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62/M/I have been writing poetr
I have been writing poetry since I was 10 years old I enjoy it so much and I just want to continue on.
Poems
James Bradley McCallum
Jan 2012
FIRST DAY
1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!
The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.
I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.
I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!
The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.
What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!
But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.
The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.
Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.
Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.
Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.
Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?
I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.
It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.
Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!
But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.
Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!
Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.
2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.
Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.
The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.
Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?
The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.
Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.
Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.
You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.
Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.
Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!
Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?
Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.
Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.
Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.
Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.
Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.
Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.
Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.
Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.
From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.
Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:
Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!
Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.
Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.
It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.
Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.
He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.
And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.
3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!
An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.
A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.
A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.
A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.
A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.
A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.
A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.
A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.
An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.
A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.
A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.
Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.
A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.
A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.
An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.
A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.
A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.
Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.
An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.
A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.
4.
Does Chicago have a future?
This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!
Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains
Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.
Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.
Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.
You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?
I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.
The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.
The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.
The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.
The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.
Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?
Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.
Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.
Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.
Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.
Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.
Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.
What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.
Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.
Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”
Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.
I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.
Sorghum,
I think its hardy.
Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.
Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.
Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.
When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?
You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.
Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.
Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.
The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.
Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.
Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.
This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.
Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.
Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.
Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.
Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.
Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.
This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.
5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.
Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.
Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.
People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.
Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.
Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.
Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.
Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.
Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.
Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!
SECOND DAY
1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.
According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.
The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.
I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.
Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.
I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.
Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”
He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.
Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.
The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.
He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.
I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.
I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.
The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.
It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.
The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.
Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.
Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.
On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.
Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.
2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.
He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.
Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.
He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.
All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.
Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.
I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.
Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?
Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?
I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.
"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”
No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?
I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.
I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.
What level
is he speaking of?
Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.
I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?
What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?
What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?
This seditious talk!
3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.
People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.
Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.
The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.
Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.
The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.
It is the true level
of this city.
The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.
Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.
A blessing,
Chicago?
All rivers
come here.
All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.
All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.
Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.
We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.
Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!
Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.
Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.
He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.
Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.
The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.
Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.
Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.
Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.
Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.
A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.
The Blues live
on in Chicago.
The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.
The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.
Music:
Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago
jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
1.
Who wanted me
to go to Chicago
on January 6th?
I did!
The night before,
20 below zero
Fahrenheit
with the wind chill;
as the blizzard of 99
lay in mountains
of blackening snow.
I packed two coats,
two suits,
three sweaters,
multiple sets of long johns
and heavy white socks
for a two-day stay.
I left from Newark.
**** the denseness,
it confounds!
The 2nd City to whom?
2nd ain’t bad.
It’s pretty good.
If you consider
Peking and Prague,
Tokyo and Togo,
Manchester and Moscow,
Port Au Prince and Paris,
Athens and Amsterdam,
Buenos Aries and Johannesburg;
that’s pretty good.
What’s going on here today?
It’s friggin frozen.
To the bone!
But Chi Town is still cool.
Buddy Guy’s is open.
Bartenders mixing drinks,
cabbies jamming on their breaks,
honey dew waitresses serving sugar,
buildings swerving,
fire tongued preachers are preaching
and the farmers are measuring the moon.
The lake,
unlike Ontario
is in the midst of freezing.
Bones of ice
threaten to gel
into a solid mass
over the expanse
of the Michigan Lake.
If this keeps up,
you can walk
clear to Toronto
on a silver carpet.
Along the shore
the ice is permanent.
It’s the first big frost
of winter
after a long
Indian Summer.
Thank God
I caught a cab.
Outside I hear
The Hawk
nippin hard.
It’ll get your ear,
finger or toe.
Bite you on the nose too
if you ain’t careful.
Thank God,
I’m not walking
the Wabash tonight;
but if you do cover up,
wear layers.
Chicago,
could this be
Sandburg’s City?
I’m overwhelmed
and this is my tenth time here.
It’s almost better,
sometimes it is better,
a lot of times it is better
and denser then New York.
Ask any Bull’s fan.
I’m a Knickerbocker.
Yes Nueva York,
a city that has placed last
in the standings
for many years.
Except the last two.
Yanks are # 1!
But Chicago
is a dynasty,
as big as
Sammy Sosa’s heart,
rich and wide
as Michael Jordan’s grin.
Middle of a country,
center of a continent,
smack dab in the mean
of a hemisphere,
vortex to a world,
Chicago!
Kansas City,
Nashville,
St. Louis,
Detroit,
Cleveland,
Pittsburgh,
Denver,
New Orleans,
Dallas,
Cairo,
Singapore,
Auckland,
Baghdad,
Mexico City
and Montreal
salute her.
2.
Cities,
A collection of vanities?
Engineered complex utilitarianism?
The need for community a social necessity?
Ego one with the mass?
Civilization’s latest *******?
Chicago is more then that.
Jefferson’s yeoman farmer
is long gone
but this capitol
of the Great Plains
is still democratic.
The citizen’s of this city
would vote daily,
if they could.
Chicago,
Sandburg’s Chicago,
Could it be?
The namesake river
segments the city,
canals of commerce,
all perpendicular,
is rife throughout,
still guiding barges
to the Mississippi
and St. Laurence.
Now also
tourist attractions
for a cafe society.
Chicago is really jazzy,
swanky clubs,
big steaks,
juices and drinks.
You get the best
coffee from Seattle
and the finest teas
from China.
Great restaurants
serve liquid jazz
al la carte.
Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they serve is Jazz
Rock me steady
Keep the beat
Keep it flowin
Feel the heat!
Jazz Jazz Jazz
All they is, is Jazz
Fast cars will take ya
To the show
Round bout midnight
Where’d the time go?
Flows into the Mississippi,
the mother of America’s rivers,
an empires aorta.
Great Lakes wonder of water.
Niagara Falls
still her heart gushes forth.
Buffalo connected to this holy heart.
Finger Lakes and Adirondacks
are part of this watershed,
all the way down to the
Delaware and Chesapeake.
Sandburg’s Chicago?
Oh my my,
the wonder of him.
Who captured the imagination
of the wonders of rivers.
Down stream other holy cities
from the Mississippi delta
all mapped by him.
Its mouth our Dixie Trumpet
guarded by righteous Cajun brethren.
Midwest?
Midwest from where?
It’s north of Caracas and Los Angeles,
east of Fairbanks,
west of Dublin
and south of not much.
Him,
who spoke of honest men
and loving women.
Working men and mothers
bearing citizens to build a nation.
The New World’s
precocious adolescent
caught in a stream
of endless and exciting change,
much pain and sacrifice,
dedication and loss,
pride and tribulations.
From him we know
all the people’s faces.
All their stories are told.
Never defeating the
idea of Chicago.
