En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Thirteenth Street Bus

god died...
nothing else unusual about the day.
the Thirteenth Street bus was late again,
people passed each other walking heads down.
when the bus finally arrived,
no one was there.
old Mr. Peterson and his crippled wife,
were nowhere to be seen.

three hours earlier...
an angry young man sat alone,
hugging his knees and shaking,
in an empty room neath a bare light bulb.
unable to focus or think,
peeling back the layers of hell...
consumed by the rage of need.

old Mr. Peterson made the coffee,
and boiled water for oatmeal.
two creams and a sugar,
and he took a cup,
to his wife still lying in bed.
he felt the faint smile of the wrinkled face,
birds just outside the window were singing..
45 years, or maybe yesterday,
he didnt know or care anymore.

the enraged young man
caught Mr. Peterson in the kitchen,
and cracked his skull with a lead pipe.
he rifled his pockets for what he could get,
and started slamming through drawers.
Mrs. Peterson hobbled in on her walker,
he stabbed her with a kitchen knife...
and left her dying on the floor,
as he pillaged the house....
the birds were silent as he ran.

when the police burst through the door,
it was already too late.
his body hung in an empty closet,
while the radio blared in stark despair.
crumpled clothes in the corner,
a mattress unmade in the center of the room.
a food stamp card and a dirty needle,
an unopened letter from the unemployment office.
a lone picture on a stack of boxes,
taken three years earlier...
the young man in his military uniform,
the day he came home from Iraq.

three funerals on the same day,
no one attended either.
a borrowed preacher in a coffee stained suit,
a few words and a worn out prayer.
it began to rain, and it was over,
three lives that never were.
three short paragraphs in the newspaper,
the county picked up the tab.

god died...
or maybe we died,
passing behind blacked out windows.
standing behind indifferent curtains,
lips moving but never speaking.
the Thirteenth Street bus was on time that day,
but it didnt even bother to stop!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coffee

Sometimes life is merely a matter of coffee and whatever intimacy a cup of coffee
affords. I once read something about coffee. The thing said that coffee is good for you;
it stimulates all the organs.
I thought at first this was a strange way to put it, and not altogether pleasant, but
as time goes by I have found out that it makes sense in its own limited way. I'll tell you
what I mean.
Yesterday morning I went over to see a girl. I like her. Whatever we had going for us
is gone now. She does not care for me. I blew it and wish I hadn't.
I rang the door bell and waited on the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs.
The way she moved I could tell that she was getting up. I had awakened her.
Then she came down the stairs. I could feel her approach in my stomach. Every step she
took stirred my feelings and lead indirectly to her opening the door. She saw me and it
did not please her.
Once upon a time it pleased her very much, last week. I wonder where it went,
pretending to be naive.
"I feel strange now," she said. "I don't want to talk."
"I want a cup of coffee," I said, because it was the last thing in the world
that I wanted. I said it in such a way that it sounded as if I were reading her a telegram
from somebody else, a person who really wanted a cup of coffee, who cared about nothing
else.
"All right," she said.
I followed her up the stairs. It was ridiculous. She had just put some clothes on. They
had not quite adjusted themselves to her body. I could tell you about her ass. We went
into the kitchen.
She took a jar of instant coffee off the shelf and put it on the table. She placed a
cup next to it, and a spoon. I looked at them. She put a pan full of water on the stove
and turned the gas on under it.
All this time she did not say a word. Her clothes adjusted themselves to her body. I
won't. She left the kitchen.
Then she went down the stairs and outside to see if she had any mail. I didn't remember
seeing any. She came back up the stairs and went into another room. She closed the door
after her. I looked at the pan full of water on the stove.
I knew that it would take a year before the water started to boil. It was now October
and there was too much water in the pan. That was the problem. I threw half of the water
into the sink.
The water would boil faster now. It would take only six months. The house was quiet.
I looked out the back porch. There were sacks of garbage there. I stared at the garbage
and tried to figure out what she had been eating lately by studying the containers and
peelings and stuff. I couldn't tell a thing.
It was now March. The water started to boil. I was pleased by this.
I looked at the table. There was the jar of instant coffee, the empty cup and the spoon
all laid out like a funeral service. These are the things that you need to make a cup of
coffee.
When I left the house ten minutes later, the cup of coffee safely inside me like a
grave, I said, "Thank you for the cup of coffee."
"You're welcome," she said. Her voice came from behind a closed door. Her
voice sounded like another telegram. It was really time for me to leave.
I spent the rest of the day not making coffee. It was a comfort. And evening came, I
had dinner in a restaurant and went to a bar. I had some drinks and talked to some people.
We were bar people and said bar things. None of them remembered, and the bar closed. It
was two o'clock in the morning. I had to go outside. It was foggy and cold in San
Francisco. I wondered about the fog and felt very human and exposed.
I decided to go visit another girl. We had not been friends for over a year. Once we
were very close. I wondered what she was thinking about now.
I went to her house. She didn't have a door bell. That was a small victory. One must
keep track of all the small victories. I do, anyway.
She answered the door. She was holding a robe in front of her. She didn't believe that
she was seeing me. "What do you want?" she said, believing now that she was
seeing me. I walked right into the house.
She turned and closed the door in such a way that I could see her profile. She had not
bothered to wrap the robe completely around herself. She was just holding the robe in
front of herself.
I could see an unbroken line of body running from her head to her feet. It looked kind
of strange. Perhaps because it was so late at night.
"What do you want?" she said.
"I want a cup of coffee," I said. What a funny thing to say, to say again for
a cup of coffee was not what I really wanted.
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. She was not pleased to see me.
Let the AMA tell us that time heals. I looked at the unbroken line of her body.
"Why don't you have a cup of coffee with me?" I said. "I feel like
talking to you. We haven't talked for a long time."
She looked at me and wheeled slightly on the profile. I stared at the unbroken line of
her body. This was not good.
"It's too late," she said. "I have to get up in the morning. If you want
a cup of coffee, there's instant in the kitchen. I have to go to bed."
The kitchen light was on. I looked down the hall into the kitchen. I didn't feel like
going into the kitchen and having another cup of coffee by myself. I didn't feel like
going to anybody else's house and asking them for a cup of coffee.
I realized that the day had been committed to a very strange pilgrimage, and I had not
planned it that way. At least the jar of instant coffee was not on the table, beside an
empty white cup and a spoon.
They say in the spring a young man's fancy turns to thoughts of love. Perhaps if he has
enough time left over, his fancy can even make room for a cup of coffee.

