Tares make their own way
squeeze into each furrow sown
Wheat,
Rye,
Alfalfa,
Corn, Beets, Spuds.
Uranium,
rich and dangerous,
cuts veins through
Schist, Shale,
Sandstone, Slate.
Irrigation ditches divide pastures
dug at right angles to fences,
laid out just so by pioneer fathers,
demarcate that which concerns us,
from that which does not.
The left hand knows not
what the right hand has wrought:
Things knew their places,
Until my generation.
We cry out in confusion as we migrate,
East to Massachussetts,
South to California.
Like so many geese flying overhead,
Cousins honk out secrets,
one did not know that the other didn’t know:
"Honk!...Gave them nothing!"
"Honk!...Died destitute!"
"Honk!... Thru the window!"
Forgive us–we did not,
do not, know the lay of this land.
The clan’s unmentioned names,
the Dead,
furtive amid late
Great Grandmother’s letters,
whisper,
so we did not hear them:
"You kin come home now--
He did not die."
Andrea L. Seek 5/23/2007
Thursday, May 24, 2007
The Heart Asks Pleasure First
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
Emily Dickinson
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
The heart asks pleasure first,
And then, excuse from pain;
And then, those little anodynes
That deaden suffering,
And then, to go to sleep;
And then, if it should be
The will of its Inquisitor,
The liberty to die.
Emily Dickinson
Wild Nights! Wild Nights!
WILD nights! Wild nights!
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
Emily Dickinson
Were I with thee,
Wild nights should be
Our luxury!
Futile the winds
To a heart in port,—
Done with the compass,
Done with the chart.
Rowing in Eden!
Ah! the sea!
Might I but moor
To-night in thee!
Emily Dickinson
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Standing Tall
In honor of Martin Luther King
Some kings rule their kingdoms sitting down
Surrounded by luxury, soft cushions and fans
But this King stood strong
stood proud
stood tall
When the driver told Rosa
"Move to the back of the bus!"
When the waiter told students
"We don't serve your kind!"
When the Mayor told voters
"Your vote don't count!"
And when the sheriff told marchers
"Get off our streets!"
using fire hoses, police dogs and cattle prods
to move them along
This King stood strong
stood proud
stood tall
Speaking of peace
of love
and children
hand in hand
free at last
free at last
When some yelled for violence
For angry revenge
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
He stood his ground
Preaching peace
And when some spat out hate
He stood there smiling
Spreading love
Until it rolled like the sea across the land
Sweeping away Jim Crow
Breaking down the walls
Ringing the bell
Joyfully
For Freedom
Until
Standing on the mountain top
They shot him
Coldly
Hoping to see him fall
Hoping to put him away
To bring him low
But this King
even in death
even today
stands strong
stands proud
stands tall
And we remember
Jamie McKenzie [Megan Gillis]
Some kings rule their kingdoms sitting down
Surrounded by luxury, soft cushions and fans
But this King stood strong
stood proud
stood tall
When the driver told Rosa
"Move to the back of the bus!"
When the waiter told students
"We don't serve your kind!"
When the Mayor told voters
"Your vote don't count!"
And when the sheriff told marchers
"Get off our streets!"
using fire hoses, police dogs and cattle prods
to move them along
This King stood strong
stood proud
stood tall
Speaking of peace
of love
and children
hand in hand
free at last
free at last
When some yelled for violence
For angry revenge
An eye for an eye
And a tooth for a tooth
He stood his ground
Preaching peace
And when some spat out hate
He stood there smiling
Spreading love
Until it rolled like the sea across the land
Sweeping away Jim Crow
Breaking down the walls
Ringing the bell
Joyfully
For Freedom
Until
Standing on the mountain top
They shot him
Coldly
Hoping to see him fall
Hoping to put him away
To bring him low
But this King
even in death
even today
stands strong
stands proud
stands tall
And we remember
Jamie McKenzie [Megan Gillis]
Monday, April 16, 2007
Why I Am Not a Painter
I am not a painter, I am a poet.
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
Frank O'Hara
Why? I think I would rather be
a painter, but I am not. Well,
for instance, Mike Goldberg
is starting a painting. I drop in.
"Sit down and have a drink" he
says. I drink; we drink. I look
up. "You have SARDINES in it."
"Yes, it needed something there."
"Oh." I go and the days go by
and I drop in again. The painting
is going on, and I go, and the days
go by. I drop in. The painting is
finished. "Where's SARDINES?"
All that's left is just
letters, "It was too much," Mike says.
But me? One day I am thinking of
a color: orange. I write a line
about orange. Pretty soon it is a
whole page of words, not lines.
Then another page. There should be
so much more, not of orange, of
words, of how terrible orange is
and life. Days go by. It is even in
prose, I am a real poet. My poem
is finished and I haven't mentioned
orange yet. It's twelve poems, I call
it ORANGES. And one day in a gallery
I see Mike's painting, called SARDINES.
Frank O'Hara
Video Cuisine
They are weighing the babies again on color television.
They are hanging these small bags of bones up in canvas slings
to determine which ones will receive the dried-milk mush,
the concentrate made out of ground-up trash fish.
For years we have watched them, back-lit by the desert,
these miles of dusty hands holding out goatskins or cups,
their animals dead or dying of rinderpest,
and after the credits come up I continue to sit
through Dinner with Julia, where, in a French fish
poacher big enough for a small brown baby, an
Alaska salmon simmers in a court bouillon.
For a first course, steak tartare to awaken the palate.
With it Julia suggests a zinfandel. This scene
has a polite, a touristy flavor to it,
and I let it play. But somewhere Oxfam goes on
spooning gluey gruel between the parched lips
of potbellied children, the ones who perhaps can be saved
from kwashiorkor—an ancient Ghanaian word—
though with probable lowered IQs, the voiceover explains,
caused by protein deficiencies linked to the drought
and the drought has grown worse with the gradual increase in herds
overgrazing the thin forage grasses of the Sahel.
