We said ‘goodbye John’ today
What should we say
A Brave Yankee he was
Creating buzz
Announcing home runs in the air
Using a style entertaining, sparking flair
Turning a routine afternoon affair
Around
Toasting Pinstripe town
Even if the team was down
Jeter, Rodriguez and Judge
Success never budged
Standing strong
Waiting for the Liza and Frank Song
Written by Kandor and Ebb
Famous on Broadway many said
But giving a Sterling performance
Made everyone sing and dance
Line up had the creative look
Radio listening enjoying the personal hook
Seemed written in the playbill book
Holy Cow!
Is where he is now
Hearing how bout that
When at bat
He gets the call
Joining Phil and Mel watching baseball
Quiet porch and a lazy chair,
sitting for a while is a song.
A blue collar stereotype.
Highlights visible from the air,
bold italics will show up strong.
Iconic, working that pinstripe.
Dusk saunters in devil may care,
sizzling whatever could go wrong?
Tipple a taste of this peace pipe.
Like a view of the county fair,
the big girl rides go all night long.
Such fine architectural hype.
I have built my diorama,
a caricature of drama.
Those intense eyes, imposing aura;
The warrior pose;
atop the snow-clad peaks,
among the floating clouds
still, radiating heat!
The serpents, the hair,
The alluring fear,
The magical hues, undefined, unfiltered
Beyond comprehension of mere souls
into you I gaze, are you Mansi’s ace?
Your roar- creates, expands, nurtures…
As I give you my fears, inhibitions,
Roar for me…
Let the cell vibrate, follicle tingle
mind flush,
let thy churn, a twister form!
Come as a child
or clad in a loin,
A pinstripe suit or a Gucchi boot.
Raise a storm or a strom.
You have come to play; the game that’s your always
To dribble doubts, net fears, dunk worries.
Haha…
Win will be mine, with the divine & Mansi intertwined!
As I saw you with closed eyes,
cried out…
a silent bellow to invite,
you roared, entered & tore!
The sheer pain, the veiled shriek
Throbbing veins, pulsating calf
Could it be more profound?
The aftermath…
In observance, in the space…I remain!
Bestowed by your grace, the Mansi way…
If I was a race car,
I’d be shooting gasoline.
Red hot throttle,
Ice cold chrome
Built to speed
I’m a wild man
Baby, I’m a hot rod
Hey there jellybean
I got a thing for you
I’m going to put a thing on you
I’m nothing but power
And you’re a pinstripe dream
Cool out and get in
Dont buckle up
Dont think
I cant give you much
But at 90 to nothing
You’re gonna feel something
Real deep down
In that bucket seat
If you give me the feels
You can feel my seams
I may let you touch the stick
I’ll take you on a wild ride
Through the nighttime
A white knuckle secret
Your world flying by
So let’s light a bottle
Burn it down
Pedal to the floor
We’re the real thing baby
With a need to bleed
The pool hall was dimly lit
smelling of cigarettes and money
the regulars sitting around telling jokes
which none of them are ever funny
over the next twenty-four hours
the jungle will have many stories to tell
some will be about great shots
others about wife's giving them hell
Walking towards the far end of the pool room
you could see pictures of famous players
hanging slightly crooked on a wall near the back
stuck in a cheap frame and frozen in time
was a 5 by 10 glossy of Minnesota fats
he was wearing a pinstripe suit along with his trademark rose
he's pictured with a handful of hundreds
from an unknowing sucker I suppose.
As closing time nears
tables get brushed and floors get cleaned
the attendant hangs up the pool sticks
and unplugs a noisy pinball machine
So, in the wee hours of the morning
after everyone has left
the attendant practices, he's getting better
wanting to be the best
but for now, things remain neutral
in the land of felt and money
the regulars will check in around nine
and the hustlers looking to make some easy money.
Sixty years ago, Autumn was the season,
Seven minutes was all it took that dark night
Like a freshman, a little short of reason,
I had no clue what the future held in sight.
Maybe I would teach, or maybe I might not.
I could be a banker, wear a pinstripe suit.
Or maybe drill for oil, show 'em what I've got.
I could go to sea,now that would be a hoot.
October 4th, fifty seven, quiet night,
Radio played Elvis, dorm rooms hard to sleep.
Disc jockey spoke loudly, almost in fright,
He said "Listen to Sputnik...'beep beep beep beep' "
The first satellite was passing North to South
Seven minutes it was above us.."beep beep"
I counted each beep and every second with an open mouth
I came alive - I had my own dream to keep.
I became an engineer and it seemed that so soon
I entered the space race and a world of awe.