Sandburg had the courage to say
what was in the heart of the people, who:
Defeated the Indians,
Mapped the terrain,
Aided slavers,
Fought a terrible civil war,
Hoisted the barges,
Grew the food,
Whacked the wheat,
Sang the songs,
Fought many wars of conquest,
Cleared the land,
Erected the bridges,
Trapped the game,
Netted the fish,
Mined the coal,
Forged the steel,
Laid the tracks,
Fired the tenders,
Cut the stone,
Mixed the mortar,
Plumbed the line,
And laid the bricks
Of this nation of cities!
Pardon the Marlboro Man shtick.
It’s a poor expostulation of
crass commercial symbolism.
Like I said, I’m a
Devil Fan from Jersey
and Madison Avenue
has done its work on me.
It’s a strange alchemy
that changes
a proud Nation of Blackhawks
into a merchandising bonanza
of hometown hockey shirts,
making the native seem alien,
and the interloper at home chillin out,
warming his feet atop a block of ice,
guzzling Old Style
with clicker in hand.
Give him his beer
and other diversions.
If he bowls with his buddy’s
on Tuesday night
I hope he bowls
a perfect game.
He’s earned it.
He works hard.
Hard work and faith
built this city.
And it’s not just the faith
that fills the cities
thousand churches,
temples and
mosques on the Sabbath.
3.
There is faith in everything in Chicago!
An alcoholic broker named Bill
lives the Twelve Steps
to banish fear and loathing
for one more day.
Bill believes in sobriety.
A tug captain named Moe
waits for the spring thaw
so he can get the barges up to Duluth.
Moe believes in the seasons.
A farmer named Tom
hopes he has reaped the last
of many bitter harvests.
Tom believes in a new start.
A homeless man named Earl
wills himself a cot and a hot
at the local shelter.
Earl believes in deliverance.
A Pullman porter
named George
works overtime
to get his first born
through medical school.
George believes in opportunity.
A folk singer named Woody
sings about his
countrymen inheritance
and implores them to take it.
Woody believes in people.
A Wobbly named Joe
organizes fellow steelworkers
to fight for a workers paradise
here on earth.
Joe believes in ideals.
A bookkeeper named Edith
is certain she’ll see the Cubs
win the World Series
in her lifetime.
Edith believes in miracles.
An electrician named ****
saves money
to bring his family over from Gdansk.
**** believes in America.
A banker named Leah
knows Ditka will return
and lead the Bears
to another Super Bowl.
Leah believes in nostalgia.
A cantor named Samuel
prays for another 20 years
so he can properly train
his Temple’s replacement.
Samuel believes in tradition.
A high school girl named Sally
refuses to get an abortion.
She knows she carries
something special within her.
Sally believes in life.
A city worker named Mazie
ceaselessly prays
for her incarcerated son
doing 10 years at Cook.
Mazie believes in redemption.
A jazzer named Bix
helps to invent a new art form
out of the mist.
Bix believes in creativity.
An architect named Frank
restores the Rookery.
Frank believes in space.
A soldier named Ike
fights wars for democracy.
Ike believes in peace.
A Rabbi named Jesse
sermonizes on Moses.
Jesse believes in liberation.
Somewhere in Chicago
a kid still believes in Shoeless Joe.
The kid believes in
the integrity of the game.
An Imam named Louis
is busy building a nation
within a nation.
Louis believes in
self-determination.
A teacher named Heidi
gives all she has to her students.
She has great expectations for them all.
Heidi believes in the future.
4.
Does Chicago have a future?
This city,
full of cowboys
and wildcatters
is predicated
on a future!
Bang, bang
Shoot em up
Stake the claim
It’s your terrain
Drill the hole
Strike it rich
Top it off
You’re the boss
Take a chance
Watch it wane
Try again
Heavenly gains
Chicago
city of futures
is a Holy Mecca
to all day traders.
Their skin is gray,
hair disheveled,
loud ties and
funny coats,
thumb through
slips of paper
held by nail
chewed hands.
Selling promises
with no derivative value
for out of the money calls
and in the money puts.
Strike is not a labor action
in this city of unionists,
but a speculators mark,
a capitalist wish,
a hedgers bet,
a public debt
and a farmers
fair return.
Indexes for everything.
Quantitative models
that could burst a kazoo.
You know the measure
of everything in Chicago.
But is it truly objective?
Have mathematics banished
subjective intentions,
routing it in fair practice
of market efficiencies,
a kind of scientific absolution?
I heard that there
is a dispute brewing
over the amount of snowfall
that fell on the 1st.
The mayor’s office,
using the official city ruler
measured 22”
of snow on the ground.
The National Weather Service
says it cannot detect more
then 17” of snow.
The mayor thinks
he’ll catch less heat
for the trains that don’t run
the buses that don’t arrive
and the schools that stand empty
with the addition of 5”.
The analysts say
it’s all about capturing liquidity.
Liquidity,
can you place a great lake
into an eyedropper?
Its 20 below
and all liquid things
are solid masses
or a gooey viscosity at best.
Water is frozen everywhere.
But Chi town is still liquid,
flowing faster
then the digital blips
flashing on the walls
of the CBOT.
Dreams
are never frozen in Chicago.
The exchanges trade
without missing a beat.
Trading wet dreams,
the crystallized vapor
of an IPO
pledging a billion points
of Internet access
or raiding the public treasuries
of a central bank’s
huge stores of gold
with currency swaps.
Using the tools
of butterfly spreads
and candlesticks
to achieve the goal.
Short the Russell
or buy the Dow,
go long the
CAC and DAX.
Are you trading in euro’s?
You better be
or soon will.
I know
you’re Chicago,
you’ll trade anything.
WEBS,
Spiders,
and Leaps
are traded here,
along with sweet crude,
North Sea Brent,
plywood and T-Bill futures;
and most importantly
the commodities,
the loam
that formed this city
of broad shoulders.
What about our wheat?
Still whacking and
breadbasket to the world.
Oil,
an important fossil fuel
denominated in
good ole greenbacks.
Porkbellies,
not just hogwash
on the Wabash,
but bacon, eggs
and flapjacks
are on the menu
of every diner in Jersey
as the “All American.”
Cotton,
our contribution
to the Golden Triangle,
once the global currency
used to enrich a
gentlemen class
of cultured
southern slavers,
now Tommy Hilfiger’s
preferred fabric.
I think he sends it
to Bangkok where
child slaves
spin it into
gold lame'.
Sorghum,
I think its hardy.
Soybeans,
the new age substitute
for hamburger
goes great with tofu lasagna.
Corn,
ADM creates ethanol,
they want us to drive cleaner cars.
Cattle,
once driven into this city’s
bloodhouses for slaughter,
now ground into
a billion Big Macs
every year.
When does a seed
become a commodity?
When does a commodity
become a future?
When does a future expire?
You can find the answers
to these questions in Chicago
and find a fortune in a hole in the floor.