This, says the voice, can be laid to the natural greed
of the nomad deceived by technicians digging new wells
which means (a slow pan of the sand) that the water table has dropped.
And now to Julia’s table is borne the resplendent fish.
Always the camera is angled so that the guests look up.
Among them I glimpse that sly Dean, Jonathan Swift.
After the credits come up I continue to sit
with those who are starving to death in a distant nation
squatting, back-lit by the desert, hands out, in my head
and the Dublin Dean squats there too, observing the population
that waits for too little dried milk, white rice, trash fish.
Always the camera is angled so they look up
while their babies are weighed in slings on color television,
look into our living rooms and the shaded rooms we sleep in.
Maxine W. Kumin
They are hanging these small bags of bones up in canvas slings
to determine which ones will receive the dried-milk mush,
the concentrate made out of ground-up trash fish.
For years we have watched them, back-lit by the desert,
these miles of dusty hands holding out goatskins or cups,
their animals dead or dying of rinderpest,
and after the credits come up I continue to sit
through Dinner with Julia, where, in a French fish
poacher big enough for a small brown baby, an
Alaska salmon simmers in a court bouillon.
For a first course, steak tartare to awaken the palate.
With it Julia suggests a zinfandel. This scene
has a polite, a touristy flavor to it,
and I let it play. But somewhere Oxfam goes on
spooning gluey gruel between the parched lips
of potbellied children, the ones who perhaps can be saved
from kwashiorkor—an ancient Ghanaian word—
though with probable lowered IQs, the voiceover explains,
caused by protein deficiencies linked to the drought
and the drought has grown worse with the gradual increase in herds
overgrazing the thin forage grasses of the Sahel.
This, says the voice, can be laid to the natural greed
of the nomad deceived by technicians digging new wells
which means (a slow pan of the sand) that the water table has dropped.
And now to Julia’s table is borne the resplendent fish.
Always the camera is angled so that the guests look up.
Among them I glimpse that sly Dean, Jonathan Swift.
After the credits come up I continue to sit
with those who are starving to death in a distant nation
squatting, back-lit by the desert, hands out, in my head
and the Dublin Dean squats there too, observing the population
that waits for too little dried milk, white rice, trash fish.
Always the camera is angled so they look up
while their babies are weighed in slings on color television,
look into our living rooms and the shaded rooms we sleep in.
Maxine W. Kumin
How it Is
Shall I say how it is in your clothes?
A month after your death I wear your blue jacket.
The dog at the center of my life recognizes
you’ve come to visit, he’s ecstatic.
In the left pocket, a hole.
In the right, a parking ticket
delivered up last August on Bay State Road.
In my heart, a scatter like milkweed,
a flinging from the pods of the soul.
My skin presses your old outline.
It is hot and dry inside.
I think of the last day of your life,
old friend, how I would unwind it, paste
it together in a different collage,
back from the death car idling in the garage,
back up the stairs, your praying hands unlaced,
reassembling the bits of bread and tuna fish
into a ceremony of sandwich,
running the home movie backward to a space
we could be easy in, a kitchen place
with vodka and ice, our words like living meat.
Dear friend, you have excited crowds
with your example. They swell
like wine bags, straining at your seams.
I will be years gathering up our words,
fishing out letters, snapshots, stains,
leaning my ribs against this durable cloth
to put on the dumb blue blazer of your death.
Maxine Kumin
A month after your death I wear your blue jacket.
The dog at the center of my life recognizes
you’ve come to visit, he’s ecstatic.
In the left pocket, a hole.
In the right, a parking ticket
delivered up last August on Bay State Road.
In my heart, a scatter like milkweed,
a flinging from the pods of the soul.
My skin presses your old outline.
It is hot and dry inside.
I think of the last day of your life,
old friend, how I would unwind it, paste
it together in a different collage,
back from the death car idling in the garage,
back up the stairs, your praying hands unlaced,
reassembling the bits of bread and tuna fish
into a ceremony of sandwich,
running the home movie backward to a space
we could be easy in, a kitchen place
with vodka and ice, our words like living meat.
Dear friend, you have excited crowds
with your example. They swell
like wine bags, straining at your seams.
I will be years gathering up our words,
fishing out letters, snapshots, stains,
leaning my ribs against this durable cloth
to put on the dumb blue blazer of your death.
Maxine Kumin
The Best of Poems
I once fashioned myself a poet
But then I started kindergarten
So I put dreams on hold.
Until senior year, when the
University was
Forced to admit me to a
Poetry composition seminar.
Like poetry, there were
Rules and
They had no choice.
Neither did the Professor,
Nor my fellow serious students.
I was serious too.
Although I didn't dress all in
Black - more likely all purple,
And I didn't
wear Prominent Glasses
Despite having 20/20 vision,
And nor did I smoke
Clove cigarettes,
I was a serious poet
About to
Spew forth unimaginable
Poetic delights.
I labored and
Labored and
Labored to
Translate
Transcendent
Thoughts into
Fragmented sentences;
Searching to find the
Unfamiliar to
Capture the
Simple;
Seeking to
Distinguish the
Absurdit from the
Sublime.
The first time, and
Only time,
I shared
A carefully constructed
poem, I
Experienced the
Fulfilling, albeit
Fleeting,
Euphoria of my
Tangled and
Disjointed consciousness
Resonating with others.
Before I uttered the
Penultimate poetic
Word, twelve hands
Flew up in the air to
Comment and
Construct.
"She was angry at him for
not loving her,
And he was angry at her
for loving him."
Eureka! My
Favorite passage...the
Climax.
I couldn't wait to send the
poem to my
Kindergarten teacher.
At last,
Redemption.
Next hand?
Indeed, a
Powerful
Emotion.
I had struck a chord and
Provided
Nourishment for
Thought.
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for
not loving her,
And he was angry at her
for loving him."