poem by Richard Brautigan from Revenge of the Lawn (1971)
Submitted by Dan Costinaş
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On The Street

I saw you walking down the street with him
You know I almost couldve died
I didnt know you had a second friend
I never thought you woulda lied
I guess somebody else has knocked upon your door
See somebody elses socks lying on your floor
And I saw you on street with him
You know I almost coulda died
I never said that I was all that choice
I never said I was a dream
I didnt think youd pull that second voice
It seems a little too cheap
I see somebody elses smile cut across your face
I see somebody else has taken you some other place
Yeah I saw you on the street with him
You know I really coulda died
I didnt know you had another man, I didnt know,
I thought I was in
I didnt know you had another plan, I didnt know
I thought I was in on the action
I thought I was ace in the hole
But I guess I was wrong
I see somebody elses smile cut across your face
I see somebody else has taken you some other place
Yeah I saw you on the street with him
You know I really coulda died
I didnt know you had another man, I didnt know,
I thought I was in
I didnt know you had another plan, I didnt know
I thought I was in on the action
I thought I was ace in the hole
But I guess I was wrong

song performed by by Tom Petty
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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That Old Man....

that old man who lives down the street,
who just shared a can of Alpo with his blind dog.
who owned the corner grocery when i was a kid,
who helped me out when i was short.
whose father passed it down to him,
whose son was killed in a car wreck.
whose daughter lives somewhere in California,
whose wife died ten years ago.
who was a deacon in the church for years,
who quit going when his wife died.
who put his life savings with 'trusted investors',
who lost it all when everything fell.
who the county's hounding for back taxes,
whose porch is falling down.
who prays that if there is a god...
he'll die and take the dog with him!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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On June 1st of That Year

I wish I could take back everything that I have ever said that hurt you
I wish I could have another one of our 'important talks'

But that's not going to happen
Since you didn't make it thought ther night
I just hope you didnt feel much pain,
When you died

I still can remember the call
When I picked up the phone and it was the hospital
And they told me that you was in a bad car crash
And that you had died instanly

I just wish I would have said I love you
And gave you a kiss
Instead of being pissed at you
Over something so childish