Look down into the pits.
Hear the screams of anguish
and profitable delights.
Frenzied men
swarming like a mass
of epileptic ants
atop the worlds largest sugar cube
auger the worlds free markets.
The scene is
more chaotic then
100 Haymarket Square Riots
multiplied by 100
1968 Democratic Conventions.
Amidst inverted anthills,
they scurry forth and to
in distinguished
black and red coats.
Fighting each other
as counterparties
to a life and death transaction.
This is an efficient market
that crosses the globe.
Oil from the Sultan of Brunei,
Yen from the land of Hitachi,
Long Bonds from the Fed,
nickel from Quebec,
platinum and palladium
from Siberia,
FTSE’s from London
and crewel cane from Havana
circle these pits.
Tijuana,
Shanghai
and Istanbul's
best traders
are only half as good
as the average trader in Chicago.
Chicago,
this hog butcher to the world,
specializes in packaging and distribution.
Men in blood soaked smocks,
still count the heads
entering the gates of the city.
Their handiwork
is sent out on barges
and rail lines as frozen packages
of futures
waiting for delivery
to an anonymous counterparty
half a world away.
This nation’s hub
has grown into the
premier purveyor
to the world;
along all the rivers,
highways,
railways
and estuaries
it’s tentacles reach.
5.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
is a city of the world’s people.
Many striver rows compose
its many neighborhoods.
Nordic stoicism,
Eastern European orthodoxy
and Afro-American
calypso vibrations
are three of many cords
strumming the strings
of Chicago.
Sandburg’s Chicago,
if you wrote forever
you would only scratch its surface.
People wait for trains
to enter the city from O’Hare.
Frozen tears
lock their eyes
onto distant skyscrapers,
solid chunks
of snot blocks their nose
and green icicles of slime
crust mustaches.
They fight to breathe.
Sandburg’s Chicago
is The Land of Lincoln,
Savior of the Union,
protector of the Republic.
Sent armies
of sons and daughters,
barges, boxcars,
gunboats, foodstuffs,
cannon and shot
to raze the south
and stamp out succession.
Old Abe’s biography
are still unknown volumes to me.
I must see and read the great words.
You can never learn enough;
but I’ve been to Washington
and seen the man’s memorial.
The Free World’s 8th wonder,
guarded by General Grant,
who still keeps an eye on Richmond
and a hand on his sword.
Through this American winter
Abe ponders.
The vista he surveys is dire and tragic.
Our sitting President
impeached
for lying about a *******.
Party partisans
in the senate are sworn and seated.
Our Chief Justice,
adorned with golden bars
will adjudicate the proceedings.
It is the perfect counterpoint
to an ageless Abe thinking
with malice toward none
and charity towards all,
will heal the wounds
of the nation.
Abe our granite angel,
Chicago goes on,
The Union is strong!
SECOND DAY
1.
Out my window
the sun has risen.
According to
the local forecast
its minus 9
going up to
6 today.
The lake,
a golden pillow of clouds
is frozen in time.
I marvel
at the ancients ones
resourcefulness
and how
they mastered
these extreme elements.
Past, present and future
has no meaning
in the Citadel
of the Prairie today.
I set my watch
to Central Standard Time.
Stepping into
the hotel lobby
the concierge
with oil smooth hair,
perfect tie
and English lilt
impeccably asks,
“Do you know where you are going Sir?
Can I give you a map?”
He hands me one of Chicago.
I see he recently had his nails done.
He paints a green line
along Whacker Drive and says,
“turn on Jackson, LaSalle, Wabash or Madison
and you’ll get to where you want to go.”
A walk of 14 or 15 blocks from Streeterville-
(I start at The Chicago White House.
They call it that because Hillary Rodham
stays here when she’s in town.
Its’ also alleged that Stedman
eats his breakfast here
but Opra
has never been seen
on the premises.
I wonder how I gained entry
into this place of elite’s?)
-down into the center of The Loop.
Stepping out of the hotel,
The Doorman
sporting the epaulets of a colonel
on his corporate winter coat
and furry Cossack hat
swaddling his round black face
accosts me.
The skin of his face
is flaking from
the subzero windburn.
He asks me
with a gapped toothy grin,
“Can I get you a cab?”
“No I think I’ll walk,” I answer.
“Good woolen hat,
thick gloves you should be alright.”
He winks and lets me pass.
I step outside.
The Windy City
flings stabbing cold spears
flying on wings of 30-mph gusts.
My outside hardens.
I can feel the freeze
deepen
into my internalness.
I can’t be sure
but inside
my heart still feels warm.
For how long
I cannot say.
I commence
my walk
among the spires
of this great city,
the vertical leaps
that anchor the great lake,
holding its place
against the historic
frigid assault.
The buildings’ sway,
modulating to the blows
of natures wicked blasts.
It’s a hard imposition
on a city and its people.
The gloves,
skullcap,
long underwear,
sweater,
jacket
and overcoat
not enough
to keep the cold
from penetrating
the person.
Like discerning
the layers of this city,
even many layers,
still not enough
to understand
the depth of meaning
of the heart
of this heartland city.
Sandburg knew the city well.
Set amidst groves of suburbs
that extend outward in every direction.
Concentric circles
surround the city.
After the burbs come farms,
Great Plains, and mountains.
Appalachians and Rockies
are but mere molehills
in the city’s back yard.
It’s terra firma
stops only at the sea.
Pt. Barrow to the Horn,
many capes extended.
On the periphery
its appendages,
its extremities,
its outward extremes.
All connected by the idea,
blown by the incessant wind
of this great nation.
The Windy City’s message
is sent to the world’s four corners.
It is a message of power.
English the worlds
common language
is spoken here,
along with Ebonics,
Espanol,
Mandarin,
Czech,
Russian,
Korean,
Arabic,
Hindi,
German,
French,
electronics,
steel,
cars,
cartoons,
rap,
sports,
movies,
capital,
wheat
and more.
Always more.
Much much more
in Chicago.
2.
Sandburg
spoke all the dialects.
He heard them all,
he understood
with great precision
to the finest tolerances
of a lathe workers micrometer.
Sandburg understood
what it meant to laugh
and be happy.
He understood
the working mans day,
the learned treatises
of university chairs,
the endless tomes
of the city’s
great libraries,
the lost languages
of the ancient ones,
the secret codes
of abstract art,
the impact of architecture,
the street dialects and idioms
of everymans expression of life.
All fighting for life,
trying to build a life,
a new life
in this modern world.
Walking across
the Michigan Avenue Bridge
I see the Wrigley Building
is neatly carved,
catty cornered on the plaza.
I wonder if Old Man Wrigley
watched his barges
loaded with spearmint
and double-mint
move out onto the lake
from one of those Gothic windows
perched high above the street.