Indeed -- my words
Even
More
Profoundly
Brilliant than I,
Myself, could
Comprehend.
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for not loving
her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
This must be my fuure: a
Budding
Poet Lauriat's cross to bear --
"Our"
Trifling woes...
Politely thanking Readers for
Sharing Their
Relational and Reflective experiences
No matter how Repetitive or
Redundant or
Recurring.
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for not loving
her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Perhaps,
Patience not my virtue and
Paradoxically antithetical to
Practice,
What about the o
Other
Twenty-three pages of the
Poem?
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for not loving
her,
And he was angry at her for loving him."
An Authentic Anglophile -- my first
AA Group,
What about my
Subtle literary references to
Barrett Browning's How Do I Love
Thee?Chaucer's The Love Unfeigned?Finch's The Apology?
Keats' To Hope?
Marlowe's Who Ever Loved, That
Not Loved at First Sight?
Rossetti's Bride Song?
Tennyson's Marriage Morning? and
Sid Vicious' My Way?
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Yo!
What about the
Allegories
Analogies and
Alliterations
And my late-blooming
Sophomoric,
Jejune and
Puerile
Life-questions?
Next hand?
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Sisters and Brothers 0
What about the
Tug, pull and sway of the
Iambic pentameter?
The reminiscient
Choppy rhythms of
Classical
Composers lacking
Consonants:
Chopin, Devorak, Rachmaninov,
Shostakovich and Tchaikovsky, to
Name many.
Next hand?
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Oy Vey!
What about the
Overwhelming,
Overpowering,
Overstated,
Overloaded,
Overworked and
Overkill
Omnipresence of
Onomatopoeias?
Next hand?
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Knock,knock - is anyone
Home?
what about the
Right-side in,
Right-side out,
Right-side in and
Shake-it-all-about
Hokey-Pokey
Punctuation?
Next hand?
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Blimey!
What about the
Intelligently
Interspersed foreign
language
Refrains -- most notably,
the
Literary renowned
Dithers,
Hithers,
Thithers,
Quivers,
Withers and,
Of course,
Gods and Goddesses of the
Guinness
Induced
Poetry of the
Stout Irish?
Next hand?
Ah, finally, the
Esteemed Professor --
Thirteen had always been my
Lucky
Number.
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Damn.
Damnation.
Damn it All.
Damn Yankees.
The next day I applied to law school
in
Red Sox Nation.
Maybe I should have written:
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Then again,
Maybe
Not.
Sea Green [C. Greene]
But then I started kindergarten
So I put dreams on hold.
Until senior year, when the
University was
Forced to admit me to a
Poetry composition seminar.
Like poetry, there were
Rules and
They had no choice.
Neither did the Professor,
Nor my fellow serious students.
I was serious too.
Although I didn't dress all in
Black - more likely all purple,
And I didn't
wear Prominent Glasses
Despite having 20/20 vision,
And nor did I smoke
Clove cigarettes,
I was a serious poet
About to
Spew forth unimaginable
Poetic delights.
I labored and
Labored and
Labored to
Translate
Transcendent
Thoughts into
Fragmented sentences;
Searching to find the
Unfamiliar to
Capture the
Simple;
Seeking to
Distinguish the
Absurdit from the
Sublime.
The first time, and
Only time,
I shared
A carefully constructed
poem, I
Experienced the
Fulfilling, albeit
Fleeting,
Euphoria of my
Tangled and
Disjointed consciousness
Resonating with others.
Before I uttered the
Penultimate poetic
Word, twelve hands
Flew up in the air to
Comment and
Construct.
"She was angry at him for
not loving her,
And he was angry at her
for loving him."
Eureka! My
Favorite passage...the
Climax.
I couldn't wait to send the
poem to my
Kindergarten teacher.
At last,
Redemption.
Next hand?
Indeed, a
Powerful
Emotion.
I had struck a chord and
Provided
Nourishment for
Thought.
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for
not loving her,
And he was angry at her
for loving him."
Indeed -- my words
Even
More
Profoundly
Brilliant than I,
Myself, could
Comprehend.
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for not loving
her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
This must be my fuure: a
Budding
Poet Lauriat's cross to bear --
"Our"
Trifling woes...
Politely thanking Readers for
Sharing Their
Relational and Reflective experiences
No matter how Repetitive or
Redundant or
Recurring.
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for not loving
her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Perhaps,
Patience not my virtue and
Paradoxically antithetical to
Practice,
What about the o
Other
Twenty-three pages of the
Poem?
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for not loving
her,
And he was angry at her for loving him."
An Authentic Anglophile -- my first
AA Group,
What about my
Subtle literary references to
Barrett Browning's How Do I Love
Thee?Chaucer's The Love Unfeigned?Finch's The Apology?
Keats' To Hope?
Marlowe's Who Ever Loved, That
Not Loved at First Sight?
Rossetti's Bride Song?
Tennyson's Marriage Morning? and
Sid Vicious' My Way?
Next hand?
"She was angry at him for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Yo!
What about the
Allegories
Analogies and
Alliterations
And my late-blooming
Sophomoric,
Jejune and
Puerile
Life-questions?
Next hand?
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Sisters and Brothers 0
What about the
Tug, pull and sway of the
Iambic pentameter?
The reminiscient
Choppy rhythms of
Classical
Composers lacking
Consonants:
Chopin, Devorak, Rachmaninov,
Shostakovich and Tchaikovsky, to
Name many.
Next hand?
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Oy Vey!
What about the
Overwhelming,
Overpowering,
Overstated,
Overloaded,
Overworked and
Overkill
Omnipresence of
Onomatopoeias?
Next hand?
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Knock,knock - is anyone
Home?
what about the
Right-side in,
Right-side out,
Right-side in and
Shake-it-all-about
Hokey-Pokey
Punctuation?
Next hand?
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Blimey!
