(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
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…
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.
Tourists
Talked to a girl in Egypt today
last thing in the world she would
do with time off, is look at pyramids.
Talked to a man in Paris, Eiffel tower
not worth his hour. Talked to an old
New Yorker, has not been up to the
top of The Empire State, not his idea
of a date -- seeming that, many travel
far to see where locals hold no immediate
priority -- a muted sense of eternity?
----------------------------------------------
To Be
Why on earth mars?!
Far-out local bars
Sun good enough for me
When it comes to stars;
And if the subject is eternity
Then every day is Free!
And Shakespeare was wrong --
One could never not be....
Federico Garcia Lorca
was a would-be New Yorker:
his favourite ski event was the slalom,
and he wrote poems about Harlem.
The New York Public Library’s
A lovely place to visit.
The main branch Beaux-Arts building
Is a landmark most exquisite.
In addition to its majesty,
Exhibits are displayed,
Which New Yorkers rarely think about
When plans are being made.
I don’t know why, for there are treasures
Waiting to be viewed.
In one case, there was Pooh Bear,
Where most children’s eyes were glued.
Charles Dickens’ writing table
And his calendar and chair,
Plus a baseball signed by Brooklyn Dodgers
All are set up there.
A special exhibition
Was the draw that lured us in,
Celebrating the New Yorker
And its hundred year-old spin.
And one final must-go reason –
There’s a gift shop worth a look.
You can spend the day enjoying all
And never touch a book.
Gold Medal Marathoner, Susan Ashley
Never can be accused of acting rashly
Carefully crafts each word, line, and stanza
Wowing us with her prolific poetry bonanza!
Silver Medal Marathoner, Craig Cornish
We applaud your brilliant marathon flourish
Bespoke wit and singular vision ascend
Your distinct voice ran strong to the end
Bronze Medal Marathoner, Michael Coy
Whose wit and humor we all enjoy
A Spaniard, perhaps—yet a Welsh-British New Yorker?
Whose layered literary allusions prove he's a real corker
Betty Page New York Paint
Armenian Trace
The child's water
Sailing luxury
Strings off from sight of Italy
Calmed duration
Inlands islands
Cotton spokes
A cats residence
Before memory of the shop
Key Lime
Cookie Thins
And Coffee
The French jam sister of yours
Plays at reunions
With herself
Go bothered, Erin
It's her? The sister it gave you?
Yes Betty
Kevin, she watches "Will He Become Trollops"
In England!
Very Interupt, two should hide in one often
Little Jackie Foreigner
Was not born here
Now he’s in Queens, a New Yorker…
He says, ‘Vote for Mamdani
He’s sure to protect me
~ though I’m not a progressive like he’
The New Yorker is having a birthday –
It’s made it to one hundred years.
With each story, cartoon, poem or essay,
It’s jump-started many careers.
Despite what it’s called, you can buy it
At newsstands or else go on line
And subscribe – since my brother did try it,
He gets his in the mail before mine!
Colorado is where he is living;
We both read it and then we discuss
All the articles that it keeps giving
To curious people like us.
I have some complaints – sometimes writing
Prattles on many pages too long
And most poems, instead of delighting,
Make no sense and I don’t think I’m wrong.
Yet I’m happy for every arrival,
With a crossword to tackle, as well,
And I hope its continued survival
Will outlast those whom truth would dispel.
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!
New Yorkers, in general, are very notorious
for walking way too fast, not moderately:
it's seen as an unpleasant remark;
tourists keep thinking to themselves,
" They're funny! " It's a stereotype they mock,
" Do New Yorkers ever rush to Central Park? "
An outsider asked a stern policeman,
" Why is everybody running? "
" Is the President coming? "
And the cop stared at him saying,
" You are an outsider, not so lean,
catch up to the marathon race:
they are rushing for the train:
they are going to their working place! "
And the shocked red-neck with a freckled,
peachy, round face grinningly replied,
" I never knew they raced like wild horses
to catch a train; we Southerners take our time,
and stress less, we play songs in our guitars
and drink lots of whiskey, we never walk a mile! "
How could the unamused officer take offence and contain his disdain...
when the naive dude offended every New Yorker?
His reply was a shock to the poor guy on naproxen,
" Run like them before I throw you in jail, or take the Southern Border! "
Note: No pun is intended, it's only to spike up some humor!
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.
In charge of the museum store,
She was an ex-New Yorker.
Her hair was white, her glasses black
(Like me!) and yes, a talker.
She spoke of moving to the Cape
And though she missed the city,
She’d learned to love her lifestyle now,
Less hassled and less gritty.
In passing, she remarked about
Her other “Q-Tip” pals.
“What does that mean?” I asked.
She answered, “Older white-haired gals.
I guess we look like Q-Tips,
With our heads of snowy white.”
I laughed ‘cause I’m a Q-Tip, too
And somehow, that’s all right.
There are surgeries for bigger boobs
And bigger butts, as well
As implants meant for males to thus
Enhance their size and swell.
An article that I just read
(New Yorker Magazine)
Described such a procedure
And the problems often seen.
Why someone’d choose to surgically
Enlarge, for ego‘s sake,
A body part that functions
Seems, to me, a huge mistake.
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