The women told me that you was under the influence of drugs
I just sat there and started weeping
I told you earlier that day that drugs was going to kill you

I just wish I wasn't right
I just wish I could hold you in my arms just one more time
I just wish I could have been their to say good-bye

There is not one day that goes by
That your not in my thoughts

It has be so hard for me the past month it has been hell
I told you if you died
I would be able to handle it

That I would have to join you as well
You dont have to worry anymore
Because in a second or two
I will be with you

People thought I was stronger then what I was
Then they found out that
I couldn't handle the presure of the world by myself anymore

When little Brandi hung herself
On June 1st of that year

(4-24-05)

poem by Brandi Young
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This Poem Is Just A Report About What Happened Here A Night Ago

and so this young man from the mountain arrives on an unholy hour of the night knocking at the door asking for the name of his sister, a housemaid of the family,

he brings his eighteen year-old wife carrying a bundle of old clothes, and a baby still on its third month,

it is raining, and they are all wet, the baby is crying hard
looking for milk and warmth, and she lets them in at the backdoor near
the kitchen, and i am on the second floor merely watching them
in a hurry, loud words, blames, and cautions, the master may get
angry at this unholy hour of the night,
warm coffee and some left-over bread, bare hands they like it,
chicken soup, and milk for the baby, and warm rags,
i am watching them all from the second floor of this house
just being this spectator, of a certan phenomenon, this poverty
this unequal distribution of wealth, this inability of the state to provide
education for its people, this unfairness of this universe,

the lights in her room is finally turned off, the baby's cry dissolves in darkness. I do not think that the young malnourished couple still have sex
in the middle of this heavy rain, so cold, so unholy, so unjust.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I Finally Found Forever

i finally found forever...
in the laughter of a small child,
in a raindropp rolling down the window.
in a flower that opened and closed
in one fleeting day.
in the embers of a fire going out.
in the door latch opened,
the shadow walking across the room.
in the old woman dying,
her face peaceful and calm.
in the smile of the young boy cuffed
in the back of the police van...
in the revolver unloaded,
and put back in the drawer.
in the box of clothes
left on the doorstep.
in the cup of coffee shared,
the plate, the fork, and the smoke.
in the moment of eyes engaged,
and talking without words...
in the given without thinking,
the breathe that was felt!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Clouds Blow Away!

vomit stained lips quivering
on a street corner lost
between human and forgotten....

clouds blow away!

bloody feet children walking
behind despair blinded bodies
not even pretending to be alive.

clouds blow away!

gun in the belt rogues
behind blacked out windows
snorting forever dust, wild eyed....

clouds blow away!

old man eating canned dog food
with a rusted spoon,
sitting on a milk box, empty room...

clouds blow away!

young boy in the hole,
blood crusted swollen lips
cannot even cry in the darkness....

clouds blown across
....the face of the moon!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Priest They Called Him