What about the
Intelligently
Interspersed foreign
language
Refrains -- most notably,
the
Literary renowned
Dithers,
Hithers,
Thithers,
Quivers,
Withers and,
Of course,
Gods and Goddesses of the
Guinness
Induced
Poetry of the
Stout Irish?
Next hand?
Ah, finally, the
Esteemed Professor --
Thirteen had always been my
Lucky
Number.
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Damn.
Damnation.
Damn it All.
Damn Yankees.
The next day I applied to law school
in
Red Sox Nation.
Maybe I should have written:
"She was angry at hinm for not
loving her,
And he was angry at her for loving
him."
Then again,
Maybe
Not.
Sea Green [C. Greene]
Peace
Why oh why
Must the world be with?
anger and hatred
filling the atmosphere
Guns always killing
Hearts always breaking
Beauty constantly being destroyed
The days become short
The nights become longer
Staying awake, to stay
Safe, sheltered, protected
From the hostility
Only in the night
Then the day
Brings the news
The deadly news
Where is grandma?
She is on the news
A tear I shed
So don’t you see?
What a fist can bring
One little threat can cause some ones life to end
Emotionally and physically
If you take a moment to be patient and kind
Or stop and smell the flowers
A person’s life will be saved
From destruction of fervor or deep desire
Sally + Megan Gillis
Must the world be with?
anger and hatred
filling the atmosphere
Guns always killing
Hearts always breaking
Beauty constantly being destroyed
The days become short
The nights become longer
Staying awake, to stay
Safe, sheltered, protected
From the hostility
Only in the night
Then the day
Brings the news
The deadly news
Where is grandma?
She is on the news
A tear I shed
So don’t you see?
What a fist can bring
One little threat can cause some ones life to end
Emotionally and physically
If you take a moment to be patient and kind
Or stop and smell the flowers
A person’s life will be saved
From destruction of fervor or deep desire
Sally + Megan Gillis
A Helping Hand
People say that the sun will come out tomorrow,
others disagree.
They think it will be dark
stay dark
the dark of forever
but I think that can be changed
if one person takes a step up and lends a hand
to charity,
the needy
reaching out
a helping hand can be held
with every tear that reaches the ground,
with every house that is destroyed,
a helping hand can be held
with every natural or not
disaster that strikes upon the earth
we can help
reaching out
helping with hands
those hands
these hands
a difference is made
me, you ,us, them
they, we , us, she, I
can help
with one or more
Helping hands
Megan + Sally Gillis
others disagree.
They think it will be dark
stay dark
the dark of forever
but I think that can be changed
if one person takes a step up and lends a hand
to charity,
the needy
reaching out
a helping hand can be held
with every tear that reaches the ground,
with every house that is destroyed,
a helping hand can be held
with every natural or not
disaster that strikes upon the earth
we can help
reaching out
helping with hands
those hands
these hands
a difference is made
me, you ,us, them
they, we , us, she, I
can help
with one or more
Helping hands
Megan + Sally Gillis
The New Colossus
Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Emma Lazarus [Maggie O'Connor]
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame,
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore,
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Emma Lazarus [Maggie O'Connor]
Overdues
What do I do?
What do I do?
This library book is 42
Years overdue.
I admit that it's mine
But I can't pay the fine--
Should I turn it in
Or hide it again?
What do I do?
What do I do?
Current Mood: school tomorrow, oughtta be sleeping
Shel Silverstein [Owen Kuklinski]
What do I do?
This library book is 42
Years overdue.
I admit that it's mine
But I can't pay the fine--
Should I turn it in
Or hide it again?
What do I do?
What do I do?
Current Mood: school tomorrow, oughtta be sleeping
Shel Silverstein [Owen Kuklinski]
The Mehoo with an Exactly Watt
Knock knock!
Who's there?
Me!
Me who?
That's right!
What's right?
Meehoo!
That's what I want to know!
What's what you want to know?
Me, who?
Yes, exactly!
Exactly what?
Yes, I have an Exactlywatt on a chain!
Exactly what on a chain?
Yes!
Yes what?
No, Exactlywatt!
That's what I want to know!
I told you - Exactlywatt!
Exactly what?
Yes!
Yes what?
Yes, it's with me!
What's with you?
Exactlywatt - that's what's with me.
Me who?
Yes!
Go away!
Knock knock...
Shel Silverstein [Nora O'Connor]
Who's there?
Me!
Me who?
That's right!
What's right?
Meehoo!
That's what I want to know!
What's what you want to know?
Me, who?
Yes, exactly!
Exactly what?
Yes, I have an Exactlywatt on a chain!
Exactly what on a chain?
Yes!
Yes what?
No, Exactlywatt!
That's what I want to know!
I told you - Exactlywatt!
Exactly what?
Yes!
Yes what?
Yes, it's with me!
What's with you?
Exactlywatt - that's what's with me.
Me who?
Yes!
Go away!
Knock knock...
Shel Silverstein [Nora O'Connor]
Roses are Blue!
Roses are blue,
Violets are red.
Hats cover feet,
Socks cover head.
Trees grow short,
Flowers tall.
Mice are big
Hippos small.
Boxes are circles,
Balls are squares.
Eyes are alone,
Noses in pairs.
Chickens roar,
Lions cheep.
Children awake-
Parents asleep!
Author Unknown (to me), [Peninah Hodin]
Violets are red.
Hats cover feet,
Socks cover head.
Trees grow short,
Flowers tall.
Mice are big
Hippos small.
Boxes are circles,
Balls are squares.
Eyes are alone,
Noses in pairs.
Chickens roar,
Lions cheep.
Children awake-
Parents asleep!
Author Unknown (to me), [Peninah Hodin]
Theory
Into love and out again,
Thus I went, and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen
Well and bitterly I know
All the songs were ever sung,
All the words were ever said,
Could it be, when I was young
Someone dropped me on my head?
Thus I went, and thus I go.
