It ain't all pizzas and cream

March 30, 2011. The city (with apologies to Carl Sandburg)

...

City of mills, bricks and  machines

city of harbors and shipwrights and steam

city of railroads, scarred and iron-voiced

city of fists and flags, of unions and parades.

 

City of barrooms, city of grilles

of fry cooks and cigarettes, city of curses

city of bus drivers and drunks

city of water ice and roasted chestnuts.

 

City of hookers and stickball in alleys

city of smokestacks and trolley cars

of murders and mobsters. City of headlines

and empty Sunday streets. City of jazz.

 

City of 'spare a dime' and 'you buy me

an orange soda.' Sleepless city

shooting hoops. City of night watchmen

and diners. City of coffee and pie.

 

City of sirens and microphones

ample city, cheapskate city, city of chalk

and cinders. City of fish wrap and

smoke. My city. Your city. Our city.

 

Amen.

March 24, 2011. River / Sonnet (sort of)

...

 

Imagine a painting of a river at dusk

and in the foreground a boy sitting alone

on the pier. He can be seen only in silhouette

because that is how the artist wanted it.

He is seated on an overturned bucket and holds

a fishing pole. They’re not biting. 

But the boy doesn’t care.  The river and the sky

and the evening are all he needs. Ripples,

driven by a breeze, slap the muddy shore.

If this were not a painting, a radio, perhaps beside

the boy’s tackle box, would be softly playing.

Soon the sun will slip below the tree line

    and the day’s last train will roll along

    past the boy, the pier, the river and gone.

 

March 22, 2011. The Cost

...

 

How much is

a hot dog

and a bag of chips?

 

It is: 263 Please Helps,

117 Any Change Will Dos,

64 Spare a Quarters, and

17 God Bless Yous.

 

It is 7 missing teeth

one blind eye,

one case of trenchfoot,

and 3 nights in jail.

 

And if you want

a soda,

that’ll cost extra.

 

March 21, 2011. Speaking of Food

...

To speak of food is to speak of life,

so speak humbly. Talk of rice

 

and beans, of squash and corn.

A stone bowl to grind, a clay pot

 

to mix. Speak of water as if

you had coaxed it from a stream

 

or muscled it from a well.  And

if still you fail, speak of the man

 

below your window, the one

eating his supper cold from a can

 

with a plastic spoon shaped

like the eye of God.

March 20, 2011. A Man of Letters (A Hobo's Song)

 

 

I am a man of letters

I am a man of verse

I sleep out on the sidewalk

and smoke and drink and curse.

 

When I get drunk I ramble

And when I dream I roam

I am a man of letters

So send my letters home.

 

A seahorse has no saddle

An angelfish no wings

A boxcar has no boxes

A wedding cake no ring.

 

When I get drunk I ramble

And when I dream I roam

I am a man of letters

So send my letters home.

 

I’ve drowned out in the desert

And burned out in the rain

I tango’d with a waitress

Got married to a train.

 

When I get drunk I ramble

And when I dream I roam

I am a man of letters

So send my letters home.

 

I’ll die on this highway

But don’t you cry for me

I’ve earned a lot of living

And most of it was free.

 

When I get drunk I ramble

And when I dream I roam

I am a man of letters

So send my letters home.

 

March 19, 2011. City, my city.

 

March 16, 2011. Waits and Measures

...

How many times have we done

this? Wait silently in line:

for groceries, car parts, help

with our taxes.

 

Today it's the FedEx, each of us

waiting with our parcels:

a guy with 20 keys on his belt,

a mom with her teen-age boy,

an old woman who pays in dimes.

 

When my turn arrives,

I hand the clerk my package

and she tosses it on the scale

as tho it were a pound of haddock.

 

“Does it have any worth?”

she asks. The question leaves me

momentarily silent. “More than

a junky’s promise and less

than a governor’s pardon,”

I say at last.

 

Now she is silent. She writes

something on her form,

takes my money, and hands me

a receipt. We part, feeling slightly

diminished.

Thank you

Thanks, all who responded to my request. I'm trying to gauge the reach of the poems that I post here. It's good to know they're being read. I get the feeling that sometimes see a poem and say, oh holy hell no. Sometimes even I say that when I see poetry.

Also the feedback is much appreciated.

 

Thank you all.

Dear Readers...

If you've read any of the 3 most recently posted poems, please leave an "x" or something in the comment section of each respective poem you've read. You needn't leave feedback. I'm not fishing for compliments, nor seeking critiques. Just trying to get a head count. Appreciate your help on this.

March 13, 2011. Surely we have passed this way before

...

 

What reduces a man to Bermuda shorts, black socks,

sandals and a metal detector? Some say it’s the job,

years of commutes and bosses, decades spent in cubicles.

 

Some say it’s television that leads us astray, stops us

from seeing ourselves as we truly are: pasty and bloated,

knob-kneed and bald.  Others are quick to blame wives

 

And children. These are but Nang Yai, shadow puppets

of the truth. Years of directionless rowing. Wars survived

but not won.  Miles traversed within a hamster wheel.

That is what brings us here, ghosts at the rim of the world,

complexions like faded army blankets, sacks on our backs,

searching the grudging sand for our lost affirmations.