Steinbeck Poems

You Would Say Softly

I wish I could hear
your voice 
one last time

“Hey”
you would say softly 
“I love you”

you would quote 
literature by heart
Tolstoy,
Steinbeck,
Vonnegut

and then 
you would 
quote something of mine
“because I know you by heart too”
you’d tell me

in that style you had,
you would say softly
«??????»
(“Prashai”)
one of our little
rushing secrets 

“goodbye”
and
“forgive me”
in one phrase 
but you never told me
these things

and then you were gone
because of my words
and did I ever
forgive myself?

Songs of Soul COS No 12: ABBA

Caused Steinbeck reword "Mirth" known printed write,
harmony pulse conducts the marooned cell,
though breaks, wisely kept in tune with itself.
The gauge's clicks sway one to soothe its height.
"Each and All", "Earth Song" Emerson's ballad.
Unversed preexist's renewed care recalls.
Harp rhythm strings strum as the organ pedals.
Rhapsody ensures airy suite valid.
Calm reflects symmetry, pleasures belong,
deep voices grants the life-timers acclaim.
Solemn occasions psalm, heartfelt gifts claim.
Unsung Heavenly pace grow the swan song.
invites internal hope vibrates anew,
renewed life rewarded, heartbeat pipes true.

Songs of Soul COS No 11: AABB

Bold victor of few words, save salvation.
Death crawls like love save a heart's pulsation
spark pure flight, yon depths freed throbs soar by far,
pique stress's share, naught idle, claimant voiced spar.
No breath? Soul on road less traveled, or, much
traveled road, still, muse back to that grey clutch
frame, soundly placed in peace, smiling at once,
trace of former selves as hands clasp naught fronts.
The hours, days, years, loom as if time extent
ne'er on hold, but fairly nonexistent,
yet, seeing the facts unfold, visibly,
grasp misdirection mist, wonderfully.
Gap dawns rare, naught strange, poise forever light,
caused Steinbeck reword "Mirth" known printed write.

The End of Chumley's Tavern

I’ve strolled down Bedford from Barrow,
maybe a couple times or more.
When I would get to 86,
I headed through the garden door.

I felt inspiration flowing,
from the rafters down to the floor.
Words for future generations,
by the authors that I adore.

They sat on these stools by the bar,
and drank their whiskey from this glass.
They saw the world through this window,
and watched it gently slide on past.

The true spirit of literature,
hangs in every sip I take.
I try to honor their presence,
in each single line that I make.

So, here’s to you Chumley’s Tavern,
drink a toast to your ancient past.
But alas, just like all good things,
you have come to your end at last.

Steinbeck and Millay may live forever,
through eloquent words that they wrote.
But as for you and me dear friend,
we’ll just be history’s footnote.

Of Mice and Men

and hopeless in between ~ who died like rats chasing american dreams


Book by John Steinbeck
Too late for Kim’s contest

Craftspeople, Creativity, Family - Happy Bday Mom

I
You have a vivid mind, heart, vocabulary
A lover of God, I make excuses (true, right)
Yes, South Africa fails us in electricity
Still, Shakespeare worked by candlelight

II
I admire my sisters who do romance
Sometimes sultry, often beauty in loyalty
You mix French idioms, native Americanism
I am awed, humbled, in the land of Steinbeck, Poe, Emily Dickinson 

Note: 
1. Dear PS writers and visitors, keep working on your craft. The Earth needs it.
2. RiP Mom, passed in 2005, aged 64, but today is my unschooled mom's birthday. I respect all women, my wife, daughters ... Because of my mom's unschooled wisdom, love for family, & creativity

Dust Bowl Ballads

Listening to the Boss Singing 
The Ghost of Tom Joad,
Imagining the Okies as they
Travelled their Desolation Road.
Word Pictures  by Steinbeck,
Dust Bowl Ballads by Guthrie,
Green Pastures Of Plenty
Pretty Boy Floyd, Doh Ray Mi.

Ecological disaster,
Dust and drought,
Trees chopped down
Good land farmed out.
Then  came the winds
That blew the soil away
Followed by the Bankers
Who took their land away.

Pack up lock stock and barrel
In the trucks and on the way
To the promised land of plenty
The fabled  Californ-ia
So long it’s been good to know you
And then like the family Joad
Driven by need and poverty 
It’s off and on down the road.

With Global warming progressing
As more habitable land disappears
Will  a new Steinbeck and Guthrie 
Chronicle new  Grapes Of Wrath years
Will there  be a new Springsteen 
To sing about a new Tom Joad
As they join the  new exodus on 
Their  new desolation road.

Star Spangled Banner

Since I was a small child and would try to sing,
when we rise and sing the praises of "Old Glory,"
it brings tears to my eyes. Maybe it's because we
have endured much to keep our flag flying--too
many wars, too many injured, too many dead.
Or, perhaps, in this "Winter of Our Discontent,"*
whether Red or blue or neutral tan, we can, as one,
STAND UNITED.
                call me old fashioned
         but the star spangled banner
              brings tears to my eyes

*Winter of Our Discontent," novel by John Steinbeck,
Shakespeare's "The Tragedy of King Richard III"

February 9, 2023 
for "It Means A Lot To Me" contest
by Regina McIntosh

Influences 2 American Dreams

It was old Woody that lured me with
Dust Bowl Ballads and so much more
Telling stories of a West
That I'd never heard before.
I was with the Okies as
 They travelled down the road 
Got a new hero from
The Ballad of Tom Joad.
Then on to Steinbeck
Faulkner, Williams, Hemingway, 
Until dreams of America
Filled my teenage day.
The whole world exploded with
The advent of Rock 'n' Roll
And once again Americana
Captured my heart and soul.
I learned of Jimmie Rodgers
Hank Williams, Ernest Tubb, 
All founder members in my
Exclusive Country Music Club.
Dylan, Van Zandt, Steve Earle, 
Guy Clarke, and that's how I found
The huge variation in that loose
Genre, the Country Music sound.
It's been a part of my life
A very constant friend
Too late to change now and so
They'll be with me until the end.
I listened to those story tellers until
They influenced the way I write my verse
So it's my American Dreams
For better or for worse.