Spare your voice, and hold your pen
Well and bitterly I know
All the songs were ever sung,
All the words were ever said,
Could it be, when I was young
Someone dropped me on my head?
God Says Yes to Me
I asked God if it was okay to be melodramatic
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes
Kaylin Haught [Louise Oster]
and she said yes
I asked her if it was okay to be short
and she said it sure is
I asked her if I could wear nail polish
or not wear nail polish
and she said honey
she calls me that sometimes
she said you can do just exactly
what you want to
Thanks God I said
And is it even okay if I don’t paragraph
my letters
Sweetcakes God said
who knows where she picked that up
what I’m telling you is
Yes Yes Yes
Kaylin Haught [Louise Oster]
Boston
I live in a town known as Boston
It's very easy to get lost in
With all the curious tourists
And the history of Fenway Park
Lively, admired pubs
And music in the dark
The talk of Quincy Market
And history of the Freedom Trail
The many brave people who were here,
Like William Bradford on the Mayflower,
That was such a great sail.
Towers like the John Hancock
And places like JP Licks
That everyone knows and loves,
The two hundred year old houses
That are built with bricks
As you can probably see
Everything great was here
The supreme live entertainment
And Sam Adams beer.
Sally Gillis
It's very easy to get lost in
With all the curious tourists
And the history of Fenway Park
Lively, admired pubs
And music in the dark
The talk of Quincy Market
And history of the Freedom Trail
The many brave people who were here,
Like William Bradford on the Mayflower,
That was such a great sail.
Towers like the John Hancock
And places like JP Licks
That everyone knows and loves,
The two hundred year old houses
That are built with bricks
As you can probably see
Everything great was here
The supreme live entertainment
And Sam Adams beer.
Sally Gillis
Phenomenal Woman
Pretty women wonder where my secret lies
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Maya Angelou [Lisa]
I'm not cute or built to suit a model's fashion size
But when I start to tell them
They think I'm telling lies.
I say
It's in the reach of my arms
The span of my hips
The stride of my steps
The curl of my lips.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
I walk into a room
Just as cool as you please
And to a man
The fellows stand or
Fall down on their knees
Then they swarm around me
A hive of honey bees.
I say
It's the fire in my eyes
And the flash of my teeth
The swing of my waist
And the joy in my feet.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Men themselves have wondered
What they see in me
They try so much
But they can't touch
My inner mystery.
When I try to show them
They say they still can't see.
I say
It's in the arch of my back
The sun of my smile
The ride of my breasts
The grace of my style.
I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Now you understand
Just why my head's not bowed
I don't shout or jump about
Or have to talk real loud
When you see me passing
It ought to make you proud.
I say
It's in the click of my heels
The bend of my hair
The palm of my hand
The need for my care.
'Cause I'm a woman
Phenomenally
Phenomenal woman
That's me.
Maya Angelou [Lisa]
Is Education a Business?
Is education a business?
Or should it even be?
This is a question which has always bothered me!
What is the purpose of educating students?
Should we pay more to teachers
Or could we do something even more prudent?
If you listen to some administrators the problem is money
When asked they will say, 'There simply is not enough to have any!'
If this were truly the problem the cure could be
Raise our already high taxes to what they really should be.
However, money may not be solely the answer
The question moreover they said coldly may actually be,
'We simply aren't teaching the students enough,
They are not passing the tests!'
To which the brilliant educational bureaucrat sadly laments, 'We need more money to teach to the Test!'
Remember John Dewey, the man who organized the library, he also lent theories to straighten up our schools.
His applied theories were successfu,
His students succeeded,
But was it his message that we heeded?
Dewey taught us that if we taught for learning,
We wouldn't look back,
Instead we would look forward,
And every press on, everyone succeeded all over the town.
You see this is learning, just plain and simple!
Lower the taxes,
Lower the tests,
Raise the bar of learning,
That is truly how our students learn best!
Ronald A. MacArthur [Don Gillis]
Or should it even be?
This is a question which has always bothered me!
What is the purpose of educating students?
Should we pay more to teachers
Or could we do something even more prudent?
If you listen to some administrators the problem is money
When asked they will say, 'There simply is not enough to have any!'
If this were truly the problem the cure could be
Raise our already high taxes to what they really should be.
However, money may not be solely the answer
The question moreover they said coldly may actually be,
'We simply aren't teaching the students enough,
They are not passing the tests!'
To which the brilliant educational bureaucrat sadly laments, 'We need more money to teach to the Test!'
Remember John Dewey, the man who organized the library, he also lent theories to straighten up our schools.
His applied theories were successfu,
His students succeeded,
But was it his message that we heeded?
Dewey taught us that if we taught for learning,
We wouldn't look back,
Instead we would look forward,
And every press on, everyone succeeded all over the town.
You see this is learning, just plain and simple!
Lower the taxes,
Lower the tests,
Raise the bar of learning,
That is truly how our students learn best!
Ronald A. MacArthur [Don Gillis]
Knock
At the early age of thirty-eight, my mother said, Go west!
