"albany" poems
Surveying
northern autumn afternoon
Pitcherelli, ex-marine, body-builder,
Lussier, long-haired father of three dark-skinned children
and myself, sharp-edged loner, ex-lover of a fair share of
women
are belly-laughing in the dying sun. Clouds.
The crew, in timber.
Laughing
over recent visits to marvelous cities where
we could not keep ourselves from touching the terminal buds
of numerous exotic trees
and attracting ridicule of stylish girls and tame boyfriends.
Pitcherelli before the Albany bus station
shaking hands with a red pine planted thirty years ago.
Lussier, one hand in a child's hand and the other
feeling scabrous bark of urban woody plants.
Myself among partially shaved heads and leathery aromatic
jackets
getting close to the hairy bud of an unidentified poplar or
sycamore.
People
laughed, but we laughed best
back on our mountain
under the blackening weather.
Aug 10, 2015
Aug 10, 2015 at 12:53 PM UTC
If time is a convincing illusion, then as I am writing this,
you are reading it; you are remembering me years after
we have spoken last, and I am noticing you for the first time.
I'm a young woman waking up in an apartment in Albany,
New York, realizing that I am finally broken enough to fix,
and an East Boston moppet in ***** pink overalls, riding
Big Wheels through the sprinklers with a boy named John Henry.
You're delivering newspapers on a cold New Hampshire morning.
I am falling asleep wondering if you could possibly love me.
You are saying that you do. You are stardust, and I am long gone.
Mar 18, 2012
Mar 18, 2012 at 4:17 PM UTC
mvp arena
s pearl st
albany, ny
8/30/22
*(to summarize how
we got to this point
i was in the
darkest year of my life
and in my pragmatism
self-inconsideration
i gave myself
an out
the only way i could
survive was to
tell myself it was
going to be over soon)*
i’m screaming
the words into
currents
of noise
i should be
happy
still hearing the ringing
in my ears and
seeing flashing lights
in my eyes
*(9/25/16
was the day
it was going
to end for me
concurrently
i discovered
a genre designed
for kids like me
spent hours
in full blown panic
not at the disco but
twitching on the floor
trying to drown it out
with fall out boy
nights that didn’t end until
dawn picking apart
twenty one pilots theories
in razor free showers
and then
my chemical romance
was back from the dead
10th anniversary album with
new tracks
coming 9/23/16)*
things have changed
i’ve changed
and yet still
traumatically
dramatically
the same
”what’s the worst that i could say?
things are better if i stay?
so long and good night
so long and good night”
*(and i realized
there was something
out there to
look forward to
maybe
just maybe
i make it through
just for now)*
”we’ll carry on
we’ll carry on”
i did
and i made it
all the way to here
found a way to
scrape myself through
every lonely night
but in that
moment the
crushing weight
of my own
insignificance
caught up to me
i should have been
happy
to have made it
to here
but the only thought
in my mind
was that
if i hadn't
made it to here
this moment
in this sea of
misfits and margins
in this sweaty stadium
four hours from home
**if i hadn't
carried on
nobody
would
have
noticed
my absence**
i'm reduced to
a face in the crowd
twenty dollar bills
in a merch line
a scream in a stranger's
snapchat story
**and the world doesn't
need me
one more person
to add to the chaos**
i should have cried
happy tears
but instead
i began to regret
what makes me
strong
what got me
to this point
would it be better
if i had ended it?
would it be easier?
does it even matter
either way?
because i'm
beginning to think
it really doesn't
and i know
i made it this far
i have his hand
around my back
and don't cry
alone at night anymore
but in the cosmic
scheme of significance
(which i want there
to be and i want
to be in)
i just don't
think
i don't
know
if it matters enough
what's the worst that i could say?
are things better if i stay?
"so shut your eyes
kiss me goodbye
and sleep
just sleep
the hardest part
is letting go of your dreams"
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 11:34 PM UTC
My tailpipe spewing acid rain
I am M-i . . . on my way
To s-s-i-s-s and be ******
What I say . . . i-p-p-i
Memphis coming home
Crossing state line is heaven's door
I'm released now hit the floor
Old lead foot is on his way
You'd better believe it
I'm Memphis coming home
Coffee and whiskey my mainstay
Haul'n fast and reliably
No matter what my dispatcher say
Memphis coming home
Tupelo . . . past it's gates
New Albany approaching , now it's gone
Holly springs was a pleasure passing
I'm Memphis coming home
Cotton dust
Taste bud stuff
You can call them hills
Now if you must
Pine or oak , whatever's your choice
Tunica technically kicked your dust
Ole snake eyes soiled your luck
Broke , Memphis coming home
78 or 55
No matter I feel alive
Inside I'm outside myself
As I glide between the white lines . . .