fight tuberculosis, folks. christmas eve, an old
Junkie selling christmas seals on north park street.
The priest, they called him. fight tuberculosis, folks.
People hurried by, gray shadows on a distant wall.
It was getting late and no money to score.
He turned into a side street and the lake wind hit him like a knife.
Cab stop just ahead under a streetlight.
Boy got out with a suitcase. thin kid in prep school clothes,
Familiar face, the priest told himself, watching from the doorway.
remindsme of something a long time ago. the boy, there, with his overcoat
Unbuttoned, reaching into his pants pocket for the cab fare.
The cab drove away and turned the corner. the boy went inside
A building. hmm, yes, maybe - the suitcase was there in the doorway.
The boy nowhere in sight. gone to get the keys, most likely,
Have to move fast. he picked up the suitcase and started for the corner.
Made it. glanced down at the case. it didnt look like the case the boy had,
Or any boy would have. the priest couldnt put his finger on what was so
Old about the case. old and dirty, poor quality leather, and heavy.
Better see whats inside. he turned into lincoln park, found an
Empty place and opened the case. two severed human legs that belonged to
A young man with dark skin. shiny black leg hairs glittered in the
Dim streetlight. the legs had been forced into the case and he had to use
His knee on the back of the case to shove them out. legs, yet,
He said, and walked quickly away with the case.
Might bring a few dollars to score. the buyer sniffed suspiciously.
kind of a funny smell about it. its just mexican leather.
well, some joker didnt cure it.
The buyer looked at the case with cold disfavor.
not even right sure he killed it, whatever it is.
Three is the best I can do and it hurts. but since this is christmas
And youre the priest... he slipped three bills under the table into the
Priests dirty hand. the priest faded into the street shadows, seedy
And furtive. three cents didnt buy a bag, nothing less than a nickel.
Say, remember that old addie croaker told me not to come back unless
I paid him the three cents I owe him. yeah, isnt that a fruit for ya,
Blow your stack about three lousy cents.
The doctor was not pleased to see him.
now, what do you want? I told you!
The priest laid three bills on the table. the doctor put the
Money in his pocket and started to scream.
Ive had troubles! people have been around!
I may lose my license! the priest just sat there, eyes, old and heavy with
Years of junk, on the doctors face.
i cant write you a prescription. the doctor jerked open a drawer
And slid an ampule across the table. thats all I have in the office!
The doctor stood up. take it and get out! he screamed, hysterical.
The priests expression did not change.
The doctor added in quieter tones, after all, Im a professional man,
And I shouldnt be bothered by people like you.
is that all you have for me? one lousy quarter g? couldnt you lend
Me a nickel...? get out, get out, Ill call the police I tell you.
all right, doctor, Im going. of course it was cold and far to walk,
Rooming house, a shabby street, room on the top floor.
these stairs, coughed the priest there, pulling himself up along the
Bannister. he went into the bathroom, yellow wall panels,
Toilet dripping, and got his works from under the washbasin.
Wrapped in brown paper, back to his room, get every drop in the dropper.
He rolled up his sleeve. then he heard a groan from next door,
Room eighteen. the mexican kid lived there, the priest had passed him on
The stairs and saw the kid was hooked, but he never spoke, because he
Didnt want any juvenile connections, bad news in any language.
The priest had had enough bad news in his life.
He heard the groan again, a groan he could feel, no mistaking that groan
And what it meant. maybe he had an accident or something.
In any case, I cant enjoy my priestly medications with that sound coming
Through the wall. thin walls you understand. the priest put down his
Dropper, cold hall, and knocked on the door of room eighteen.
quien es? its the preist, kid, I live next door.
He could hear someone hobbling across the floor.
A bolt slid. the boy stood there in his underwear shorts, eyes black with
Pain. he started to fall. the priest helped him over to the bed.
whats wrong, son? its my legs, senor, cramps, and now I am without
Medicine. the priest could see the cramps, like knots of wood there
In the young legs, dark shiny black leg hairs.
a few years ago I damaged myself in a bicycle race,
It was then that the cramps started. and now he has the leg cramps back
With compound junk interest. the old priest stood there, feeling the boy
Groan. he inclined his head as if in prayer, went back and got his dropper.
its just a quarter g, kid. i do not require much, senor.
The boy was sleeping when the priest left room eighteen.
He went back to his room and sat down on the bed.
Then it hit him like heavy silent snow. all the gray junk yesterdays.
He sat there received the immaculate fix. and since he was himself a priest,
There was no need to call one.

song performed by by Nirvana
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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HIV/ AIDS Anecdotal Poems

She loved a man and he was young;
He loved her back and had some fun;
They married too and some years passed;
They both died young, left child orphan!

He was a trucker working hard;
He used to come home twice a month;
He was a wayward, smoker, drunk;
He died of AIDS, infecting wife!

A police husband’s wife was nurse;
The man gave HIV to her;
When he died, she took ART;
She died too when she stopped her drugs!

It was a jolly trip for boys;
They enjoyed well, sang, drank and danced;
Some strayed into the red-light zone;
All of them developed AIDS sometime!

Young boys and girls do venture young
To know what love-making’s about;
Adults have sex outside marriage;
And when AIDS strikes, they are soon dead!

Even the rich and literate
Succumb to pleasures that can kill;
Homosexuality, IDU
Can turn you sero-positive!

Why risk your one life precious most?
God wants the human race stay pure;
You cannot live by whims, fancies;
You are duty-bound till you die!

