A Little Bit of Brooklyn
A little bit of Brooklyn fell
From out the sky one day-
And landed in Corona
Near the subway and the bay
And when the mayor saw it
Sure it looked so green and fair
He said suppose we fund it-
And condemn the junkyards there
So they issued us some tax free bonds
To make the grandstands grow
And charged too much to sit in them
even up in the last row
'It has a brick rotunda
Makes one think of Ebbets Field
And once they sold the naming rights,
They called it... 'Citifield! '
poem by John F. McCullagh
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Make me Proud
Young Morrison was at the plate
The bat gripped in his hands
His Father, Tom, was in the park,
down in the left field Stands.
His Father has lung cancer
and cannot fly on planes.
So he came to Citifield
aboard an Amtrak train.
It was young Logan’s birthday
And he hoped for something great.
He got a pitch that he could square.
He hit it flush and straight.
Not high enough to clear the wall-
Still over Beltran’s head
He hustled as they tracked it down
and made third base instead.
How glad he was to get that hit.
His smile began to grow.
His dad was glad he’d lived to see
His boy called to “the show”
Later, at his birthday party
He gave his Dad a gift
It was exactly what he wanted-
the ball from his first hit.
Tom Logan has inoperable lung cancer. He traveled 29 hours to see his son, Logan Morrison of the Marlins, play Wednesday night at Citifield. The triple Logan Morrison hit that night was the first of his major league career.
poem by John F. McCullagh
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A Subway Called You
Here we are
We drift like gas
On someone elses bed
I pay high you know
Here we are
How old are you
Its just a job to me
Here the ladies always ring twice
Thought youd slip away tonight with me
In a subway I called you
Hello you no more this talk of
my boys will be yours
No more i
This conversation drains
My patience dry.
Here the business always rings twice
No relaxing for the boys tonight
In a subway I called you
Here the tension always slows twice
Shed one tear its just routine for now
In a subway I called you
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Green Man
The story I am about to tell
is about a man who fell down a well.
His real name was Costaswell
that was until he fell down the well
where the night before
in the shadows of the moon
someone tipped gallons
of green paint down the well.
Then poor Costaswell fell in
and when he popped his head out.
Everyone thought he was an Alien.
You all know the type,
a green man from Mars.
Someone called the army in,
they asked where his spaceship had landed.
He said he did not have one
and he did not come from Mars.
Now poor Costaswell is better know
as the green man
who did not come from mars,
but from Hampton Court.
Now when he walks down the street
dogs come and raise a leg up
as they think he is a tree.
Kids drag their mothers to come and see
the green Martian from Hampton Court.
Everyone is wondering now
in the winter what will he do,
will he turn a light green
or will he turn blue.
10 September 2009
poem by David Harris
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The Tower That Ate People
There's a bump in the basement
There's a knocking on the wall
In the pumping of the pistons
I swear I heard you call
There's a bump in the basement
There's a hole in the floor
There's a guard in the garden
Locking up the door
There's a rumble in the floorboards
No shutting out the sound
And the workers down below me
Digging underground
Feel the building all around me
Like a wrap of armoured skin
But the more we are protected
The more we're trapped within
Tell it like it is
Till there's no misunderstanding
When you strip it right back
Man feed machine
Machine feed man
Tell it like it is
Till there's no misunderstanding
You make up what you like
Man feed machine
Machine feed man
?
Brick by brick by brick by brick we're building
Brick by brick by brick by brick we're building
Brick by brick by brick by brick we're building
Brick by brick by brick by brick we're building
Brick by brick by brick by brick we're building
Brick by brick by brick by brick we're building
song performed by by Peter Gabriel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Sold My Soul
I prayed to God and jesus
But I guess they didnt hear
My sacrfice was useless
My pleas fell on deaf ears
So I cried in desperation
Bowed to evil sorcery
I looked to the lord in heaven
But he must have looked away
My crying eyes repentant
Please send her love to light my day
So I cried in desperation
Bowed to evil sorcery
I sold my soul
Sold my soul
I sold my soul to the devil
So I cried in desperation
Bowed to evil sorcery
I sold my soul
Sold my soul
I sold my soul to the devil
Sold my soul
Sold my soul
I sold my soul
Sold my soul
Sold my soul to the devil
To the devil
Sold my soul
Sold my soul
I sold my soul
I sold my soul
I sold my soul to the devil
song performed by by Nazareth
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Suppose
IF 'twere fair to suppose
That your heart were not taken,
That the dew from the rose
Petals still were not shaken,
I should pluck you,
Howe'er you should thorn me and scorn me,
And wear you for life as the green of the bower.