Would he open a window
and shout to the men below
to quit slaking and work harder
or would he
between the snapping sound
he made with his mouth
full of his chewing gum
offer them tickets
to a ballgame at Wrigley Field
that afternoon?
Would the men below
be able to understand
the man communing
from such a great height?
I listen to a man
and woman conversing.
They are one step behind me
as we meander along Wacker Drive.
"You are in Chicago now.”
The man states with profundity.
“If I let you go
you will soon find your level
in this city.
Do you know what I mean?”
No I don’t.
I think to myself.
What level are you I wonder?
Are you perched atop
the transmission spire
of the Hancock Tower?
I wouldn’t think so
or your ears would melt
from the windburn.
I’m thinking.
Is she a kept woman?
She is majestically clothed
in fur hat and coat.
In animal pelts
not trapped like her,
but slaughtered
from farms
I’m sure.
What level
is he speaking of?
Many levels
are evident in this city;
many layers of cobbled stone,
Pennsylvania iron,
Hoosier Granite
and vertical drops.
I wonder
if I detect
condensation
in his voice?
What is
his intention?
Is it a warning
of a broken affair?
A pending pink slip?
Advise to an addict
refusing to adhere
to a recovery regimen?
What is his level anyway?
Is he so high and mighty,
Higher and mightier
then this great city
which we are all a part of,
which we all helped to build,
which we all need
in order to keep this nation
the thriving democratic
empire it is?
This seditious talk!
3.
The Loop’s El
still courses through
the main thoroughfares of the city.
People are transported
above the din of the street,
looking down
on the common pedestrians
like me.
Super CEO’s
populating the upper floors
of Romanesque,
Greek Revivalist,
New Bauhaus,
Art Deco
and Post Nouveau
Neo-Modern
Avant-Garde towers
are too far up
to see me
shivering on the street.
The cars, busses,
trains and trucks
are all covered
with the film
of rock salt.
Salt covers
my bootless feet
and smudges
my cloths as well.
The salt,
the primal element
of the earth
covers everything
in Chicago.
It is the true level
of this city.
The layer
beneath
all layers,
on which
everything
rests,
is built,
grows,
thrives
then dies.
To be
returned again
to the lower
layers
where it can
take root
again
and grow
out onto
the great plains.
Splashing
the nation,
anointing
its people
with its
blessing.
A blessing,
Chicago?
All rivers
come here.
All things
found its way here
through the canals
and back bays
of the world’s
greatest lakes.
All roads,
rails and
air routes
begin and
end here.
Mrs. O’Leary’s cow
got a *** rap.
It did not start the fire,
we did.
We lit the torch
that flamed
the city to cinders.
From a pile of ash
Chicago rose again.
Forever Chicago!
Forever the lamp
that burns bright
on a Great Lake’s
western shore!
Chicago
the beacon
sends the
message to the world
with its windy blasts,
on chugging barges,
clapping trains,
flying tandems,
T1 circuits
and roaring jets.
Sandburg knew
a Chicago
I will never know.
He knew
the rhythm of life
the people walked to.
The tools they used,
the dreams they dreamed
the songs they sang,
the things they built,
the things they loved,
the pains that hurt,
the motives that grew,
the actions that destroyed
the prayers they prayed,
the food they ate
their moments of death.
Sandburg knew
the layers of the city
to the depths
and windy heights
I cannot fathom.
The Blues
came to this city,
on the wing
of a chirping bird,
on the taps
of a rickety train,
on the blast
of an angry sax
rushing on the wind,
on the Westend blitz
of Pop's brash coronet,
on the tink of
a twinkling piano
on a paddle-wheel boat
and on the strings
of a lonely man’s guitar.
Walk into the clubs,
tenements,
row houses,
speakeasies
and you’ll hear the Blues
whispered like
a quiet prayer.
Tidewater Blues
from Virginia,
Delta Blues
from the lower
Mississippi,
Boogie Woogie
from Appalachia,
Texas Blues
from some Lone Star,
Big Band Blues
from Kansas City,
Blues from
Beal Street,
Jelly Roll’s Blues
from the Latin Quarter.
Hell even Chicago
got its own brand
of Blues.
Its all here.
It ended up here
and was sent away
on the winds of westerly blows
to the ear of an eager world
on strong jet streams
of simple melodies
and hard truths.
A broad
shouldered woman,
a single mother stands
on the street
with three crying babes.
Their cloths
are covered
in salt.
She pleads
for a break,
praying
for a new start.
Poor and
under-clothed
against the torrent
of frigid weather
she begs for help.
Her blond hair
and ****** features
suggests her
Scandinavian heritage.
I wonder if
she is related to Sandburg
as I walk past
her on the street.
Her feet
are bleeding
through her
canvass sneakers.
Her babes mouths
are zipped shut
with frozen drivel
and mucous.
The Blues live
on in Chicago.
The Blues
will forever live in her.
As I turn the corner
to walk the Miracle Mile
I see her engulfed
in a funnel cloud of salt,
snow and bits
of white paper,
swirling around her
and her children
in an angry
unforgiving
maelstrom.
The family
begins to
dissolve
like a snail
sprinkled with salt;
and a mother
and her children
just disappear
into the pavement
at the corner
of Dearborn,
in Chicago.
Music:
Robert Johnson
Sweet Home Chicago
jbm
Chicago
1/7/99
Added today to commemorate the birthday of Carl Sandburg
bill Hancock
Jan 2021
A collection of poetic writings
Of questionable mastery
THE
FIRST TOME
There are many forms and styles
Of poetic expression that I am
Just beginning to be introduced to
And understand
A number were written prior to my joining the
All Poetry site and beginning my education
To me, poetry is rhyme and rhythm, but
It has form, as I have learnt.