‘Avoid all risks of HIV exposure
Keep your mind, body’s composure’
Copyright by Dr John Celes 1-12-2011

poem by John Celes
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Out My Window

Looking out the window to see the world
The many trees, the birds, Squirrels, the cars
Mother nature's beauty just on the other side
Wishing I could go out and breathe the air
Trapped inside, getting the cabin fever
Health will not let me out
To walk on the grass, smell the flowers
Enjoy the sounds around
The outside world moving like I don't exist
Please a few minutes out before the cold gets me
I live for the touch of grass and dirt between my toes
The smell of rain in the air, birds a flying
No me stuck in this big old chair, gazing out
Wishing to be young to run around
My body so old and dying, where did my time go
When young, mom couldn't keep me in
Football, baseball, hide and seek, I will not peek
Bike rides, skateboards, walks so endlessly around the block
How time has changed, when did I get old
The view out this window brings fond memories
I wish I could go thru it, escape to the their world
Older I get the more I want out
Body creaking, aches and pains, use your brains
Enjoy it form inside, someday you'll get out
Window be my friend and open up
To feel the breeze and smell the air
For it makes me young again

poem by Michael Peterson
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Yellow Cat

This song was first released on the rhymes and reasons album. it is the only album it has been released on.
Its late december the new years never coming
Time passes slowly in a two room walk up flat
The sun is silent
As a cold rain gonna come on
No one to talk to
But my ladys yellow cat
Rain drops talling on the flowers
In the window box
Plastic roses that I planted yesterday
I didnt think it does too soon
But there all withered now
Seems like everything I touch
Turns out that way
Well I guess I just go walking
The cats no good tor talkinto
He r dont know what Im saying
And the rain is always
Playing on my mind
On my mind
Street lights driring through the blinds
That cover window panes
Blending soflly with the bare lights over head
Then together
They run swiflly through my memory
And every image ot a strange and empty bed
Words and music by fromholz

song performed by by John Denver
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Remember You

Well theres a colour picture
In my mind.
Of all the places
That Ive left behind.
The broken windows
Where the wind blows through
Empty shells of houses
That have turned to ruin.
Oh - we were so young.
We didnt realise
Just what wed done.
Oh - we were too young.
And I remember you.
You were the back yard boy.
Hiding in the wreckage
Of broken dreams.
Standing by the railway line.
Standing.
Oh - we were so young.
We didnt realise
Just what wed done.
Oh - we were too young.
And all the sweetness
Has been taken out of this place.
So many memories
Are knocked down or replaced.
And I cant stand to see
The shifting time
Taking me further -
Leaving you behind.
(chorus repeats...)

song performed by by Eurythmics
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Old Age, Go Away

When are we consider old?
when the years past so quickly
being a kid with no worries
to a teen with rebel ways, to parents dismay
young adult leads to a partying way
maturing thru the years to become a respected adult
responsibilities and family life changes people
before time fly, aging needs a break
for real it does, it's not fair to fly
middle aged, worn out, heading to retirement
can't wait for that day, everyone says
to tell the true I rather work, that's my pitch
getting old for the rockers and the canes
just has to stay away, I have so many things to do
see more the world, meet many people
play with the kids and the grand kids
stop that hour glass from draining
I have a lot of things on my mind
time will take my mind
the wrinkles and the gray hair can wait
same with the balding
Aging for the years can wait, oh it can wait
young and childish mind, I have
will make me feel young, well into my years
till it catches my worn broken body
Old age stay away, For I am Young

poem by Michael Peterson
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Come On Henry

Come on Henry she said
come up and see me some
time but Henry said sorry

dame but I can't today it's
just not possible the wife's
coming back from the shops

and you know what wives are
like and she said oh come
on Henry that's not stopped

you before climbing the stairs
and knocking my door oh that
was for sugar or was it coffee?

Henry said I cannot recall oh
heck Henry don't be such a bore
you've been to my bed many

times before oh Honey don't
be so with me now I got to be
careful the wife's in a mood

the neighbours are talking they
twitch their curtains and peek
through blinds oh to hell with

them she said they've filthy old
minds oh listen baby maybe
tomorrow when the wife's away

I‘ll come borrow some sugar or
coffee or whatever you like and
share your bed you'll come now

Henry or not come at all the young
dame said oh come on sugar give
me a break let me come another

time and I will bring flowers and
chocolates and love and my body
hot ok she said if you promise me

such I'll cut to a break not for you
or your body but my heart's sake.

poem by Terry Collett
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Footnote to a famous poem

You all know it from the classroom.
It’s in all the anthologies.
Many say it’s his best; ‘a young man’s poem’
full of life and love and promise;
and short too. His long poems,
they’re great but few have the patience now
and who cares about Poet Laureates
when they’re out of fashion?

