,
Take your prize and fold and place it,
Very gently, under it.”
Well, this “know-it-all New Yorker”
Learned just what his title’s worth
But it added to our day
With the injection of some mirth.
*Jeff Spurgeon, WQXR-FM, NYC