This booklet will only allow 16 pages
Of which this is the second, so
The remaining 14 will carry a number of
Pre All Poetry, and post All Poetry
And hopefully you may perceive
An improvement
AMERICAN SUMMER
A Blackmans death, caused by police
Subsumes the brain, and reason kills
And primal animal contained, released
To the world displays their ills
Subsumes the brain, and reason kills
Property garners but scant regards
To the world displays their ills
Respect of any, is shattered shards
Property garners but scant regards
As need to possess, over rides all else
Respect of any, is shattered in shards
It’s take what you can, from any shelf
As need to possess, over rides all else
The reason for the riot is lost
Its take what you can from any shelf
The black man’s life
The reason for the riot is lost
As other feelings rule the mind
At looting time it’s free of cost
As Humanity leaves civilisation behind
As other feelings rule the mind
Mankind gone feral, no longer smart
As humanity leaves civilisation behind
A blackman’s dying, tore life apart
AGES OF MAN
A stage, they say a joke that is
A plank upon the ground
Players they say, the people is
They’ll beat you pound for pound
Their entrances and exits,
will keep unto themselves
and as for seven ages
that’s what this story tells
man begins all worm like
a kid a useless thing
poops, and pukes and whines a lot
and doesn’t earn a thing
Schoolboys next, Oh! God forbid
Why did we make this one
It must have been that point in time
When I did some stuff for fun
The lover , ah!, my ***** did melt
A poet he did try
The effect upon the mistress’s brow
Did make the eyebrow cry
The military man, so full of spit
And polish at the fore
Did play his part, with bearded kit
And veered the cannons gore
Age number six has changed the scope
To a lean and loudly man
Whose time is on the downward *****
And no longer in the van
Seven ages man will glory in
Not all we wish to recall
Love and home, and wondrous sin
As begun will finish small
Bedtime Story (Homework No 5 Pantoum
The child did love their bedtime read
With granddad sitting on the bed
The Knight & hero’s rearing steed
And in the story her childhood shed
With grandad sitting on the bed
The hero’s steed went racing past
And in the story her childhood shed
The royal queen she came at last
The hero’s steed went racing past
And stopped the dragon there and then
The royal queen she came at last
Helped herd the beast back to its pen
And stopped the dragon there and then
From having chook and pig repast
Helped herd the beast back to its pen
And granddad closed the book at last
From having chook and pig repast
The story ran down to the end
And granddad closed the book at last
The next book read, the child would lend
The story ran down to the end
No further words left to be said
The next book read the child would lend
With granddad sitting on the bed
Christmas Thought
We gather here on Christmas eve
to share part of the joy
2000 years ago this day
Mary would have a boy
that day affirmed mans place in life
the woman to her chores
and life upon this blissful earth
was governed by mans laws
years have past and times have changed
relationships are growing
of woman's emergence from the home
into the place of knowing
who knows what life would have been like
if Mary had, had a girl
would have have held his rightful place
or ended up a churl
no matter how it would have been
it is, as it is, to-day
kinds thoughts & joy to all mankind
with love on Christmas day
the feeling of love to all mankind
its stay is rather short
there is no place for thoughts like that
in a world where wars are fought
life's hard cruel lessons, shut us in
we dare not - extend or feel
until that time round Christmas eve
when we give thanks, as we pray and kneel
William Hancock penned: 20.12.82 (pre AP)
Faerie Symphony
brushing his fingers across the glistening crystals
produced a cacophony of harsh discordant notes
rebounding off the caverns walls and music thoughts did smote
Placing hands upon the crystals, calming down the thrum
fingers selecting differing lengths, did flex and start to drum
harmony like butterflies, did rise as motes in light
traversing down the caverns walls and drifting to the night
outside the valley trembled, uplifted, and it sighed
the gentle folk looked inwardly, but outwardly they cried
taking his fingers from the glistening crystals,
they died
LITTLE MISS MUFFET
Miss Muffet was a comely girl
and turned the heads of most
But wouldn't share her curds and whey
A really dreadful host
The field held an eight legged beast
Whose local name was schnider
He managed to get her curds and whey
when he went and sat beside her
It is better to share than to lose it all
Bill Hancock
07.04.2020
Fates Feast
watching his body, sink slowly into the tree
this I laughed is your, reward deserved for jilting me
laughed again, and watched his unmatched beauty fade
realised too late, the wastefulness of mistake I've made
the prince his body slowly turned, to timber light and fair
wondered sinking further in, I really thought she cared
I courted her with flowers and commented on her hair
It seems I would have better luck, If I had spoken to the bear
Revenge the forest maiden, reeked on the prince in spades
now he was ever with her, part of the forest glade
her demands she thought were simple, leave all and live with me
and feast upon the passersby for dinner lunch and tea
the prince he was a vegan who tried to sway her round
made out greens were good for her, beat meat, by the pound
the maidens heart was broken, in tatters lay her dream
when he refused, ensorcelled him into the forest green
These days on paths less travelled, in the forest down the way
a magnificent tree stands from the rest, its beauty on display
Not many pass it anymore, as they say it's haunted still
By the soul of the forest maiden, who died lonely on the hill
Hiccup of the Mind
Have you ever tapped the keyboard
Then looked at what was written
accessing where the thoughts were stored
And found the rhyming process stricken
Panic doesn't quite occur
Between the ears, a blank
words to page no longer purr
Encyclopedic knowledge sank
leave the keyboard and the chair
a glass with ice and liquid gold
Sip and savour, ceiling stare
berate ones self and blank mind scold
From off left field, revelation comes
fingers keyboarding begins again
The words you're reading are the sum
For from out of mind, letters do rain
Bad Location
Do they consider me
I don't think so
Other wise they wouldn't
Stand where they stand
Think of what it means
to be a tree
try to imagine where
my fingers are
The girl is standing on them
I choose this spot
For the solitude it promised
****** tourists
Macbeths Misadventure
(a parody of Bill Shakespeare’s Macbeth and the three witches brew a spell)
Macbeth whilst travelling stopped at the pub
A cauldron and three hats on the sign
Had heard from others how good was the grub
And entered with drink and a stew in mind
The cooks, three weathered crones did strive
To keep the patrons upright and live
this struggle you know was a hapless one
already knowing what went in the drum
Newt and frog and dog and bat
The first crone donned a pointed hat
Snake and adder worm and wing
The second crone donned the apron strings
Toad and venom, entrails too
The third crone added nightshade brew
Double trouble, don’t add no more
The broths near walking out the door
a steaming *** was served Macbeth
the sight of which removed his breath
The vapours turned his nose hairs green
His liver hid behind his spleen
A mouthful made his eyelids quiver
His entrails turned into a river
His mind did cartwheels in his head
Two mouthfuls and he’d be stone dead
Refusing nicely, he said had troubles
Left a tip, he paid them double
Listen not what others say
And live to see another day
The Musician
Resting her body on the chaired podium
And leaning slightly down to the left
Her fingers caressed the highly polished surface
Of the Cello
Left hand clasping the frets
And the right hand wielding the bow