It never appeared, did you know,
in his lifetime. Sat in his desk drawer,
a single poem in a fine Italian leather folder.
His wife left it there after he died;
remembering when he’d sent it to her
the night before their marriage; she caught him
once, sitting there, an old man reading
a young man’s poem; closed the door quietly,
said nothing.

They cleared the house after she died.
It would never have come to light
if years later his mistress hadn’t left
a copy – it transpired - to the museum
in her will; he’d written it just for her, she said;
but made her promise not to publish it.
She felt she owed it to his memory though.

Some people prefer not to have
footnotes to poems; they say
they spoil the poem,
and cheapen a great man;
some people like them; they say
it makes poets seem more human.

poem by Michael Shepherd
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The Urn....

He finally pulled in the drive.
Another endless night at work.
Exhausted, he turned off the car,
and stumbled for the back door.
The neighborhood cat rubbed
against his legs as he fumbled
for the key.
As he opened the door, he noticed
that the light over the sink was on.
Shaking his head, he shrugged, and set
down his lunchbox.
He reached in the cupboard for the
bottle and a glass. He poured a small
shot, and hesitated for a moment.
He could hear the night just outside
the window. Something inside of
him let down. He kicked back the shot,
and headed for the bathroom.
A quick shower, and he found his way
to the bedroom. Lying naked on the
bed, he lit a smoke, trying not to think.
He could hear the ticking of the clock in
the hallway. He put out the cigarette, and
dozed.

He awakened to the scent of her perfume.
He heard her voice, whispering, 'be still'.
He felt the presence of her body in the bed.
Her long hair draped across his face. He
felt her on top of him, her heat and her desire.
He raised his face to kiss her....
And then she was gone! Startled, he groped
at the bed, clutching air. He sat up and flipped
on the lamp.
The room was empty. A few crumpled dirty
clothes in the floor. The book he'd been reading
on the nightstand. But no sign of her!
His hands shaking, he lit a smoke, and blinked.
He looked around the room again.
Every nook, every cranny, every crack in the paint.
Finally, his eyes fixed on her dresser.
A picture of her on their wedding day. A half empty
bottle of her favorite perfume. And the urn.... the
urn, with her wedding ring lying on the base.
He flipped off the lamp, and wept.

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Coffee Cigarettes and Time

The late afternoon invites leisurely
to inactivity and rest The best time to sit back
and be waited on like a guest At the corner
coffee shop where the air is thick with smoke
People play pool in the back room placing bets
that provoke The writer who lives alone
on the thirteenth floor is relaxed He smiles
unnoticeably having a completed chapter faxed

The bartender is preparing for the night and
Happy Hour Inventing new fancy drinks
that are potent sweet or sour The old guy
sitting at the bar in no rush to get home on time
Shares opinions over strong coffee about a
forgotten war crime A woman ordered wine
getting cigarettes from the machine Slowly strolls
across the room wearing a stone of aquamarine

Late rush hour traffic encourages to hang out
for a while Two attractive men in the corner sharing
kisses really shy From the speakers on the wall we
can hear a funky jazz tune Sitting in club chairs smoking
stirring coffee with a spoon Time stands still for a
little while when it starts to rain Streaks of water
leave teardrops on the sidewalk as in pain

The streetcar stops and new people join
our convention Accompanied by laughter they
do not pay much attention Rings of smoke take off
being swallowed by the big room Some people order
appetizers but all you smell is perfume The walls
are plastered with old posters of musicians past Here
all you need is coffee cigarettes and time that lasts

poem by Kristina Louisa Carr
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Memorial

Summer

He worked nights, leaving as we climbed
the tall narrow staircase to our shared room,
up into the summer heat, the steel fan
in the hallway window
pulling cool, leafy breezes
from our waving trees.

We heard the kitchen screen-door
slap shut, the Pontiac roaring to life,
and watched as slowly he backed down
the dark driveway, and was gone.

And gladly we glided through our misty dreams,
flying over tree-tops, baseball games
and cool swimming pools,

when finally the robin’s enthusiasm
and the fresh morning sun
flashing through green leaves
woke us as we heard the car stop
and Dad call cheerfully, “I’m home! ”

The air already scented with bacon and coffee,
we flew down the groaning stairs,
two steps at a bound,
and eagerly started another golden
summer’s day.

