Long Standing room only Poems
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aboard the 71, about halfway down the left side
i sit facing forward, heart leaping as he embarks—
he’s on the way to the grocery store,
or his sister’s house,
or work, but he’s running late;
standing room only
he grabs a handle facing me.
he catches my eye and i his,
waves at me with all five fingers and
i wish to hold them in mine, trace
the outline of the bones in his hand,
look into his eyes deeply,
see what’s true;
two stops later, a seat opens up on the right—
one row ahead.
dark, curly hair.
i take measured glances,
don't stare don't draw unwanted attention.
i want his arms around me,
to look into his eyes some more.
he disembarks.
The type of place you hear about,
The locals tell you ‘Go check it out.’
The walls trap echos of laughter,
haunting the outdoor heaters long after;
It could be a break up that leads you there,
or the desire for a shot or an ice cold beer;
That’s not all that happens when you find it,
conversations become the addictive habit;
Music fuels the vibe at 2 in the morning;
Come last call? You know you’re not leaving;
People come together, no longer strangers,
turn up the rhythm, we are a force of nature;
A lot like the cars in the parking lot,
packing standing room only at this spot;
You can’t get this press from a promoter,
Just one night; you’ll fall hard for Coasters.
Bar is standing room only
Poetry reading
Hopefuls and veterans make the scene
Rub shoulders
Drinks in hand
Crowd at the bar
The place closes down
Quietly people move
Like silent shadows
Leaving
Without saying goodbye.
Nighttime
Second Avenue alive
Young people congregate
Hustlers stand on corners
Neon lights twinkle in the night
A few street people
Sit in a doorway
Huddled and lost
Hustle for change
Something to eat
Playing music that only the stars can hear
The beat of the city goes on
Never stopping
Undiminshed
Only the vastness of night
Reminds us
That we belong somewhere.
That’s The Way These Things Go
by Edmund Siejka
I was in a bar
By myself
In one of those places that I hadn’t been to in awhile
And yet still recognized
By the turn of a chin
Or an occasional nod.
The place was busy
The music got louder
When the bartender bought a round.
It was standing room only
But I spotted her in the crowd
The same warm smile
Even white teeth
Brown hair bordering a face
I must have kissed a hundred times.
Someone once said to know someone does not take years
It just takes seconds to realize
That you belong together.
Impulsively I called out to her
True, I was angry when what we had slowly ended
And yet
After all this time
Something inside of me needed
To reach out and hold her again.
We spoke
Our talk was brief as brief can be
Just a hello with some words
Thrown in.
She said,
Too many things had happened
So, she left for the West Coast
Made a new life for herself
And was flying back the next day.
Holding my arm
She kissed me
Surprised,
I stepped back
Our eyes meeting
For the shortest second
And then I knew
She was saying goodbye forever.
Still
I don’t know why
I guess there was no real reason for it
But my heart jumped to my throat
When she walked away.
Suddenly feeling alone
I searched the crowd
Drowning in the noise and empty voices
Wondering why I came here.
I read the news today, oh boy
Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha,
The fox in is charge of the hen house
Gates are secure but the creature is inside
Feathers fly in helter skelter patterns
“You’ve got to crack a few eggs” is heard
as those who see the commotion, scramble
A dozen or so duck the falling shells,
raining down from straw filled verses,
bland but obviously first in the pecking order,
hoping it all would be over…easy
While over on Broadway a church mouse sings off key
to a blindfolded audience
waiting to applaud until the curtain goes down,
so not to be seen greeting late arrivals
with luggage and tickets
hoping the next show is not sold out
for this standing room only presentation
Fortunately three, maybe four seats still remain unoccupied
as stale nachos and sticky floors beckon
The lights go down and the band strikes up
a rousing intro to what should be a good show,
at least that’s what the old reviews said,
“It was 20 years ago today,
4 stars, brilliantly directed, the best choice
for your daily intake of long haired culture…”
When a tuxedo with a smile and a black carnation
makes its way to center stage
and begins reading backwards,
“I buried Paul”
Boos ring out from the crowd.
