Long Yorker Poems
Long Yorker Poems. Below are the most popular long Yorker by PoetrySoup Members. You can search for long Yorker poems by poem length and keyword.
If the subject is appealing,
I’ll, at first, begin to read,
Though the facts with which I’m dealing
Are way more than what I need.
All the knowledge that I’m gaining,
By the time I reach page 3,
Can’t prevent my interest waning
And I’m sure it’s not just me.
Aren’t the editors aware of
When a story is too long?
For as readers, we despair of
Lack of reining in what’s wrong.
What I mostly end up doing
Is abandoning, mid-stream,
Someone’s effort, rarely ruing
That it might be gaining steam.
Still, I’ll stick with my subscription;
Through its pages I will comb.
What might cause a true conniption
Is an enigmatic poem!
For years our radio’s been tuned
To 105.9.
The music, for the most part,
With our preference does align.
Jeff Spurgeon is our morning guy
And, with his soothing voice,
He’s just the host we’d choose ourselves
If we had had the choice.
From Know-It-All-New-Yorker
To his daily repartee,
We wouldn’t want to spend our mornings
Any other way.
When QXR announced that Jeff
Would take his final leave,
We must admit to feeling sad,
But know he will receive
The accolades that he deserves
From all his loyal fans,
With hopes that he finds joy
In all his many future plans.
We’ll miss you, Jeff; nobody will
Connect with us so well
For, except when you played opera,*
At your job you did excel!
*just never got into it…
(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
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.
There’s a woman I pass in the mornings
Who prefers not to nod a hello,
Not unusual for a New Yorker;
That’s the way that these things often go.
She seems close to my age, but walks slower
And her clothing is baggy and loose,
Unlike most of us out there with leggings,
Which she’d likely not wear, I deduce.
Yet this morning I passed her and noticed,
As I swiveled for a double-take,
That her t-shirt was very familiar
And quite certainly not a mistake.
For it once nestled, folded quite nicely,
In a drawer with the rest of my tees,
But I’d donated it to the thrift shop
Where I bring things that no longer please.
I was glad to see somebody wear it
Who’d appraised it with different eyes,
Yet I wondered why I hadn’t kept it
As an exercise shirt in my size.
Buttonhole Daisy
by Odin Roark
My city bud and I
How we love the long walks
Daisy beneath my chin
Tucked securely in a buttonhole
Me with discovery in my eye
Maneuvering ever changing trail signs
We walk these precipitous canyons
This forest without trees
‘cause that’s what a New Yorker does
and if nature be your thing
you take it with you
My feet tread upon sidewalk and road
Concrete and asphalt
Candy wrappers and dog doings
As safely harnessed in
Daisy wriggles for joy
Knowing it’s only for a day
But it’s her bucket list
Together we drink in
Vast canyons of rock and nesting pitches
Forged atop dry beds
Where once flowers and soil aired freely
Fowl and beast danced in synchronous survival
Unaware evolution’s drumbeat was creating
Esplanades of another kind
Here where once crept moccasin-feet
Ever conscious of disturbing precious surroundings
Remain but a buried imprint beneath
Urban scree and mountainous bastions
Afternoon brings overhead sunshine
Peeking into the ravines
Where ant-like motion smothers the surface
Scurrying left and right
Many going nowhere
Still the light reaches us
Warming our journey
Through dens and caves of onlookers
Perhaps wondering as well
Where did all the trees go?
By nightfall
Daisy begins to droop her head
A long day taking in so much
Has left little room for the jungle
That darkness of a city’s life
Where red and blue lights flash incessantly
Alternating with sirens
And blasts of police car Urp Urps
Giving habitual warning
Don’t attack
Don’t hit
Don’t fire
Don’t exercise evolution’s beast-like modernity
By sunrise
We arrive back at our own brownstone cave
Where sitting next to the vase of her kin
Waiting a turn to take their first time walk
Their last time remembrance
Where something besides captivity in a vase
Will fill their final hours
I take a very droopy daisy from my buttonhole
Lay her to rest beneath another page of my diary
Lift the pen to record our day
Smile at the other daisies
Knowing their bucket list will be filled as well
And begin my daily entry
She loves me
She loves me not
She loves me…
The Cape Cod Museum of Art had a show
And we caught it the very last day,
Displaying the various works of Bob Staake
In a can’t-help-but-grin type of way.
If you don’t know his work, you must catch up at once
For each piece is a total delight.
There are mobiles and posters and sculpture galore,
Plus the many kids’ books he did write.
In addition to works, what he really does best
Is to illustrate, so you may find
That his fabulous artwork accompanies, too,
Others’ story books that he designed.
If you read The New Yorker, you won’t be surprised
That his covers have often appeared
And each one is a gem with a sly kind of wit
That is perfectly, charmingly weird.
Luck was shining on us, for the day we were there,
We were in for a most special treat.
Mr. Staake paid a visit and we got to join
An impromptu but sweet meet and greet.
What a wonderful way to be able to share
Your esteem with the one who inspired
So much joy; it was thrilling to let someone know
Face to face just how much he’s admired.
Braving the cold air
For the moment it takes
To stroll to the end of my driveway
Wearing but a wool sweater
I bow
To the mid-afternoon
Picking up
A popsicle of morning bound newspaper
Straightening up
To the miles and miles of blue sky
As if I am the stranded man
Under one palm tree on the one island
Captioned in a New Yorker cartoon
Hand on my hip
The other holding a salute
Surveying the exquisite sheet of sunlight
Snapped over this frozen ocean of white
Pretending to believe it’s a trick on the eye
To see a picket fence of tree trunk shadows and candy stripes
Flattened to the snow
Disavowing all property lines
As the caw caw caw of a crow
Crackles a warning hello
His black body a shark eye
Staring sideways
From the skull of a stoic Oak
Down to me
Then back to the snow
And a trail of stitched holes
Melting and gaping from the feign of heat
Evolved
From the paws of an overnight tomcat
To that of a deer
To now
The plucked boots of a man.
What stranger would stomp in circles
Around my house and under a reading lamp
Like this?
Searching for meaning in day-old headlines?
But for a shadow
Let loose from his own wolf body
Tearing from what blocks the sun
Temporarily born from the dark to the light
To come and go as all in one.
It has been home to baseball’s New York Mets.
For a time, it also housed football’s New York Jets.
This is a place practically any New Yorker knows.
It was part of the World’s Fair in Flushing Meadows.
This has been a spawning ground of sports history and more.
It first opened its doors in 1964.
Look out in centerfield, and new construction you will see.
What is there is a rising new sports facility.
Citi Field, soon to be home for the Mets will look fine.
New Yorkers will see games there starting in 2009.
After 2008, Shea Stadium will be history.
However, it will stand in any Mets fan’s memory.
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