I'm Memphis coming home
Jan 11, 2015
Jan 11, 2015 at 8:33 AM UTC
The volition of Augusta planter and blacksmith ..
Elberton Pulp-wooder and Quarryman .. The song of the steam fired engine , back breaking labor of Tifton Sharecropper and Atlanta Iron -worker ..
To the heat lightning of the humid Georgia night , the cold rain of
November , the unsure , bitter turbulent shrieking winds of March ..
The first turn of the Albany Ploughman , to the evening whistle of Macon Factory worker . To dawns horizon goes the Brunswick Shrimper , to the honor of Cattleman and Savannah Tugboat tender ...
Mar 23, 2016
Mar 23, 2016 at 9:17 PM UTC
— and the rickety ferry-boat “Arden”!
What an object to be called “Arden”
among the great piers,—on the
ever new river!
“Put me a Touchstone
at the wheel, white gulls, and we’ll
follow the ghost of the Half Moon
to the North West Passage—and through!
(at Albany!) for all that!”
1.5k
Albany Rosaline Smith.
On Mondays Albany went down to the store to get milk.
Her mother always gave her twenty five cents.
Twenty for the milk,
And five for some candy.
All the boys she passed along the way would tell her how she was
Genuinly beautiful.
And she knew it.
Albany was gorgeous.
On her sixteenth birthday she let Bobby Fisher
**** her under the oak tree
Out back in the feild behind the pond.
"You're something special there, Albany,"
He told her.
She knew it was true,
But it was a nice gesture,
So she let him **** her from behind this time.
Albany became Misses Fisher two years later,
Three weeks after graduation.
It was just the thing to do back then.
They had four kids,
And she was a good mom.
Mathilda, Lizabeth, Marcus, and Temprance.
Three of which were Bobby's.
One of which was the town physician's.
Bobby never knew.
He was a mill worker.
He was not very bright.
But Albany was.
Bright and Beautiful.
She died at the age of forty-two.
She was ***** an killed by the doctor.
He was also the mortician,
So no one questioned it.
It was a small town.
Sep 9, 2013
Sep 9, 2013 at 1:44 AM UTC
Albany Rosaline Smith.
On Mondays Albany went down to the store to get milk.
Her mother always gave her twenty five cents.
Twenty for the milk,
And five for some candy.
All the boys she passed along the way would tell her how she was
Genuinly beautiful.
And she knew it.
Albany was gorgeous.
On her sixteenth birthday she let Bobby Fisher
**** her under the oak tree
Out back in the feild behind the pond.
"You're something special there, Albany,"
He told her.
She knew it was true,
But it was a nice gesture,
So she let him **** her from behind this time.
Albany became Misses Fisher two years later,
Three weeks after graduation.
It was just the thing to do back then.
They had four kids,
And she was a good mom.
Mathilda, Lizabeth, Marcus, and Temprance.
Three of which were Bobby's.
One of which was the town physician's.
Bobby never knew.
He was a mill worker.
He was not very bright.
But Albany was.
Bright and Beautiful.
She died at the age of forty-two.
She was ***** an killed by the doctor.
He was also the mortician,
So no one questioned it.
It was a small town
Feb 1, 2015
Feb 1, 2015 at 10:30 PM UTC
Mother, I know that you left me for a new found purpose. But now we've slipped away.
Every day passed,
****** away.
She was your new found love.
And 4 kids to count.
0 days notice.
2 of your own you left hungry and alone in that house.
Those days still take a toll on me.
Below 0 in Albany.
Are we okay?
Remember the day the doctor diagnosed me?
You called dad and looked right through me.
"He's depressed"
And what did he call me?
"You little *****
Words and abuse I've oppressed.
Maybe that's why you both left.
Was it me?
I was only fifteen.
Barely old enough to understand the world around me.
I remember waking up screaming.
Staying up, wondering.
Why you left me.
When you left me.
But mother, I know you left me for a new found purpose.
And a mothers love is just something I don't need.
I think I came out fine. Even after you left me.
Im happy to say that some people love me for me.
I don't need you.....
Why did you leave me?
Jan 23, 2014
Jan 23, 2014 at 9:35 AM UTC
(Verse 1)
You're upsetting me on this balcony,
as our friends smoke my **** and drink my beer.