Get up, says she, And get a job! Says I, I'll do my best
I pulled on my wellingtons to march to Kiltimagh
But I took a wrong turn in Charlestown and I ended up in Knock
Once this quiet crossroads was a place of gentle prayer
Where Catholics got indulgent once or twice a year
You could buy a pair of rosary beads or get your candles blessed
If you had a guilty conscience you could get it off your chest
Then came the priest from Partry, Father Horan was his name
Ever since he's been appointed Knock has never been the same
Begod, says Jim, 'Tis eighty years since Mary was adout
'Tis time for another miracle, and he blew the candle out
From Fatima to Bethlehem and from Lourdes to Kiltimagh
I've never seen a miracle like the airport up in Knock
And to establish terra firma he drew up a ten year plan
And he started running bingo around nineteen sixty-one
He built a fabulous basilica upon the Holy Ground
And once he had a focal point he started to expand
Chip shops and bed and breakfasts sprung up overnight
Once a place for quiet retreat, now it's a holy sight
All sorts of fancy restaurants for every race and creed
Where black and white and yellow pilgrims could get a mighty feed
We had the Blessed Virgin here, Father Horan did declare
And Foster and Allen, they appeared just over there
Now do you mean to tell me, says he in total shock
That I am not entitled to an auld airport here in Knock
The TDs were lobbied and harrassed with talk of promised votes
And people who'd been loyal for years spoke of changing coats
Excommunication was threatened upon the flock
Who said it was abortive building airports up in Knock
Now everyone is happy and the miracle it's complete
Father Horan's got his auld runway - and it's eighteen thousand feet
All sorts of planes could land there, of that there's little doubt
It'll be handy now for George Bush to knock Gadafi out
From Fatima to Bethlehem and from Lourdes to Kiltimagh
I've never seen a miracle like the airport up in Knock
Now poor old Father Jim is gone to the airport in the sky
And down on Barr na Cuiga he keeps a friendly eye
On Ryanair and Aer Lingus as they fly to and fro
We'll never see his likes again on the planes of sweet Mayo
Did NATO donate the dough, my boys, did NATO donate the dough
Did NATO donate the dough, my boys, did NATO donate the dough
From Fatima to Bethlehem and from Lourdes to Kiltimagh
I've never seen a miracle like the airport up in Knock
Christy Moore [Don Gillis]
Get up, says she, And get a job! Says I, I'll do my best
I pulled on my wellingtons to march to Kiltimagh
But I took a wrong turn in Charlestown and I ended up in Knock
Once this quiet crossroads was a place of gentle prayer
Where Catholics got indulgent once or twice a year
You could buy a pair of rosary beads or get your candles blessed
If you had a guilty conscience you could get it off your chest
Then came the priest from Partry, Father Horan was his name
Ever since he's been appointed Knock has never been the same
Begod, says Jim, 'Tis eighty years since Mary was adout
'Tis time for another miracle, and he blew the candle out
From Fatima to Bethlehem and from Lourdes to Kiltimagh
I've never seen a miracle like the airport up in Knock
And to establish terra firma he drew up a ten year plan
And he started running bingo around nineteen sixty-one
He built a fabulous basilica upon the Holy Ground
And once he had a focal point he started to expand
Chip shops and bed and breakfasts sprung up overnight
Once a place for quiet retreat, now it's a holy sight
All sorts of fancy restaurants for every race and creed
Where black and white and yellow pilgrims could get a mighty feed
We had the Blessed Virgin here, Father Horan did declare
And Foster and Allen, they appeared just over there
Now do you mean to tell me, says he in total shock
That I am not entitled to an auld airport here in Knock
The TDs were lobbied and harrassed with talk of promised votes
And people who'd been loyal for years spoke of changing coats
Excommunication was threatened upon the flock
Who said it was abortive building airports up in Knock
Now everyone is happy and the miracle it's complete
Father Horan's got his auld runway - and it's eighteen thousand feet
All sorts of planes could land there, of that there's little doubt
It'll be handy now for George Bush to knock Gadafi out
From Fatima to Bethlehem and from Lourdes to Kiltimagh
I've never seen a miracle like the airport up in Knock
Now poor old Father Jim is gone to the airport in the sky
And down on Barr na Cuiga he keeps a friendly eye
On Ryanair and Aer Lingus as they fly to and fro
We'll never see his likes again on the planes of sweet Mayo
Did NATO donate the dough, my boys, did NATO donate the dough
Did NATO donate the dough, my boys, did NATO donate the dough
From Fatima to Bethlehem and from Lourdes to Kiltimagh
I've never seen a miracle like the airport up in Knock
Christy Moore [Don Gillis]
Evacuation Day 2006, Roche Bros. Market, West Roxbury, Mass.
After the organinc carrots' orange cascade, tumbling
from their ersatz pushcart, after the defiant
wonder of February asparagus and strawberries, after
the stacks of cold-cuts that tower like a distant metropolis
with their display's gleaming lens, after
the skittering panic of lobsters hurled
against the blue green force-field
of their pound,
one more of West Roxbury's thick
ankled legion of young matrons stands paralyzed
before the vast acreage of the meat case,
weighing options. After all,
this is a day to toast heroes and
surely someone on the block's
got at least one more cousin to salute, licking
a stump in Baghdad.
The scale gives pause here,
as if some vast, lowing plain of kine has bowed
obedient before the knife to sate
Boston's ascendant hibernian class. She surveys
the heaped joints weeping gore into their clingy plastic raiment, and
reaches to caress a slab
of corned beef easily as large as either of the straw haired
spalpeens squawling in the cart, indeed nearly
expansive as her own milk weighted midriff,
and thinks
never again will wild boys lunge
for my groin in the starlight as we sprawl, logy
with purloined lager down by the gravel
quarry on a spunk
scented late spring Saturday. Now
it is only to home
and weigh starch, subdue the brats, endure
love as it arrives long after work
is done and the last natter
of the late night hosts has subdued to blue-white fog.
Two miles away, the Dorchester Heights still command
the town. But a new brand of conscripts now toils
at the breastworks. And, tossing her chosen palp of flesh
upon the conveyor's scrolling black lip, our gal is deaf to the creak
of ancient bearings, the rust throated protest
of the cast iron guns
as slowly they pivot from the harbor to the West.
Kosta Demos
from their ersatz pushcart, after the defiant
wonder of February asparagus and strawberries, after
the stacks of cold-cuts that tower like a distant metropolis
with their display's gleaming lens, after
the skittering panic of lobsters hurled
against the blue green force-field
of their pound,
one more of West Roxbury's thick
ankled legion of young matrons stands paralyzed
before the vast acreage of the meat case,
weighing options. After all,
this is a day to toast heroes and
surely someone on the block's
got at least one more cousin to salute, licking
a stump in Baghdad.
