"astoria" poems
Fine living . . . a la carte?
Come to the Waldorf-Astoria!
LISTEN HUNGRY ONES!
Look! See what Vanity Fair says about the
new Waldorf-Astoria:
"All the luxuries of private home. . . ."
Now, won't that be charming when the last flop-house
has turned you down this winter?
Furthermore:
"It is far beyond anything hitherto attempted in the hotel
world. . . ." It cost twenty-eight million dollars. The fa-
mous Oscar Tschirky is in charge of banqueting.
Alexandre Gastaud is chef. It will be a distinguished
background for society.
So when you've no place else to go, homeless and hungry
ones, choose the Waldorf as a background for your rags--
(Or do you still consider the subway after midnight good
enough?)
ROOMERS
Take a room at the new Waldorf, you down-and-outers--
sleepers in charity's flop-houses where God pulls a
long face, and you have to pray to get a bed.
They serve swell board at the Waldorf-Astoria. Look at the menu, will
you:
GUMBO CREOLE
CRABMEAT IN CASSOLETTE
BOILED BRISKET OF BEEF
SMALL ONIONS IN CREAM
WATERCRESS SALAD
PEACH MELBA
Have luncheon there this afternoon, all you jobless.
Why not?
Dine with some of the men and women who got rich off of
your labor, who clip coupons with clean white fingers
because your hands dug coal, drilled stone, sewed gar-
ments, poured steel to let other people draw dividends
and live easy.
(Or haven't you had enough yet of the soup-lines and the bit-
ter bread of charity?)
Walk through Peacock Alley tonight before dinner, and get
warm, anyway. You've got nothing else to do.
5.7k
THE RAVE DAYS
THC
H20
Ecstasy
Recreational Dreaming
And And
Very Yes
Excessive Screaming
HAVE LEFT AN AMBIENT HAZE
Heavenly Limbo
Acidic Elation
Velocity Futuristic
Erratic Trance
Acrobatic Artificial
Nonchalance Manipulating
Bass
Intelligence
Eternal
Narcotic
Temptations
Hacienda
Astoria
Zoo
Enclosure
Jun 15, 2016
Jun 15, 2016 at 8:33 AM UTC
How brave are our fire brigades?
As they battle bushfires each day,
Yes, it's summer in Victoria,
Not exactly the Waldorf Astoria,
For all the fire brigades,
Our respect they've totally gained,
Laying their lives on the line,
When the weather's too hot and fine,
Burn, Victoria, burn,
El Nino's torrid urn,
Our noble defenders each day,
Real heroes in the news, I say,
As they battle bushfires today,
How brave are the fire brigades?
Nov 17, 2015
Nov 17, 2015 at 6:46 PM UTC
Once upon a time in an alternate universe not too long ago
I met the cheekiest babe from the other side of the world.
She went by Smurfette, she loved to call me Papa Smurf
and Vanity wasn’t gay, the ******* just loved himself too much.
She always sat by the window, detoxicating herself of verses
cranking out a few lyrics, scoping the city in the trenches.
Of the love we waged never wavering and waving a white flag
“I’m gonna put you to bed” were all our wars went to die.
But I was more than alive, inside the land from down under
called her Daphne the Nymph, the voluptuous Greek Goddess.
Wanted to raise little Koalas together in our Kangaroo farm
in every kiss we traded souls, in every breath we lost our lives.
And we gained them again back when the Jitneys were blue
our sweat-drenched bodies overtaken by some strange voodoo.
Every ship we embarked on was lost in the Atlantic without return
James Bean captained our vessel, holding it together with crazy glue.
In New York City locked lips inside a phone booth, it was euphoria
she was already born a Queen since she hailed from Astoria.
Our Bohemian Rhapsody blended like Cheech & Chong on a ******
her pouty lips, ****** smile, five years later how can I forget her?
Her voice, beautiful sparrow, vocal chords stone carved like no other
and yet normally speaking she sounded like the Crocodile Hunter
Soaked the landscape of her essence, remembrance without a beat
the song she wrote about us, plays in my heart eternally on repeat.
Nov 7, 2012
Nov 7, 2012 at 12:23 PM UTC
She stands at the wall reflecting
on those who were lost at sea
names and poems and words connecting
her to those poor souls and to me.
Beyond those memorial walls
the mighty Columbia into the Pacific spills
whose depth and wealth have called
so many to sail from Oregon's green hills.
From the safety of their home
they left for the great unknown
where writers and poets travel
every time they pen their spirit in word
to explore what God and life has unraveled
what pain, sorrow and joy have stirred.
Her kindness and her reflection move me to write
my poems of wandering from a safe and tidy home
to regions of imagination’s heights
shadows, sorrows, or oceans’ foam.