Drove my Honda to see you in Albany.
Giving you the time you need, then you run dear.
Chasing my roommate around the living room
,with your pants around your waist, you're wasted.
Tasting the dude's face, you're in a giving mood
;Want to dance? You asked in haste, getting naked.
(Chorus)
Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult ***** because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-whore
Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult ***** because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-whore
(Verse 2)
Is this what you want; a relationship that's open?
Talk to me. Listen. No, look at my face.
Guess I wanted your heart, cuz my heart was broken.
And beyond repair. But you don't care.
I walk away from the crowd and onto balcony.
Wonder if I should have stuck to learning alchemy.
Because magic is easier than assessing intentions
Of a man who can't understand his own to mention.
(Chorus)
Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult ***** because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-whore
Now you've left me at the house party, alone
Calling me a difficult ***** because I'm grown.
Groan all you want, give a tantrum on the dance floor
You're not handsome anymore. Can't believe you're a man-whore
Dec 20, 2016
Dec 20, 2016 at 12:16 PM UTC
Farm house windows have been boarded up , dilapidated outbuildings , abandoned water well , farm tractor , implements rusted over . Kudzu has blanketed the garden spot , farm bell lies on the ground , silo in need of paint , repairs ..Clover dominates a fertile pasture , once home for many abundant harvest ! Corn , soy bean and sorghum , sweet potato and collards .. Oak trees , well over a hundred years old with twenty years of unchecked leaf debris beneath them . Apple , pear and peach trees are barren .. A once sturdy white picket fence now unkempt , frail with rusted barbed wire and nails .. The afternoon train still comes through each afternoon . I can imagine that very train taking the harvest produced by this old farm to market . Macon , Augusta or Albany ? A planter is taking a break beneath a Pecan tree with a bucket of cold well water and a ladle , plug of tobacco , and a daydream or two ! The afternoon train delivers the news of the world , a Farmers almanac , Sears and Roebuck catalogue , corn cake for the rabbit dogs , hog feed from a mill in Columbus , thread and quilt patches for Mother . Off it goes , cloud of steam rising above the mighty engine , the whistle echoing across cotton fields for many a mile ! The link between city and farm , before electricity , telegraph or telephone . The old Georgia my great grandparents knew . Fruitful Summer harvest , painfully cold Winters laboring , scratching out a meager living and at times barely surviving ! I can still hear the crack of leather , braying of mule , firewood being stacked , horses , cattle and the rooster breaking the silence of night , sunrise announcing the new day to a hard working family plus every hamlet along the way ! .
Oct 19, 2015
Oct 19, 2015 at 9:49 AM UTC
Reflect on the flowers that highlight the Earth , the fire in a lovers heart ...
Bread upon the altar for poet and poetess that passed before my time ...
Pray for peace , hope eternal and love for all mankind ....
Place my remains upon a pyre fueled with yellow Pine .....
I pray that my ash and smoke , will ride upon the Eastern Wind .....
Over cotton field and pecan grove enroute to tranquil sea...To be carried over Blue Ridge Mountain , sorghum field and meandering creek ......
Over man made impoundments of West Point , Allatoona and Lanier .....
To Columbus and Albany , over peanut estate and cornfield , farmhouse , silo and pond......Through Apple orchard in Ellijay and peach orchard in Locust Grove ... Through grape , muscadine and scuppernong arbor in McDonough , Monroe and Braselton ....Over Panola , Kennesaw , Blood and Stone Mountain....Across Chattahoochee , Flint , Savannah , Alcovy and Ocmulgee Rivers ....To be born , grow , flourish and love.. To mourn and to pass ..Over Georgia .. Forever !....
Oct 4, 2015
Oct 4, 2015 at 9:19 PM UTC
I am on the Lower East Side of New York City and there is a fire across from where I live. People are crying and there are others shouting orders back and forth. My uncle is there throwing one person after another down the front of the building where they are caught and clear from danger. My brothers and I are admonished by my mother who screams to us in Arabic to get back inside - that its cold too cold to be outside.
"Its not that cold." I say looking at the man sitting beside me.
"No its nice in here." He pats me on the shoulder and then kisses my cheek. "I love you, pop."
I fade away a lot these days and find myself lost and confused. Some times I remember the people around me and sometimes Its on the tip of my tongue. I know that lady, she is the love of my life. I always remember who she is even in the most confusing times.