Grapes of Wrath Revisited

John Steinbeck wrote the story
Of the Okie family Joad as they
Travelled down their bleak 
Hard California bound road.
Tractored out by the Cats
After the bank had foreclosed,
No feelings of welcome as
They’d hoped and supposed.

Woody Guthrie sang the ballads
Of that desparate Dust Bowl
Spoke of the period 
From the heart and soul.
From those depths of despair
Solidarity brought hope
Gave the Okies some comfort
Perhaps helped them to cope.

Were lessons learned
Could it happen over again,
With global warming is it just
A case of not if but when?
Have we learned any charity,
Would we understand the situation,
Or would it sadly be as before
That same old case of exploitation?

Of Mice and Mills

Of Mice and Men-Mills 
David J Walker

And Speaking of Steinbeck 
The Jobe family could have
Lived here or  there 
Pointing to the bones of 
Clapboard farmhouses on
Their last legs

In some places 
they could have plowed 
for 50 years and still 
harvested nothing but
white rocks
   
those who say they 
remember really 
don’t want to recall
Windmills unable to 
Pump enough water 
To make any difference

Such ghostly places 
In plane sight 
dot the farm fields down
old market roads of 
West Texas where the wind 
Still blows 
Refusing to stop

A Writers Life

A WRITERS LIFE
 There is on Facebook pictures of dead film stars
 like Elisabeth Taylor, who was born in London 
and photos of her childhood. 
I don´t really care about this. We should remember her
as a great actress, see her movies and shut up.
Then we have Ernest Hemingway, who is one of me
 favourite writers, alas, he often appears in the picture 
of his life, not so much about his writing, more about
his adventures, which I do not care to read about.
Dos Passos, another great writer, lived a smaller amount
of daring-do, but he surpassed Hemingway in his  
say, The Bridge over San Louis Ray”, not to forget 
John Steinbeck, Theodore Dreiser and William Faulkner.
I like American writes, pre-word processor, 
and now they are going mad producing toms of too many words.
The thing is this. I don´t want to know about their childhood.

Influences

In youth I learned to jump
First off steps, then rooftops
Spirit of adventure
Nurtured in the heart of a child

Preschool acrobat twirling on my head
Grandma swatted my bottom
Repeated words like Tomboy
Never learned to be ladylike

Catholic school discipline
Uniforms, religion classes, daily mass
Never satisfied with any accomplishment
Even the nuns called me “perfectionist”

Blessed with storytellers in my family
Dad and sis would send me to dreamland
On the wings of a unicorn
Or Shakespeare’s amazing plays

Family and friends I hold dear
Each has influenced my thinking
I learned to offer support in troubled times
And to thank God every day for special people

Unable to have children
The most crushing blow
Accepted at a young age
But rued for a lifetime

Lover of Jack London, John Steinbeck
From Jack, I found adventure
From John, I learned compassion 
Dickinson’s poetry touched my heart

If I can find a way
To make a friend feel joy
Then this is my mission
Comforter, nurturer




November 16, 2020
For Silent One’s “It's a part of me - Life and the perceptions and philosophies you hold Poetry Contest.”

The Innheritance

The Inheritance
 
When my mother died, she had a flat
Belonging to social security and the was nothing
Of inheritance to speak about
She had a bookshelf full of books. Most belonged and
Were stolen at the local library and she was selective
When it came to literature.
There were also books Stalin would have approved  
Happy workers at a collective farm.
When I came the flat was empty; it needed a lick of paint
ready to receive other clients, the bookshelf was gone.
Relatives had taken furniture and pictures
Which I assumed needed the more than me.
I felt sorrowful about the books they were my mother’s
Soul, most likely they had been thrown away
By non- readers; mind I had read most of the books
She was particularly fond of Dos Passos and
John Steinbeck, but books never die, I remembered them.
My mother and literature go together I no longer
Read as much as I did, but my mother’s eyes are still
There, in my dreams.

I Wish Cesar Chavez Was Here

I wish Cesar was here 
now
Someone who know how important
farm workers are, giving them a strong
voice,
You got to see this empire
and how it has exploited all the life
that built it,
And all the money spent to fight needless
wars, 
And all the reasons why the rich invest
all their money in stocks and bonds,
And maybe try working in the fields
just for a day
And they grow wild flowers and
when the honey bees come in
they sing aleluya 
just because they are wild

I just wish you trouble yourself
to know, that they know
that they are no different 
that you

Aleluya Aleluya Aleluya
tell me about math
tell me about 
all this life in the universe
I just wish 
you cared enough to 
worry about thee
Like Cesar, and John Steinbeck 
did.
Is that even possible
Trust me when I tell you this
Aleluya yes it is.

Peace!

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