She reads and lives life’s poetry
knows its canyons and desert sands
she yearns only to be free
of the noise and anger of badlands
to smell the freshness of a cool and gentle breeze
feel the air brushing her arms
to look up and see the greenness of trees
to be free from crushing and brutal harm.
I see her standing and watch her reflection there
with seafarers, poets and lovers at peace
where God’s creative breath stirs air
and torments, terrors, and quarrels cease.
Author’s Note: My sister Genie who lives in a large urban area visited Astoria, Oregon where the Columbia river ends in the Pacific Ocean and local citizens have erected a memorial park with several walls of polished black granite that display the names of mariners lost at sea. There are also sentiments and poems about those lost souls one of which Genie photographed and sent to me. As I examined the photo I could see her reflection on the wall as kind of a background for the poem. That photo and my sister who loves nature and trees inspired this writing. I wish I could post the pic here for you to see why and how it inspired me.
Below is the untitled poem on the memorial wall photographed by my sister.
Weep not for me that I go to sea.
I shan’t be lonely, though vastness surround me.
The brotherhood of the sea shall be my family.
The kinship of the deep my company.
Weep not for me, nor worry over harm.
My heart stays with you, still and warm.
In sunrise and starlight my hearth and home
I carry you with me wherever I roam.
Weep not for me, whether bad luck or good.
Tossed about in a shell of steel and wood.
An ancient salt sea sails within my blood –
I but follow its tide through ebb and flood.
Weep not for me that I go to sea:
in the limitless ocean I am free.
Jun 14, 2019
Jun 14, 2019 at 10:40 AM UTC
Here I write some recipes,
From our anti--football league,
How to cook a football totally,
Must boil it for twelve hours, ritually,
Then you can dice it and fricassee,
Or maybe bake, broil, and grill,
What won't fatten, shall fill,
Or you can make mini-football custard, eh,
Chocolate footballs in a bowl, let's say,
We call it Footy Iles Flotante,
Star sweet in the anti-football restaurant!
Then a recipe for Grand Final Day, swell,
It's called footy Croquembouche Noel!
Hear the anti-footballers yell!
You, too, can write recipes,
For the Anti-football Society,
It's like dining at the Waldorf Astoria,
Anti-football recipes from Melbourne, Victoria!
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 3:37 PM UTC
racing across the train platform,
one hand on our heads keeping our beanies in place,
the other clenching each other's
we slid in through the doors,
catching our breath in between laughter
we make it above ground just as the sun is setting over astoria
and i swear your eyes turn golden
my favourite you comes out at night
we lose track of time, put away our cell phones,
and vandalize this whole **** place with our love
carve your name into my rickety old heart like you did the trees
near bethesda
kiss me long and hard, like the winters
just as refreshing when i open the door and seeing you,
my own wonderland
melt this ice pick inside of me
set me on fire, for all i care
everything is dying right now,
but for once, for once, it doesn't feel like it
Oct 16, 2016
Oct 16, 2016 at 7:58 PM UTC
Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
No big deal, your name, your email, bought n' sold daily,
Like a baseball card, your picture and vital stats are on the internet,
Your credit card in the fine print tells you they love you much,
But the data they collect, might get credited to such and such.
You're fair game if your sign up for anything.
Now I know I am getting on in years,
Tho spry rhymes with die, I flatly deny
Any notion that
My great beyond is just around the corner!
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name!
Got a color brochure
Suggesting that when my travels are over,
A nice place to rest my head might be
St. Michael's Cemetery.
St. Michael's Cemetery
7202 Astoria Blvd, East Elmhurst
(718) 278-3240
Friday hours 7:00 am–5:00 pm
In case you want to check it out too...
Tho I live not in the Borough of Queens County,
My zip code but a hop, skip and jump away,
The cemetery adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway
Which is actually quite thoughtful of
The mass marketer who dreamed up this scheme
(And got paid a plentiful amount of bounty).
My kids could wave as they drive by,
On the way to LaGuardia or JFK, (airports)
And say, guilt free, they visit me regularly!
Sadly, their plot foiled,
I will be buried in
New Jersey soil,
Near to my pop, who liked the
Wide open spaces of suburbia
And shopping on Route 4,
Where the selection is great
And there is no sales tax.
But Holy Crap,
They Sold My Name,
And I am now target marketed,
Niched, pretty soon the boys from AARP
Will come calling, reminding me of the gap
Tween Medicare and the poor house!
Ok ok, grow up you say, tho your hair is full,
And not even a hint of baldness shines forth,
Nonetheless, its color is zebra striped gray,
And when someone says they got my back,
I think, please, please take it and keep it....