There is that shaking again, must be headed to Troy or maybe Virginia Beach. I see a young girl and I ask her a question.
"How did you find us?"
"I know where you live so I came to see you." She also leans in a gives me a kiss on the cheek.
I am surrounded by people, I am sure that I love and know but I truly am unsure who each one is. I fake it, singing and smiling and mimicking them making them smile.
I see my son walking towards me...that is...I forget his name...but I know who he is.
"Where are the kids?" I ask him.
"They are coming, they will be here any minute."
"How are you doing? Do you need anything? You can always ask me I know a lot of things and I can give you advice if you need it."
"I know that - I learned more from watching you than I could ever learn anywhere."
"That's baloney." I say to him, I feel a surge of love and concern for him but I am not sure why.
I close my eyes...I am in a hotel in Acapulco waiting on my nephew to come from the airport. He is flying in from Alabama, no, Albany to spend a week here. The bartender asks me a question.
"What room are you in?"
"What room are you in? I am in room 265."
My daughter answers me, "We are home, you are staying in your room and I am staying in my house."
"I am in room 265, are you near us?"
"Yes I am right down the hall."
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 11:26 PM UTC
My 72
Most mornings when I arise,
The thoughts of you run through my mind.
I stare at your high school picture wrapped in Crimson and blue
You've left me and dad, left us to soon at 42.
And now I'm left to look through all those old photos
To get a glimpse of the way you were in sober days,
You know the one, with you & Auntie in the snow on Albany Avenue
Smiling as if your world never stopped, as if you had no idea....
As I stood watching them lay your body to rest...
My feet no longer touched the ground, weightless, I reached towards the sky
I cried out for you to take me to your new home.
The wind moaned, the lighting kissed the sky and the rain caressed my face.
Here I lay on the rain soaked ground pitying myself
How, Mom ....do I begin to handle this void in my life.
And I realize that the misery and affliction
Must not consume my mind and soul...
Out of silence the blue bird warbles a message of calmness.
The breeze wraps its arms tightly around me as if to say,
Young man, "I'm here to dry your tears and give you warmth."
I wish for nothing more than to hear you say... I love you.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 1:26 AM UTC
the brightness goes up and down, day / night.
girls with shaved heads, new york i think. i think you'll run the world, you with
a diamond grille and no eyebrows. sketch artist,
sidewalk chalk- it wasn't very fun, but it lasted-
the park in albany is full of love; last year was burritos and this year was sour cream and onion chips. it was swings and sky, the kids blowing bubbles, the girl who / looked just like me.
i don't want to lose my house. i'm scared.
i want to be set ablaze / pyre / sacrificial temple / knife /
i want to be there in new york with you.
lip gloss on our eyelids,
strawberries & liquor store croissants.
she remembers when everything trembled,
i only remember pond water & algae-
Oct 12, 2017
Oct 12, 2017 at 2:37 AM UTC
Come, chat with me tonight for the last time
In this house that was mine,
But is now in a stranger's hands.
Come. Let us say goodbye tonight,
And drink tea from the blue cup that we both like.
Remember the old cup you gave me once?
It is the only one that still remains unpacked.
Tonight ghosts from the past will step out from the walls,
With whispers of **********
Laughter of children sounding from room to room,
And we shall smell the scent of herbs
Drifting out from the kitchen where we spent so much time.
Come visit me tonight, my friend,
Help me lighten the burden of my leaving
Now breathing down my neck.
- - -
01/09/99(c)Vilma Vitanza
Albany, CA
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 7:47 PM UTC
My reality is that I am a failure
That I am never good enough my grade are not high enough my brain is not adequate for this world
My athletic ability is not good enough I lift I run I jog I practice over and over and yet I am still benched and middle of the pack
My abilities in the court room have granted me acces to plentiful rewards yet I am still not good enough for Albany
My friendship is solid I aid you in whatever way I can I am there for you I am always there yet you chose the drug and twin over me
My sister was good enough though she suffered from a similar thought process. And I failed to detect the lies she spewed. And I let my little sister to to **** herself because I was to busy with my life because I couldn't tell she lied. My sister is now scared physically and emotionally and I am yet again a failure. But she will be healthy and smile and laugh again whole hearted my some day
My father and mother to busy to really understand what Is going on. My parents I am aware have more important things to take care of yet my hatred and anger grow exponentially.
My thesis of apparent disappointment is near it's closing.