We spied in the cold war - put men on the moon,
And marveled for fifty years at all I saw.
I'm thankful for seven minutes long ago,
And for Russians who made the Sputnik go beep.
Elvis gets a mention for it was his show
That started all the memories that I keep.
2/13/2017
For contest "The day that changed my life....."
I've been misled by my opprobrium again
Stuck in this continuum until the bitter end
Elysian fields beckon me like a moth to flame
Halcyon days gone like 15 minutes of fame
Coal black devil in a pinstripe suit
and the suicide king are in cahoots
To strip me of every last fiber of being
until it's all over but the fleeing
Girded by the phalanx, but still just one man
I wade into the gore as far as I can
Herded like a sheep to its slaughter
I'd fight back but why bother
Miscreants and mendicants, magi and infants
Orchard full of the skulls of dissidents
Juxtapose a joke within the jeer
Somewhere amidst the ennui and the fear
Go to church and lurch forward in your seat
Bring a casserole for the meet and greet
Pixelated images and a distorted voice
mouth full of marbles garbling about choice
Parading about with the éclat of a Broadway actor
while actually looking for the next benefactor
Truth be told, water does come from a stone
As long as the glory is given to God alone
Who are these?
Pinstripe assassins,
That stride; self satisfied,
The world is theirs,
To do as they wish.
Sipping coffee,
From little white cups
Guardians of the system.
Soldiers of capital,
Unreal.
And the poet laughed
By Feo.
Poems are a drunks journal entries, the writer is a man of many hats, and only knows depraved verbs
He's of many trades, his hands are his tools, the poor soul writer says at least
With a pinstripe vest that chains a broken watch, a faded piece
His boots are classed accordingly, the uniform as well
He goes about his ways, everyday, with writers thoughts
Living in recurring roles, his buttons are stitched like a grey threaded symbol of his ways
The writers hands bleed at night, and crust like eyes in the morning
His hands always bleed, it's his trade
A trade on page
A page with no space
Just gaps
Like spaces in between grins
The poet laughs
In the end, we all have to go home sometime.
Punk !
Back then we knew what it was
T.V. screens were not our choice
But we sold ourselves
To a fashion
Said it was
Individualism
Just more colourful than the last one
First came the music
And then the love
But Punks were all disillusionment
Trying to change the world
With spit
Even though we owned street corners
Our dangerous traffic masks
Of spikes and colours
Dared to laugh
At the brief cased pinstripe
Clean shaven but still
Breathing the twin set and pearl
Of air pollution
Opened up by violence
Came the rebellious
Tubes of glue and alcohol
The graffiti we didn’t know
Wrote our demise
In the commercialised
The raw heroes
Compromised
In the death of Syd Vicious and Johnny Rotten
The driving guitar and screaming beat
Strangler music went on
But we went forgotten
All those early punks
A fashion icon
Began in “ The Vortex “
On the streets of London
“ God Save The Queen “
A safety pin
Comes undone
Our revolution
Back then
We knew
We had no choice
Accept to spit
With another voice
Like the music
Like the hippies
Turned into a cult
They watched us all
On T.V.
Legacies of October
Pinstripe domination
Out of nowhere perfection
Pittsburgh’s unexpected celebration
The great Dodger rotation
Gibby’s game 1 animation
69 defies explanation
Green and gold covered the nation
The queen city was king during the second Nixon administration
Reggie’s single-handed ruination
Bean town’s 86 devastation
The heroic apparition
Atlanta’s autumn frustration
An eight decade delayed coronation
the green-eyed child
will smile
as the world dies
so long she's sat
behind that big oak desk
fighting the dream-demons
now her hand hovers
above the black
octagonal button
(& it's promise
of oblivion)
watching this,
i'll lick
her sticky-sweet laughter
from my fingers
& look the other way
Oh, Babe
Pitched for the price of infamy’s name
Springtime sold
For the tempest of a bambino’s bane
Oh, Babe
Stadium-made gregarious grin
Pinstripe promises
Playing for shoddy orphaned kids
Oh, Babe
Squeezing pine tar calloused veins
Slugging sunshine
Into brokenhearted pennant panes
Oh, Babe
Champagne on championship ice
Swinging splendor
Diamond dames batting bullpen eyes
Oh, Babe
Sultan of summer-simmering swat
Brawny blasts
Feasting on Yankee dugout brauts
Oh, Babe
Slumped over metastasized mic
Scratchy soliloquy
Imbued on replayed records of life
Oh, Babe
Pointing to ostentatious October sky
Homerun heaven
Where George Herman Ruth resides
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