The scale gives pause here,
as if some vast, lowing plain of kine has bowed
obedient before the knife to sate
Boston's ascendant hibernian class. She surveys
the heaped joints weeping gore into their clingy plastic raiment, and
reaches to caress a slab
of corned beef easily as large as either of the straw haired
spalpeens squawling in the cart, indeed nearly
expansive as her own milk weighted midriff,
and thinks
never again will wild boys lunge
for my groin in the starlight as we sprawl, logy
with purloined lager down by the gravel
quarry on a spunk
scented late spring Saturday. Now
it is only to home
and weigh starch, subdue the brats, endure
love as it arrives long after work
is done and the last natter
of the late night hosts has subdued to blue-white fog.
Two miles away, the Dorchester Heights still command
the town. But a new brand of conscripts now toils
at the breastworks. And, tossing her chosen palp of flesh
upon the conveyor's scrolling black lip, our gal is deaf to the creak
of ancient bearings, the rust throated protest
of the cast iron guns
as slowly they pivot from the harbor to the West.
Kosta Demos
The Plane Crash at Los Gatos
The crops are all in, they need us no longer.
The oranges are stacked in the creosote dumps.
They're driving us back to the Mexican border.
It takes all our money to go back again
Goodbye to my friends. Goodbye Rosalita.
Adios mes amigos
Jesus y Maria
You won't have a name
When you fly the big aero plane
All they will call you
Will be deportee.
My father's own father did wade through the Rio.
You took all the money he made in his life.
My sisters and brothers they worked in your fruit fields,
Rode on your trucks, till they laid down and died.
Some of us are illega, and all are not wanted;
Our work contracts out, we must move on
the 600 miles to the Mexican border
They drive us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.
Our sky plane caught fire over the Los Gatos canyon.
Like a fireball it fell to the ground.
Who are those friends lying there like dead leaves?
The radio said they were just deportees.
We died on your hills, and we died in your valleys.
We died on your mountains, and we died neath your bushes
Both sides of your border we died just the same.
Goodbye to my friends. Goodbye Rosalita.
Adios mes amigos
Jesus y Maria
You won't have a name
When you fly the big aero plane
All they will call you
Will be deportee.
Woodie Guthrie [Jill Reilly]
The oranges are stacked in the creosote dumps.
They're driving us back to the Mexican border.
It takes all our money to go back again
Goodbye to my friends. Goodbye Rosalita.
Adios mes amigos
Jesus y Maria
You won't have a name
When you fly the big aero plane
All they will call you
Will be deportee.
My father's own father did wade through the Rio.
You took all the money he made in his life.
My sisters and brothers they worked in your fruit fields,
Rode on your trucks, till they laid down and died.
Some of us are illega, and all are not wanted;
Our work contracts out, we must move on
the 600 miles to the Mexican border
They drive us like outlaws, like rustlers, like thieves.
Our sky plane caught fire over the Los Gatos canyon.
Like a fireball it fell to the ground.
Who are those friends lying there like dead leaves?
The radio said they were just deportees.
We died on your hills, and we died in your valleys.
We died on your mountains, and we died neath your bushes
Both sides of your border we died just the same.
Goodbye to my friends. Goodbye Rosalita.
Adios mes amigos
Jesus y Maria
You won't have a name
When you fly the big aero plane
All they will call you
Will be deportee.
Woodie Guthrie [Jill Reilly]
Sunday, April 15, 2007
Not Important.
When the song went scratchy, I just pulled up
I was hoping the reception would improve.
The guy next to me inched up, too.
Seems he thought I was jumping him to the green light.
It's just like that, sometimes.
It's just like that with some people, sometimes.
I was really liking that song. I didn't know it or why.
I was wondering where it was going.
I thought of you and knew you wouldn't.
Likely you'd think it was a symptom of something or other.
You're just like that sometimes.
It's just like that with us, now, sometimes.
I was hoping the reception would improve.
The guy next to me inched up, too.
Seems he thought I was jumping him to the green light.
It's just like that, sometimes.
It's just like that with some people, sometimes.
I was really liking that song. I didn't know it or why.
I was wondering where it was going.
I thought of you and knew you wouldn't.
Likely you'd think it was a symptom of something or other.
You're just like that sometimes.
It's just like that with us, now, sometimes.
Light on the River Stream
We share our faith as we walk along God's green earth.
His love for all living things is always first.
All the glory that He has bestowed upon mankind.
The love in your heart for God is all you need to find.
Trust in God and His son Jesus, for you will live joyfully.
They shall fill your heart with truth and beauty.
Praise the Lord for He is our founding Creator.
Be sure to hold on to His love in your heart forever.
For the light on the river stream shines bright from the start.
Just as the love that you have for God brightly shines in your heart.
Scott Douglas Roby [Karen Roby]
His love for all living things is always first.
All the glory that He has bestowed upon mankind.
The love in your heart for God is all you need to find.
Trust in God and His son Jesus, for you will live joyfully.
They shall fill your heart with truth and beauty.
Praise the Lord for He is our founding Creator.
Be sure to hold on to His love in your heart forever.
For the light on the river stream shines bright from the start.
Just as the love that you have for God brightly shines in your heart.
Scott Douglas Roby [Karen Roby]
Jesus Our Lord
Jesus, you have come into my life and shown me right from wrong
For You have shown me the meaning of true love.
It's even more pure than that of a single white dove.
With You my eyes have opened to a brand new world.
Now I shall speak only of Your word.
For we share all of Your awesome glory.
Due to You being the beginning of man's story,
You are my whole life as You should be.
Without You, my heart will never see.
With Jesus guiding our ways from within our hearts
We will all feel his presence and make a brand new start
Scott Douglas Roby [Karen Roby]
For You have shown me the meaning of true love.
It's even more pure than that of a single white dove.
With You my eyes have opened to a brand new world.