She addressed the strings with a gentle wave
And made the music flow
Somber, sounds, moaned off the instrument
Quickening and they rose in tone and pitch
Wrapping around the chamber
In a haunting hugging melody
Rising, rushing, falling and softening
Harsh and hard, then silent, but wait
Hand twitches and the refrain returns
Only to die again, as the hand falls away
Returning the cello to its resting place
And the bow into its niche
Her hand runs gently over the polished timber
The caress of a lover and friend
The Book
A thing that comes in black and White
and some times in colours as well
with words and concepts, one can write
scenes and stories, in minds to dwell
it's such a simple seeming thing
two covers, some pages between
with words that have the authors ring
Fact or fiction the reader gleans
A simple start on bark or stick
or was it paint upon a wall
to carvings on stone walls and brick
waiting discovery, then tell all
today we progress further still
into the realm of digital times
where phone or tablet makes the ****
and hand held printed book declines
regardless of the current trend
hand held books are still much loved
and continue to be there to lend
for as long as man can use a pen
© a month ago, Bill Hancock
The Lizard Slithered
Crawling stealthy below the leaves
eyeing insects upon the trees
mosquito's winging with the breeze
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free
eyeing insects upon the trees
climbing tree's to gain it's dinner
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free
it must eat or grow much thinner
climbing tree's to gain its dinner
mosquito's high upon its list
it must eat or grow much thinner
though beetles added meaty grist
mosquito's high upon its list
the lizards belly filling fast
though beetles added meaty grist
none of its food was made to last
the lizards belly filling fast
cold air came calling in the breeze
none of its food was made to last
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free
cm coli picture prompt lizard slithered 120 words © a month ago, Bill Hancock rhyme
Wordsmiths Hey
Have you ever wondered of poets
And the things they do try to write
Does it take, five minutes of writing
Or four candles worth, into the night
does the theme come from somebody social
or seeps out from ones deep inner dark
or comments from words thrown out vocal
from jibes that like barbs hit their mark
the words from mind's vault, start to line up
some jumbled, some straight, others curved
with a headiness, like good wine that's supped
A poet's souls being readied to serve
After theme, then the style is selected
And if rhyme, then the rhythm as well
If the endings or rhymes not connected
It's the poets, equivalent of hell
If freestyle, I'm not sure what matters
If Haiku, it don't ring a bell
There's others I have no idea of
Is it write, to write or to sell
A poet is plagued as a wordsmith
as their thoughts, are constant, a stream
the ink on the page, like, a musicians riff
is the success, or failure of dreams
The Caretaker
astride the gentle steed of nature
the nymph did guide its sharp beak home
into the golden hued ambrosia
around the outskirts insects roamed
The summer lady adorned with flowers
kept a watchful eye on the little nymph
as she passed her special gift, her powers
to her assistants, the brownie, pixie and slyth
The brownie ran through the Forrest floor
her touch bringing the summer buds to bloom
knocking on the animals doors
their seed collection, a promised boon
the pixie sprang from branch and flower
spreading colour of many a hue
For such was the summer ladies power
and she touched and shared where it was due
the slyth began her eternal sigh
lifting the new seed into the air
to get it planted, before the cry
the Queen of winter, it's now her care
the four continued their epic task
for none of the seasons last for long
The plants only had so long to bask
As autumn commenced to croon its song
the seasons play their role in nature
not one does stand alone
each one portrays a different stature
if one fails, nothing grown
Contest PIC;Pixie astride hummingbird lady looking on
© 3 months ago, Bill Hancock
New Australian
They came into Australia
from places far and wide
where the system failed you
no further place to hide
sailed into, the North Head Bay
Quarantine, into they go
diseases of, they must be clean
The Physicers, make them so
Not all the migrants, survived the race
the souls, of expired bodies left
rooms and tunnels, claimed in place
which overtime, the live have left
Company, comes scarce these days
from haunting tourists, as they tread
the dark and errie, passageways
of the station, on north head
The quarantine station in SYDNEY Australia and New South Wales, was located on the bay inside the Northern Headland of the entrance into the Harbour
Immigrants (who became the New Australians) came with TB, Cholera Typhoid and the other known diseases of the late 1800 to early 1900's
The migrants had to spend time at the station until they showed to be symptom free. Sadly not all made it, and it is said that their souls / Spirits still occupy the tunnels, rooms and cottages of the old Quarantine station to this present day - Ghost hunters regularly quest in there. It is also a tourist spot. © 12 minutes ago
Of questionable mastery
THE
FIRST TOME
There are many forms and styles
Of poetic expression that I am
Just beginning to be introduced to
And understand
A number were written prior to my joining the
All Poetry site and beginning my education
To me, poetry is rhyme and rhythm, but
It has form, as I have learnt.
This booklet will only allow 16 pages
Of which this is the second, so
The remaining 14 will carry a number of
Pre All Poetry, and post All Poetry
And hopefully you may perceive
An improvement
AMERICAN SUMMER
A Blackmans death, caused by police
Subsumes the brain, and reason kills
And primal animal contained, released
To the world displays their ills
Subsumes the brain, and reason kills
Property garners but scant regards
To the world displays their ills
Respect of any, is shattered shards
Property garners but scant regards
As need to possess, over rides all else
Respect of any, is shattered in shards
It’s take what you can, from any shelf
As need to possess, over rides all else
The reason for the riot is lost
Its take what you can from any shelf
The black man’s life
The reason for the riot is lost
As other feelings rule the mind
At looting time it’s free of cost
As Humanity leaves civilisation behind
As other feelings rule the mind
Mankind gone feral, no longer smart
As humanity leaves civilisation behind
A blackman’s dying, tore life apart
AGES OF MAN
A stage, they say a joke that is
A plank upon the ground
Players they say, the people is
They’ll beat you pound for pound
Their entrances and exits,
will keep unto themselves
and as for seven ages
that’s what this story tells
man begins all worm like
a kid a useless thing
poops, and pukes and whines a lot
and doesn’t earn a thing
Schoolboys next, Oh! God forbid
Why did we make this one
It must have been that point in time
When I did some stuff for fun
The lover , ah!, my ***** did melt
A poet he did try
The effect upon the mistress’s brow
Did make the eyebrow cry
The military man, so full of spit
And polish at the fore
Did play his part, with bearded kit
And veered the cannons gore
Age number six has changed the scope
To a lean and loudly man
Whose time is on the downward *****
And no longer in the van
Seven ages man will glory in
Not all we wish to recall
Love and home, and wondrous sin
As begun will finish small
Bedtime Story (Homework No 5 Pantoum
The child did love their bedtime read
With granddad sitting on the bed
The Knight & hero’s rearing steed
And in the story her childhood shed
With grandad sitting on the bed
The hero’s steed went racing past
And in the story her childhood shed
The royal queen she came at last
The hero’s steed went racing past
And stopped the dragon there and then
The royal queen she came at last