If 'twere fair to suppose
That that road was for vagrants,
That the wind and the rose,
Counted all in their fragrance;
Oh, my dear one,
By love, I should take you and make you,
The green of my life from the scintillant hour.
poem by Paul Laurence Dunbar
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Lucy In The Subway
Lucy sells her flowers for a quarter apiece
She wound up on the streets
She could not pay her lease
She used to want to save the world
But nothing to her matters now
She lays bout the subway station
Clad in dirty tatters now
Lucys in the subway with daffodils
She lost all her diamonds
And she sold all her pills
Shes been around the block
But shes had too many thrills
Lucys in the subway with daffodils
Lucy holds a dixie cup
Of sixty cents in change
And if she looks you in the eye
You see that shes deranged
She flew too near the sun
And fried her fragile wings
But to her faithful whisky bottle she clings
Lucys in the subway with daffodils
She lost all her diamonds
And she sold all her pills
Shes been around the block
But shes had too many thrills
Lucys in the subway with daffodils
song performed by by Phish
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Suppose
Suppose, my dear, that you were I
And by your side your sweetheart sate;
Suppose you noticed by and by
The distance 'twixt you were too great;
Now tell me, dear, what would you do?
I know--and so do you.
And when (so comfortably placed)
Suppose you only grew aware
That that dear, dainty little waist
Of hers looked very lonely there;
Pray tell me sooth--what would you do?
I know, and so do you.
When, having done what I just did
With not a frown to check or chill,
Suppose her red lips seemed to bid
Defiance to your lordly will;
Oh, tell me, sweet, what would you do?
I know, and so do you.
poem by Eugene Field
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Bold
Prior to Seventeen seventy-one,
Law forbade any newspaper relate
lively words spoken in earnest or jest
in British parliamentary debate.
An editor charged with a printing offense
was judged by the Mayor, who radically took
a supportive stand in the man's defense
and let him off the hook.
Brass Crosby, the Mayor, was condemned by the House
to the Tower of London's grim space,
but the people's ire could scarce be contained
and several judges refused to hear the case.
Ever since Seventeen seventy-one
the Press have been free to print every day,
but ironically, now that they've won,
the members find nothing incisive to say.
Not to besmear Mayor Brass Crosby's career
yet....selective reporting's trespass,
has members tongue-tied by an editing fear
where once they spoke free, bold as brass.
poem by Diane Hine
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We have already significant sums of money in our petroleum fund, a fund created by law that includes all the revenues received from the Timor Sea, and invests in conservative, safe, long-term investment portfolios - right now in US Treasury Bonds.
quote by Jose Ramos Horta
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Suppose
Suppose no rose would ever grow again
Suppose no brook would ever flow again
Suppose no star should ever glow again
Suppose you didn't love me
Suppose there were no bees or butterflies
Suppose no bird should ever cross the skies
Suppose the sun should never never rise
Suppose you didn't love me
It's impossible to imagine a world without a star
But imagining no you is more impossible, by far
Suppose the Springtime never should arrive
Suppose the tall green trees should not survive
Suppose I had no wish to be alive
Suppose you didn't love me
It's impossible to imagine a world without a star
But imagining no you is more impossible, by far
Suppose the Springtime never should arrive
Suppose the tall green trees should not survive
Suppose I had no wish to be alive
Suppose you didn't love me
Suppose you didn't love me
song performed by by Elvis Presley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Brooklyn Blues
Words by Bruce Sussman and Jack Feldman
Music By Barry Manilow
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
See I flew in from the West Coast
Just the other day.
Yes, I flew in from the West Coast
and we circled J.F.K.
The movie ended and I pulled up the shade,
looked out the window while the Muzak played.
But in my head I'm singin',
singin' the Brooklyn Blues.
Oh, yea.
When you're growin' up in Brooklyn
the Bridge is like a friend.
Said when you're growin' up in Brooklyn
that Bridge is sure your friend.
Because that river, looks a hundred miles wide
when all your dreams are on the other side,
and th at can start you singin'
singin' the Brooklyn Blues.
Oh, yea.
Now I've got myself some money
a mansion in Bel-aire.
Yes I've spent a lot of money
and I"ve been most ev'ry-where.
But still there's somethin' missin' I"ve got to find,
a part of me I must've left behind,
that makes a guy start feelin',
feelin' those Brooklyn Blues.
My my.
I've sung love songs to a princess
more than once or twice.
I"ve sung rock 'n' roll in Paris,
jazz in paradise.
But there's a song of mine I couldn't have sung,
a tune I started back when I was young.
Now I've come home to finish,
finish my Brooklyn Blues.
My Brooklyn Blues.
song performed by by Barry Manilow
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Danceway
Be my tv guide in between the stations.
Be my satellite: secret information.
Stairway going one way to the subway.
Waiting for the train.
Take it to the runway.
Journal in the square, fingers in the hairdo.
England in the air, beatle in the bathroom.
Highway going one way or another.
Lets get in the car.
Brooklyn queens expressway.
Turning in the light, singing to the doorway.
Standing on the side, listen to the subway.
(no one understands you, upperhands you, lonely valentine.
Bell and book and candle.)
song performed by by Blondie
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I Met A Man.