Now I shall speak only of Your word.
For we share all of Your awesome glory.
Due to You being the beginning of man's story,
You are my whole life as You should be.
Without You, my heart will never see.
With Jesus guiding our ways from within our hearts
We will all feel his presence and make a brand new start
Scott Douglas Roby [Karen Roby]
Sad Memories
When I think about you and how hard I tried
I gave you all I had to give
You took it and ran with it as fast as you could
You didn't give back the way I needed you to give
Now you are in my memories which will last forever, damn you
I try, I try to forget you
but the love will never die for you in my heart
So please, just let me die
Let me die in peace.
Anthony John DiIorio [Shirley Yeroian]
I gave you all I had to give
You took it and ran with it as fast as you could
You didn't give back the way I needed you to give
Now you are in my memories which will last forever, damn you
I try, I try to forget you
but the love will never die for you in my heart
So please, just let me die
Let me die in peace.
Anthony John DiIorio [Shirley Yeroian]
The Day
The day is not a day if I don't see you
The day is not a day if you don't talk to me
The day is not a day without your sunshine in my life
The day is not a day without you
Anthony John DiIorio [Shirley Yeroian]
The day is not a day if you don't talk to me
The day is not a day without your sunshine in my life
The day is not a day without you
Anthony John DiIorio [Shirley Yeroian]
Souls
When the soul of one meets a soul like the one of yours
the souls come together as one
There is no other soult that can come
That is the soul of love
Anthony John DiIorio [Shirley Yeroian]
the souls come together as one
There is no other soult that can come
That is the soul of love
Anthony John DiIorio [Shirley Yeroian]
I Want the One
I want the one who loves me for me
I want the one who won't hurt me
I want the one that brings me joy to my life
I want the one that I can grow old with
I want the one that makes me feel whole
All I want is someone to love and hold and call my own
Anthony John DiIorio [Shirley Yeroian]
I want the one who won't hurt me
I want the one that brings me joy to my life
I want the one that I can grow old with
I want the one that makes me feel whole
All I want is someone to love and hold and call my own
Anthony John DiIorio [Shirley Yeroian]
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Tipsy Gypsy's Pix
The band got a lot of attention from all the locals, including a St. Thomas photographer (a.k.a. Tipsy Gypsy) when they played on St. Patrick's Day at Tickles. Check out the photos here: http://www.justshootmepi.com/
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Three Cow Poems by Alice Schertle.
How Now, Brown Cow?
How
now,
brown
cow?
How’s it going?
Just stopped by –
Heard you lowing…
Lovely view.
Lovely weather.
Good to have
this moo
together.
The Cow
You come across her standing there
as common as a box. As square.
Her lower jaw revolves the cud;
Her hooves stand foursquare in the mud.
Come closer. View with mild surprise
The gentle softness of her eyes.
Consider Cow
Consider cow
which rhymes
with bough
but not
with rough.
That’s clear
enough.
Remember moo
will rhyme
with through
but not
with trough
or though
or tough.
You’ve got
it now:
There’s dough
and bough
and cough
and through
and mough…
er, moo.
Thanks to Sidonie for making Charlotte perform these.
How
now,
brown
cow?
How’s it going?
Just stopped by –
Heard you lowing…
Lovely view.
Lovely weather.
Good to have
this moo
together.
The Cow
You come across her standing there
as common as a box. As square.
Her lower jaw revolves the cud;
Her hooves stand foursquare in the mud.
Come closer. View with mild surprise
The gentle softness of her eyes.
Consider Cow
Consider cow
which rhymes
with bough
but not
with rough.
That’s clear
enough.
Remember moo
will rhyme
with through
but not
with trough
or though
or tough.
You’ve got
it now:
There’s dough
and bough
and cough
and through
and mough…
er, moo.
Thanks to Sidonie for making Charlotte perform these.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Back in the Day
Thanks to Michael, we have some historical poems to put up.
This haiku (in Heaney's writing, no less) was the second poem read at the first P&S, in 2000.
The first poem from the first Poetry & Stout was read by Joe Moore. Click here to read The Fiddler of Dooney if you missed it live.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Sunday, January 28, 2007
I am From
I am from great grandma Paula's apple streudel
and Percy's ice cream.
I am from the Green Monster.
Bats cracking and crowds roaring
After many years of losing
we came back to overcome the curse.
I am from Ireland and France,
Germany and Italy,
Mexico and Spain.
I'm from fried dough,
and books,
and Fren and Michael and Harry and Evelyn.
I'm from music
From hardcorse, punk, and classic rock.
The Beatles and AFI.
I am from the Father Almighty,
and blessed by the Virgin Mary.
Jesus gave up his life for mine
and I live it to the fullest.
I'm from O'Connors and Mayrs,
Lopez' and Champaignes.
A mix of everything,
yet all the same.
I'm from respect and dignity,
loyalty and love.
From famine and prejudices
and hope from above.
I'm from the sacrifices of those who came before me.
Through their struggles and hardships I was born.
Now living in the land of the free.
Kelsi O'Connor
and Percy's ice cream.
I am from the Green Monster.
Bats cracking and crowds roaring
After many years of losing
we came back to overcome the curse.
I am from Ireland and France,
Germany and Italy,
Mexico and Spain.
I'm from fried dough,
and books,
and Fren and Michael and Harry and Evelyn.
I'm from music
From hardcorse, punk, and classic rock.
The Beatles and AFI.
I am from the Father Almighty,
and blessed by the Virgin Mary.
Jesus gave up his life for mine
and I live it to the fullest.
I'm from O'Connors and Mayrs,
Lopez' and Champaignes.
A mix of everything,
yet all the same.
I'm from respect and dignity,
loyalty and love.
From famine and prejudices
and hope from above.
I'm from the sacrifices of those who came before me.
Through their struggles and hardships I was born.
Now living in the land of the free.
Kelsi O'Connor
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