Helped herd the beast back to its pen
And stopped the dragon there and then
From having chook and pig repast
Helped herd the beast back to its pen
And granddad closed the book at last
From having chook and pig repast
The story ran down to the end
And granddad closed the book at last
The next book read, the child would lend
The story ran down to the end
No further words left to be said
The next book read the child would lend
With granddad sitting on the bed
Christmas Thought
We gather here on Christmas eve
to share part of the joy
2000 years ago this day
Mary would have a boy
that day affirmed mans place in life
the woman to her chores
and life upon this blissful earth
was governed by mans laws
years have past and times have changed
relationships are growing
of woman's emergence from the home
into the place of knowing
who knows what life would have been like
if Mary had, had a girl
would have have held his rightful place
or ended up a churl
no matter how it would have been
it is, as it is, to-day
kinds thoughts & joy to all mankind
with love on Christmas day
the feeling of love to all mankind
its stay is rather short
there is no place for thoughts like that
in a world where wars are fought
life's hard cruel lessons, shut us in
we dare not - extend or feel
until that time round Christmas eve
when we give thanks, as we pray and kneel
William Hancock penned: 20.12.82 (pre AP)
Faerie Symphony
brushing his fingers across the glistening crystals
produced a cacophony of harsh discordant notes
rebounding off the caverns walls and music thoughts did smote
Placing hands upon the crystals, calming down the thrum
fingers selecting differing lengths, did flex and start to drum
harmony like butterflies, did rise as motes in light
traversing down the caverns walls and drifting to the night
outside the valley trembled, uplifted, and it sighed
the gentle folk looked inwardly, but outwardly they cried
taking his fingers from the glistening crystals,
they died
LITTLE MISS MUFFET
Miss Muffet was a comely girl
and turned the heads of most
But wouldn't share her curds and whey
A really dreadful host
The field held an eight legged beast
Whose local name was schnider
He managed to get her curds and whey
when he went and sat beside her
It is better to share than to lose it all
Bill Hancock
07.04.2020
Fates Feast
watching his body, sink slowly into the tree
this I laughed is your, reward deserved for jilting me
laughed again, and watched his unmatched beauty fade
realised too late, the wastefulness of mistake I've made
the prince his body slowly turned, to timber light and fair
wondered sinking further in, I really thought she cared
I courted her with flowers and commented on her hair
It seems I would have better luck, If I had spoken to the bear
Revenge the forest maiden, reeked on the prince in spades
now he was ever with her, part of the forest glade
her demands she thought were simple, leave all and live with me
and feast upon the passersby for dinner lunch and tea
the prince he was a vegan who tried to sway her round
made out greens were good for her, beat meat, by the pound
the maidens heart was broken, in tatters lay her dream
when he refused, ensorcelled him into the forest green
These days on paths less travelled, in the forest down the way
a magnificent tree stands from the rest, its beauty on display
Not many pass it anymore, as they say it's haunted still
By the soul of the forest maiden, who died lonely on the hill
Hiccup of the Mind
Have you ever tapped the keyboard
Then looked at what was written
accessing where the thoughts were stored
And found the rhyming process stricken
Panic doesn't quite occur
Between the ears, a blank
words to page no longer purr
Encyclopedic knowledge sank
leave the keyboard and the chair
a glass with ice and liquid gold
Sip and savour, ceiling stare
berate ones self and blank mind scold
From off left field, revelation comes
fingers keyboarding begins again
The words you're reading are the sum
For from out of mind, letters do rain
Bad Location
Do they consider me
I don't think so
Other wise they wouldn't
Stand where they stand
Think of what it means
to be a tree
try to imagine where
my fingers are
The girl is standing on them
I choose this spot
For the solitude it promised
****** tourists
Macbeths Misadventure
(a parody of Bill Shakespeare’s Macbeth and the three witches brew a spell)
Macbeth whilst travelling stopped at the pub
A cauldron and three hats on the sign
Had heard from others how good was the grub
And entered with drink and a stew in mind
The cooks, three weathered crones did strive
To keep the patrons upright and live
this struggle you know was a hapless one
already knowing what went in the drum
Newt and frog and dog and bat
The first crone donned a pointed hat
Snake and adder worm and wing
The second crone donned the apron strings
Toad and venom, entrails too
The third crone added nightshade brew
Double trouble, don’t add no more
The broths near walking out the door
a steaming *** was served Macbeth
the sight of which removed his breath
The vapours turned his nose hairs green
His liver hid behind his spleen
A mouthful made his eyelids quiver
His entrails turned into a river
His mind did cartwheels in his head
Two mouthfuls and he’d be stone dead
Refusing nicely, he said had troubles
Left a tip, he paid them double
Listen not what others say
And live to see another day
The Musician
Resting her body on the chaired podium
And leaning slightly down to the left
Her fingers caressed the highly polished surface
Of the Cello
Left hand clasping the frets
And the right hand wielding the bow
She addressed the strings with a gentle wave
And made the music flow
Somber, sounds, moaned off the instrument
Quickening and they rose in tone and pitch
Wrapping around the chamber
In a haunting hugging melody
Rising, rushing, falling and softening
Harsh and hard, then silent, but wait
Hand twitches and the refrain returns
Only to die again, as the hand falls away
Returning the cello to its resting place
And the bow into its niche
Her hand runs gently over the polished timber
The caress of a lover and friend
The Book
A thing that comes in black and White
and some times in colours as well
with words and concepts, one can write
scenes and stories, in minds to dwell
it's such a simple seeming thing
two covers, some pages between
with words that have the authors ring
Fact or fiction the reader gleans
A simple start on bark or stick
or was it paint upon a wall
to carvings on stone walls and brick
waiting discovery, then tell all
today we progress further still
into the realm of digital times
where phone or tablet makes the ****
and hand held printed book declines
regardless of the current trend
hand held books are still much loved
and continue to be there to lend
for as long as man can use a pen
© a month ago, Bill Hancock
The Lizard Slithered
Crawling stealthy below the leaves
eyeing insects upon the trees
mosquito's winging with the breeze
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free
eyeing insects upon the trees
climbing tree's to gain it's dinner
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free
it must eat or grow much thinner
climbing tree's to gain its dinner
mosquito's high upon its list
it must eat or grow much thinner
though beetles added meaty grist
mosquito's high upon its list
the lizards belly filling fast
though beetles added meaty grist
none of its food was made to last
the lizards belly filling fast
cold air came calling in the breeze
none of its food was made to last
the lizard slithered - tongue flicked free
cm coli picture prompt lizard slithered 120 words © a month ago, Bill Hancock rhyme
Wordsmiths Hey
Have you ever wondered of poets
And the things they do try to write
Does it take, five minutes of writing
Or four candles worth, into the night
does the theme come from somebody social
or seeps out from ones deep inner dark
or comments from words thrown out vocal
from jibes that like barbs hit their mark
the words from mind's vault, start to line up