Winter

One winter day I did something wrong, and
he got angry and drew his worn leather belt
from the loops of his grey, stained work trousers
To teach me a lesson.

Terrified, I ran upstairs to the big closet
and trembled behind coats and sweaters,
as heavily he came up the steps,
righteous anger ringing in his voice,
tears flowing down my cheeks;

when my big brother, teenage and strong,
called defiance to him and drew him down
into the back yard to fight him
and save me, angered by his
memory of so many other beatings,
determined to stop it now!

But facing his own father
he could not fight back, and
weeping, I watched my dad
pummel my brother’s defenseless face,
far worse than any beating
I would have gotten.

From kitchen window,
I screamed to them both
to stop!

That was when my father saw,
in the kitchen window’s glare
his own father’s angry eyes,
and felt his father’s fists
landing hard on his own face,
and he stopped and
embraced my brother.

Spring

Seven years after my father died
my first child, my son, was born in spring,
and in the gleaming, sterile room
I first held him in my arms
as, with his impossibly wide, blue eyes
he calmy gazed right into my raw soul,
and I felt in a sudden rush of warmth,
a timeless love
and at last discovered
the reason for my life.

It was then
I understood my father.

In my son’s face I saw my own
and felt my father’s eyes gazing
in warm wonder on me
and I glowed with
unconditional love for my son.

poem by Steven Federle
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Hundred Lit Candles

sitting alone in an empty room,
surrounded by one hundred lit candles...
slowly, one by one,
naming them,
blowing them out!

hunger, apathy, pride,
poverty, prejudice,
sorrow, despair, greed...
self image, self fullfilment,
ownership, anger, judgement,
righteous indignation...

the stranger on the street corner,
the soldiers standing across the line.
the protestors carrying signs,
the pale faces behind
the covered window...

the preacher and the addict,
the whore, and the convict.
the young unwed mother,
the child crying in the night.
the young gay boy who hung himself,
those who stood and jeered...

the out of work factory worker,
face down in a corner bar.
my neighbor, my enemy, my brother,
and the ghosts that haunt my night.
empty graves and unmarked stones...
and more...

blowing them out!

poem by Eric Cockrell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Late Night, Maudlin Street

Winter coming
Winter push on
(push on)
Oh, winter push on
Winter is so long
Winter moves on
The last night on maudlin street
Goodbye house, goodbye stairs
I was born here
And I was raised here, and
...i took some stick here
Love at first sight
It may sound trite
But its true, you know
I could list the detail
Of everything you ever wore or said
Or how you stood the day
As we spent the last night
On maudlin street
Goodbye house, forever!
I never stole a happy hour
Around here
Where the worlds ugliest boy
Became what you see
Here I am - the ugliest man
Oh, the last night on maudlin street
Truly I do love you
Oh, truly I do love you
When I sleep
With that picture of you framed beside my bed
Oh, its childish and its silly
But I think its you in my room, by the bed
(...yes, I told you it was silly...)
And I know
I took strange pills
But I never meant to hurt you
Oh, truly I love you
Came home late one night
Everyone had gone to bed
But, you know
No-one stays up for you
I had sixteen stitches
All around my head
Oh, the last bus I missed to maudlin street
So he drove me home in the van
Complaining, women only like me for my mind...
Dont leave your torch behind
A powercut ahead; 1972, you know
And so we crept through the park
No, I cannot steal a pair of jeans off a clothesline
For you
But you ... without clothes
Oh, I could not keep a straight face
Me - without clothes ?
Well, a nation turns its back and gags...
Im packed
I am moving house
A half-life disappears today
With every hand waves me on
(secretly wishing me gone)
Well, I will be soon
Ooh, I will be soon
I will be soon
I will be soon
Will be soon, I will be soon
Mmm ... I will be soon, I will be soon
There were bad times on maudlin street
They took you away in a police car
Inspector - dont you know ?
Dont you care ?
Dont you know - about love ?
Your gran died
And your mother died
On maudlin street
In pain, and ashamed
With never time to say
Those special things ... oh
I took the key from maudlin street
Well, its only bricks and mortar !
Oh, oh, truly I love you
Oh, wherever you are
Wherever you are
Wherever you are
I hope youre singing now
Oh, I do hope
I hope youre singing now
Oh ...

song performed by by Morrissey
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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