Along the road called Life I met a man today,
He asked if I were going his way.
I took a minute and looked him up and down,
Just to ask myself if he were someone I wanted to be around.
His heart was black with sin,
There seemed very little if any goodness within.
The years had etched upon his face,
And you my friend are failure and disgrace.
Now I noticed him looking back into me,
I was not going to be allowed to think my thoughts for free.
He looked at me and read my thought,
He spoke and this is what he taught.
You my son are me and I am you,
Your skin brown or your eyes deepest blue.
Each has choices to make,
And doors with paths to take.
The more I looked upon this ragged old man,
The more I understood this was part of God's plan.
Fair to say a God given plea,
That I see this old man was me.
[RKH] 2/07/2003
Country Scrumping
Your country cousin took you
Across a field to a vast orchard
Where low hung branches
Made the green apples within
Reach of your young boy’s hands.
Don’t eat too many of them
Or you’ll get gut ache, she said.
Your eyes had never seen so
Many apples, row after row
In long lines down the field and
Fields beyond. You picked an apple
And bit into it. They make cider
From these, she said, picking off
An apple too and biting with relish.
Your younger sister looked nervously
On wondering if she too should pick.
Go on, your cousin said, pick and eat.
Your sister reached up and pulled
And a few apples fell to the ground
With soft sounds of thump on the
Short grass. She picked up one and
Brushed it off on her dress. Have to
Run if the farmer comes, your cousin
Said, and don’t tell of this or we’ll be
For it. For what? Your sister asked.
Your cousin looked around and replied,
A good telling off or a good tanned ass.
You stood all three of you eating, beneath
The apple trees, in the short green grass.
poem by Terry Collett
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No Tears
tears roll down his checks
as he muttered the words “she’s dead”
I would have stopped
stared as if he was a ghost
and I would have thought
god it’s about time
but as I looked around to the people I loved something came over me
mom and dad were crying,
Ethan, Andy, and even john looked sad
here I was with a smile on my face
how dumb could I be not even act like I care
but the truth really is that I don’t give a shit
about if she had died or not
it’s better for us in the long run anyway
make everyone happier
I’m just a kid so what am I supposed to think when someone
that has made my life and my family’s life miserable
what am I suppose to fell when someone has made me hate coming “home”
what am I suppose to do when many of times I have wished her dead
what am I suppose to say to the person that made me believe I live in hell
am I suppose to lie
what would you do
what would you fell
what would you say
what would you think
I almost feel sorry for not feeling bad
but I don’t
I almost feel sorry for Steve
but yet again why should I care when his parents die
when he didn’t care when my dad died
I will admit there were a couple of minutes
where I felt like a bad person for not feeling bad
but it’s not worth my time
enough tears will be shed from her death
why should I need to contribute to the waterfall
a tear runs down my face
yes a tear
one single tear
yet no tears flow from my eyes
of sadness
poem by Mrs. Cynosure
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Eyes of Green
Green eyes fresh like spring make feelings grow,
Green eyes free like prairies make hearts run.
Black lashes like deep winter or wide spread plains
Draw out fresh, free, green eyes.
poem by Drew Zoromski
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Green Fingers
I wish I had green fingers,
so everything in my garden would grow.
The flowers would grow strong,
like my love for you.
The roses would blush at your beauty,
a sunflower to fill your day with brightness.
Oh, how I wish I had green fingers,
with the touch to make every flower grow.
There would be a cascade,
of colours and perfume to fill the air,
as we walked through my garden fair.
poem by David Harris
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Deep Level Concern
deep level concern;
our own national parks
used as collateral
on loans from China!
water rights to the Great Lakes,
and other bodies of water here...
sold to China!
our jobs, Joe blue collar working
families.... sold to China!
our oil profiteer wars,
financed by China!
sleeping with the country
with the worst human rights record,
dancing with the devil!
and now, our own police forces
committing acts of violence
and oppression against Americans!
against American people protesting,
standing up for freedom and equality!
standing against the profiteers!
reacting the same way,
and with the same types of oppression,
as China!
our rights,
...our freedom,
......our dignity.
even our rights to work and survive....
sold to....
.....and even worse,
...........sold by!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Who can be Redeemed?
Who can be saved?
So many can be saved -
A rich man and his family,
They can be saved.
But who can be redeemed?
Only souls enslaved.
Only those sold
Can be bought back again.
Those who purchase minds and souls
By sermon, fear or flattery
May not petition for redemption
Or ask how it will set them free.
Those who traded on South Africa
While Mandela worked in jail
Those who issued bonds of war
While Iraq's children died in flames
You who claim to be redeemers
While disowning fields you've sown -
The lands you've stolen, slaves you've owned -
Will pay in different currency
Than any you have yet controlled.
Until you've lived in servitude
To justice and its wondrous law
Until you are the slaves to truth
Redemption is not yours' to know.
poem by Frank Bana
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