“We came here for poetry!” was shouted in unison
But it just kept on, “Number 9, number 9, number 9”
The audience ran for the exit doors (stage left)
and as they hit the streets looking for something better
they encountered a walrus
wearing a sandwich board sign the read,
“Turn me on dead man”
Meanwhile, back at the chicken coop…
The Texas Lunch lies in my memories
A corner hamburger stand
Just a counter and standing room only
For the best burgers in the land
Now Texas Pete didn’t hail from Texas
From Greece came he and his wife
They came to work for the American dream
And for a better way of life
They had a genuine love for this country
Working hard to make their dream come true
And raised a respectable family
Doing all that they could do
There wasn’t a man in town who didn’t know Pete
His personality had a lasting effect
He earned more than just a living
He earned the town’s undying respect
Whenever I walk down Broad Street
I look over where it used to be
I can still see the Texas Lunch
In the back of my memory
Attorney General William
Barr black marker in hand
kept promise to censor vital
details of Mueller Report
swift as Usain Bolt candidly,
grandly, lustrously, roundly
youthfully blocked out more
rapid than an elegant eland
vibrantly, regally, magically,
and gracefully skirts borderland
which favored topography
constitutes grassland or woodland,
far more pleasing to observe,
than reading adulterated brand
of aforementioned compilation,
distillation, edification, fortification
zeroing questionable activity
upon head of trumpeting brigand,
whose arrivistic, bombastic, caustic,
demonic, electric broadband
outsize ego still convinces
me, thee commander in chief
delegated one or more chargehand
perhaps while delighting as
gourmand savoring chateaubriand,
where his best buddies imagined
themselves in seventh heaven cloudland
every so often taking siesta sans repast
or golfing with grisly handicapped clubhand
non verbally communicating,
in viz sub bully taking a peas zing
cues from presidential high command,
which coterie (i.e. den of thieves)
manipulated social media with nefarious,
insidious, deleterious, et cetera
analogous to "FAKE" contraband,
maybe even milking innocent cowhand
unwittingly planting GMO electronic
bugs amidst future bovine fodder cropland
to allow, enable, and jackknife demand
that moost every eligible voter tricked
induced by virtual reality dreamland
with sinister motive for thee "Apprentice"
rule his kingdom, and expand,
realm asper Medieval days
declaring himself chieftain of fatherland
and/ or North American motherland
where naysayers guillotined
by uncontested firebrand,
who without provocation
very likely bomb into Stone Age
formerly edenic, lush, verdant
geography into flatland
rendered hostile, poisonous and uninhabitable
nonetheless radiating for miles with gangland
forced labor tilling barren, desolate, fissured
landscape erecting unsightly grand
standing room only (cause he know Shylock)
terrain (reign) vast highland
manor as poobah, and husband
to his only heiress, the former
a kooky monster from foggy bottom marshland.
Six square panes, so varied and solid,
In painted arrays of quiet and light,
Four windows per side, a glorious sight.
Of eight casting shadows on wood-grain and rite.
On Sunday, the benches hold twenty souls,
With standing room only in pious rows,
Embracing the flock as the morning wind blows.
Across the green of the country lane, resting
Beyond the pale borders of Protestant ground,
The Catholic services welcome the weary
At The Painted Church, the painted panes are found.
Yet both of the steeples reach up to the blue.
*In the 90’s, lava destroyed the Protestant Church that was later rebuilt in the main town. The Catholic Church, best known as The Painted Church, was lifted onto an 18-wheeler flatbed to a secluded spot, one mile from where the lava flow came to an end. Father Damien made it of historic significance.
Having been a journalist for the past forty years, now ready to make my final accord, I had to cover this one last story. My days have been long, and my shuteye has been short. In a small village with a population of a few hundred people, I stopped in the only tavern there to interview some of the patrons. The old rustic looking place had every window broken and no doors left standing. Seeing the faces of the patrons when I stopped in almost told the stories of what they have been witnessing the past few weeks. Most everyone seemed to be shellshocked and afraid. Little talking and silence filled the atmosphere, with the exception of some loud outbursts from the tavern's owner. "Free brew for everyone" he continually shouted! As you can imagine, there was "SRO" (standing room only). So, that being said, it was easy for me to interview most everyone. Everyone had their own versions of what they had witnessed, yet they all seemed very similar. "Death and destruction, death and destruction, death and destruction over and over. I went through a box of tissues hearing their sobbing stories. Again, the owner shouted out- "Free brew for everyone" he gave it out until every last drop of his unique home-made beer with cinnamon and cocoa had been drenched from his kegs. Never had I ever tasted such a fine beer before. it was sadly enjoyable, because I assumed it would be the last of it made for a very long time. "What do you call this wonderful tongue-taster I asked the tender/owner" He replied- My friend, I call it "Death and Destruction"
it was a fine beer
sadness and tears filled their mugs
death and destruction
The west winds of springtime
Brought forth April showers
That rained on the pavements
Of Southwick for hours.
It was standing room only
And full to the brim
As people sought shelter
At the old Tabard Inn.
A man with a top hat
Sat staring in space.
There was illness and sadness
Etched deep in his face.
A man with a fob watch
Was seen swapping gold
For a bottle of whisky
Before facing the cold.
A woman sighed deeply
Then laughed with a guest
While sipping tap water
And winning at chess.
There was no chef so no food
Since that dark violent day
When the innkeeper watched him
Being stretchered away.
So the sailor (being followed)
Missed having his tea,
And drank five pints of real ale
Before leaving for sea.