My hair the color has changed my body has become more toned my personality ever so bright under the sunshine of the class. But no no no I do not understand how can the sun shine when the horrors of her interpreted reality are a film repaying? Oh boy how shall she shine when the darkness invades again when she cannot avoid facts of todays news report?
She stands and waits and holds a breath and puts a foot infront of the other and slowly walks away from herself.
Jun 6, 2016
Jun 6, 2016 at 10:34 PM UTC
I remember the first time I killed a girl. She loved me. I loved her.
I would hand her Xanax and cigarettes. One time she handed me her heart on a silver platter and seductively smirked whilst saying, "Dig in."
She then, unfortunately, was burdened with my child. We decided to purge my family tree. We did so faster than a gallon of Roundup kills a single dandelion. I had no desire to let my family tree grow, it is a horrid thing.
Soon after she was filled with grief. So then I killed her. I used my divine nonexistent influence to perform a task that she was oh so familiar with. I teleported from Albany to Long Island in a matter of seconds and hand fed her all her medications, then her mother heart medications along with all my own stock pile of pills I used for recreation. Her heart rate began to slow. She died. I laughed.
I now have two tear drops tattooed on my face.
Jan 15, 2016
Jan 15, 2016 at 8:50 PM UTC
Tucked on a shelf I found a book
Bound in red leather.
Its pages soft as worn-out silk
With the damp odor of mold.
Between its pages was a note,
Blurred by the hands of time:
"I'll wait for you tonight by the church door.
I'll be there at seven. Don't be late."
* * *
1980(c)Vilma Vitanza
Albany, CA
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 7:27 PM UTC
So I'm told in Albany, there lives a little man
He's two foot at pinnacle, Napoleonic of demand
It's not his stature that makes me laugh, or his tiny angered rotund face
But the way his body jumps and shakes
And still can't get above my waist
Dec 28, 2016
Dec 28, 2016 at 8:43 AM UTC
The wirs; whistle
Prestigace melancholy
To their voices,
Merely whispers now.
An aftermath of discord
This epoch of anarchy
I never share these
Demons with them
But your baffling now
Waiting--
Your mind is muddled
Melding the wrong words to connections
I never made.
The disarray, in time
Becomes albany.
Aug 31, 2016
Aug 31, 2016 at 1:46 PM UTC
There will be no good-byes
No farewell
No explanations or questions,
Nor the hint of a tear in my eyes.
- - -
1979(c)Vilma Vitanza
Albany, CA
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:38 PM UTC
When I die my soul shall then
Become the air that you breathe,
The water that will make the grasses green,
The music that on earth I never wrote.
- - -
1979.(c)Vilma Vitanza
Albany, CA
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 8:24 PM UTC
tired old ripped up rope,
shedding shredding,
interwoven from
worn~warnings, that
do not hint!
but volume speak,
of a lifetime well used,
the two ends, no longer straightforward,
now stretched, misshapen, countless uses,
left squiggly serpentine, from knots left tied
for~far too long, till they cannot be returned,
to a youthful vigor
them my lifelines;
that stretch from the Atlantic to Pacific
upon my new york hands, right & left,
end to nearing endings, do not hint at
stories untold, geezers, happy to reveal
their tiredness’s are denied a golden oldie
status, just a wind-ed wind-up doll winding
down, coiled-springs uncurling, decoiling…
tensions releasing…
this is the way of the poet,
the words no longer
streaming on demand,
they blip, scurry, a side dent,
glancing, like a windshield hit,
here and gone,
before a napkin secured,
a nearly dried out Bic
secured to scratch remnants
of a phrase spectacular,
end up crumpled, buried,
predeceased in a pocket of an-old fav, a Harris Tweed sport jacket, nurtured
over the years, the faint haze odor
stink of when he
smoked, a couple of
decades long ago…
he rambles,
like that rope end unraveling,
he is was a poet of the way,
for this the way of signing off,
intermittent coughing fits,
the nervous glances of strangers
as he pretends to sashay across Broadway when the light is flash down ten seconds to cross the width of Eighty Feet,
on that old American Indian path
that stretches from the tip of Manhattan Isle
to the Capitol of corruption, Albany, 150 miles…
you see,
poets garner knowledge,
then drip
drops drabs in simile and
metaphors, for this poem
is just the unraveling of a poet
who has,
worn out his welcome,
and smirks/winces
notionally, a long way
to say, the poets has
lost his own way,
now untied, untitled,
unentiteled,
and that’s a
wrap…
Oct 11, 2024
Oct 11, 2024 at 7:52 AM UTC