Good writing , like gold , combines lustrous lucidity with high density. What this means is good writing is packed with hints. ~ Eric Hoffer
And should I cherish lucid moments of my day
to dwell on how my words will paint the blue vellum?
Or dream that in those lucid thoughts may lie the way
to philosophies protected by dark pelham?
Soon to write my thoughts in a pleasing structured form,
I turn to flow my life for all to analyze.
Is it eloquence I seek, or a bright brainstorm
to loosely form coherent thoughts and crystallize?
Basking in boastful brilliance, words outflow freely,
purest unbridled revelry is extended
to writing fraught with inner secrets genteelly
hidden in subtle between-the-lines pretended.
Laying my pen aside, I read what is written.
Word by word, in silence, I am humbly smitten.
Categories:
pelham, meaningful, poetry, words, writing,
Form: Sonnet
How cool!
this early summer evening
after a day so oppressive
even we New Yorkers move painstakingly.
The breeze in sumac trees
so why am I not more content?
The electricity went off at the bank,
spontaneous bank holiday,
so I'm broke, drinking water.
All my needs except love
fulfilled. Woman
opens her windows. How cool!
this summer evening
in New York, dense New York
the jets overhead
the people on the ground suffering
and struggling toward vague goals
or goals clear as Harry Helmsley's.
How cool and refreshing
this glass of ice water
after today's hot pavement, clothes.
During the afternoon heat
I sleep in my underwear.
What a city I murmur to myself
looking at its map. Big,
Jamaica Bay to Inwood,
the Battery to Pelham Bay.
Nowadays novels need
a few cities to move the plot.
New York, Saigon, Paris.
The protagonist
does not walk in the park. He
uses his car to get around fast.
How cool this evening in New York!
Lost among the bars and industry,
moonrise over Bronx.
Categories:
pelham, city, cool, day, drink,
Form: Verse
He stood at the corner many days
Selling flowers sun or rain
He was an old Mexican and he plays
The harmonica for his pain.
One day there was a chase, two cars
Down Boston Road came. The stars
That guide his destiny in their wars
Left no choice to him. His blood mars
Pelham curb still. But, O, the police
Said, it was only for law and order
They chased the other like a beast
Since he ran a traffic light. I shudder
Though, to see flowers again.
They are not the harmonica anymore for pain.
Categories:
pelham, death, political,
Form: Rhyme