some jumbled, some straight, others curved
with a headiness, like good wine that's supped
A poet's souls being readied to serve
After theme, then the style is selected
And if rhyme, then the rhythm as well
If the endings or rhymes not connected
It's the poets, equivalent of hell
If freestyle, I'm not sure what matters
If Haiku, it don't ring a bell
There's others I have no idea of
Is it write, to write or to sell
A poet is plagued as a wordsmith
as their thoughts, are constant, a stream
the ink on the page, like, a musicians riff
is the success, or failure of dreams
The Caretaker
astride the gentle steed of nature
the nymph did guide its sharp beak home
into the golden hued ambrosia
around the outskirts insects roamed
The summer lady adorned with flowers
kept a watchful eye on the little nymph
as she passed her special gift, her powers
to her assistants, the brownie, pixie and slyth
The brownie ran through the Forrest floor
her touch bringing the summer buds to bloom
knocking on the animals doors
their seed collection, a promised boon
the pixie sprang from branch and flower
spreading colour of many a hue
For such was the summer ladies power
and she touched and shared where it was due
the slyth began her eternal sigh
lifting the new seed into the air
to get it planted, before the cry
the Queen of winter, it's now her care
the four continued their epic task
for none of the seasons last for long
The plants only had so long to bask
As autumn commenced to croon its song
the seasons play their role in nature
not one does stand alone
each one portrays a different stature
if one fails, nothing grown
Contest PIC;Pixie astride hummingbird lady looking on
© 3 months ago, Bill Hancock
New Australian
They came into Australia
from places far and wide
where the system failed you
no further place to hide
sailed into, the North Head Bay
Quarantine, into they go
diseases of, they must be clean
The Physicers, make them so
Not all the migrants, survived the race
the souls, of expired bodies left
rooms and tunnels, claimed in place
which overtime, the live have left
Company, comes scarce these days
from haunting tourists, as they tread
the dark and errie, passageways
of the station, on north head
The quarantine station in SYDNEY Australia and New South Wales, was located on the bay inside the Northern Headland of the entrance into the Harbour
Immigrants (who became the New Australians) came with TB, Cholera Typhoid and the other known diseases of the late 1800 to early 1900's
The migrants had to spend time at the station until they showed to be symptom free. Sadly not all made it, and it is said that their souls / Spirits still occupy the tunnels, rooms and cottages of the old Quarantine station to this present day - Ghost hunters regularly quest in there. It is also a tourist spot. © 12 minutes ago
Mateuš Conrad
Aug 2018
.i'm pretty sure that someone like Mozart, composed, in total silence, didn't hum out a tune, given that he had to micromanage symphony, or rather, the latter stage of polyphony - synchronization of all subsequent parts... whereby music was more optical in its genesis than people might like to believe... of course auditory in its exodus from the godhead, but... i'm pretty sure the composition process for classical music, would never amount to the sort of fun impromptu of jazz... must be a black privilege sort of, "thing" to have found jazz lying around...
how did the beatniks even believe that
a cross-generational mongrel of an art
form, fusing poetry with jazz could ever work?
robert pinsky still has the dream -
but it's a bit like:
you think you can smoke marijuana
and listen to blues?
not drink a drop of the devil liquor
and take blues seriously?
just like sonny clark would have
said: 'if you don't shoot it,
you don't smoke it'...
given that... this is not stoner rock
type of wasp hive droning, humming,
heavily repeated rhythm...
nothing wacky like
thievery corporation doing a live
rendition of the forgotten people
live on KEXP...
what's that phrase?
i feel monged -
i.e. so ****** that you don't know
if it's a brain or a jelly,
a stomach or krāng...
an 8th of an ounce could last me a week...
never mind...
but how could they even suppose
that, somehow... jazz would dissolve
into acid jazz...
that ****** variant you don't hear
in a jazz club...
sure... the one up in Edinburgh was
jazz by name only...
instead?
one night i heard the cover
of neil young's song old man...
yeah... very ******* jazzy...
what's next, a banjo quartet?
first jazz song i ever heard was
art blakey & the jazz messangers'
opening track from the album
of the same name - moanin'...
SOLD...
had to stash on some of the records...
but did i really want to speak over
the music?
did i want to contaminate
the music and produce some ****** mash-up
akin to the beatnik experiment?
*******... high on dope...
never bothered to call jazz...
the black man's equivalent status of
what white man's classical music is...
and where's jazz now?
joshua redman isn't exactly a lifejacket
when a boat with 20 is sinking...
jazz has been neglected...
relegated as posh black boy music
heading off to Yale... wap... or wrap it up...
talk with a mouth but forget playing
the ******* horns, the sax...
can't exactly see a revival...
but would i really want to speak to this music?
feels a bit like talking over an opera...
made sense back then, makes little or no sense
now...
beside the point...
there's still a heatwave in england...
every morning i wake up in a furnace -
or as if attired in a metallurgy suit working
raw metals...
and i always ask myself the question...
to rehydrate...
would i rather eat half a watermelon,
or drink a big glass of water?
it's always the first.
how did the beatniks even believe that
a cross-generational mongrel of an art
form, fusing poetry with jazz could ever work?
robert pinsky still has the dream -
but it's a bit like:
you think you can smoke marijuana
and listen to blues?
not drink a drop of the devil liquor
and take blues seriously?
just like sonny clark would have
said: 'if you don't shoot it,
you don't smoke it'...
given that... this is not stoner rock
type of wasp hive droning, humming,
heavily repeated rhythm...
nothing wacky like
thievery corporation doing a live
rendition of the forgotten people
live on KEXP...
what's that phrase?
i feel monged -
i.e. so ****** that you don't know
if it's a brain or a jelly,
a stomach or krāng...
an 8th of an ounce could last me a week...
never mind...
but how could they even suppose
that, somehow... jazz would dissolve
into acid jazz...
that ****** variant you don't hear
in a jazz club...
sure... the one up in Edinburgh was
jazz by name only...
instead?
one night i heard the cover
of neil young's song old man...
yeah... very ******* jazzy...
what's next, a banjo quartet?
first jazz song i ever heard was
art blakey & the jazz messangers'
opening track from the album
of the same name - moanin'...
SOLD...
had to stash on some of the records...
but did i really want to speak over
the music?
did i want to contaminate
the music and produce some ****** mash-up
akin to the beatnik experiment?
*******... high on dope...
never bothered to call jazz...
the black man's equivalent status of
what white man's classical music is...
and where's jazz now?
joshua redman isn't exactly a lifejacket
when a boat with 20 is sinking...
jazz has been neglected...
relegated as posh black boy music
heading off to Yale... wap... or wrap it up...
talk with a mouth but forget playing
the ******* horns, the sax...
can't exactly see a revival...
but would i really want to speak to this music?
feels a bit like talking over an opera...
made sense back then, makes little or no sense
now...
beside the point...
there's still a heatwave in england...
every morning i wake up in a furnace -
or as if attired in a metallurgy suit working
raw metals...
and i always ask myself the question...
to rehydrate...
would i rather eat half a watermelon,
or drink a big glass of water?
it's always the first.