Oh yeah,
Dear St. Mikes
You might ask for some of your money back,
Cause this sily scribe is a member of the tribe,
Some call "those ***** (hint: it rhymes with Mikes),"
It starts with K and ends in yikes!
But thanks for thinking of me anyway.
May 24, 2013
May 24, 2013 at 5:32 PM UTC
How many years will it take me to
forget the days we lapped the corners
of your mother's artless garden
tottering on Autumn's fruitless season.
The sunken mornings brought winds of
rupture in our chests; mingling in our
underwear, standing in the doorway
while I whistled you a song about how
intimacy can be undoubtedly forgettable like the
moon-blued waves we saw the weekend before
sleeping on the south shores of Astoria.
I expected every wave would have swallowed us up.
Sea salt stuck in my scrawny hair and we wasted
the afternoons trembling beneath layers of
flickering guilt. This moment, yearned to have
its imprint swollen shut into the crevice of my bones.
But now, its tides later and you married last October
and I don't see the point in remembering you.
Now half-drunk on an absentee love.
Jan 20, 2013
Jan 20, 2013 at 11:00 PM UTC
We shared the same bunk bed
in the tiny Astoria projects apartment
I laugh to myself recalling the 3 AM singing sessions
we crooned right along with the Bradshaw brothers
stocking caps plastered to their heads
doo-wopping on the benches below
beautiful voices framing the cold,
unforgiving, angular brick buildings and ghetto nights
Sis, you were my head pall bearer
shouldering the shoe-box casket
along with an odd collection of project kids
forming a procession up 27th avenue
towards the green steeple church on the hill
solemnly we laid Pixie the cat to rest
“Last Looks” I quipped before lowering the box
she had accidentally slipped out of the window
and was not as lucky as Winston Parks
a young toddler who had fortunately
landed in the bushes
when our newborn twin brothers, Chris and Pat
surprised our parents bringing the count to 5 siblings
I officially became the 2nd mom
a reluctant teen, my head buried in a book
simultaneously rocking a twin carriage and stroller
LOL...seems like only yesterday we were camped out
in apartment #6B planning all sorts of mischief
now there is a pile of little shoes next to my door
and the next generation trudging in
with water pistols, bubbles and coloring books
Feb 22, 2013
Feb 22, 2013 at 9:13 PM UTC
any poet will tell you
any honest poet
will tell you,
the most difficult thing to do
is write about
them,
a good poet will tell you
it is cheating,
a bad one
nothing at all
inspiration?
a muse?
those are not needed
a poet is affected
by the smallest of trivialities
‘’why the hell is jeopardy still on?’’
‘’I asked for extra pickles on this
sandwich,
and there is no mustard on here’’
by the Yankees winning the series,
again,
a poet is driven by more
than the presence or absence of
love,
god,
***
music,
money in the bank
his day will be molded
by the smallest of trivialities,
you turning off your lights,
the presence
or absence
of the sun,
a single mom crying in Toledo,
down to her last drop,
a homeless pet,
braver than you
or
I
by war,
or lack of it,
by a new president,
or an old one,
a poet is affected
by the smallest of trivialities
so be careful
when you shut off your lights
Jan 28, 2015
Jan 28, 2015 at 5:59 PM UTC
oh summer nights past bedtime little boy,
upon your windowsill your elbows ached,
far past astoria park 'cross river, joy
in buildings with lit windows row-like raked,
you watched, the lights of cars over the bridge,
queensborough to its fifty-ninth street end,
imagined bustling streets, smokey sewage,
stood cigarettes on tarred streets round each bend,
the living night alive with bustling life,
new york strangers engrossed in sense-filled play,
in music, food, drinks, laughs, the city rife,
enough to fill fables and tales next day,
oh child, in isolation's painful sting,
vicarious living would pleasure bring
(C)2012, Christos Rigakos
Jul 30, 2012
Jul 30, 2012 at 11:34 PM UTC
Through my eyes everything seemed perfect
everything is luxurious
through my eyes i saw
the Waldorf Astoria
continental breakfasts,cruises,jets,limos
All i saw are expensive watches,sun glasses
the best of everything
but what i couldn't see was
the famines in Africa
the wars in Syria and Afghanistan
the everyday killings,kidnappings,heists
I was surrounded by luxuries
blocking out all the evil
I was surrounded by an army of guards
I never realized
that they weren't paid to follow me,
they were there to protect me
but i never appreciated them
their bravery
and in a blink of an eye
I HAD LOST EVERYTHING
and suddenly
the people in Africa were eating
the wars ended
the killings,murders,heists were being controlled
and everything through my eyes were
mud houses,donkey carts,torn clothes
boiled potatoes and peas
and the rich people who enjoyed all the things i once had
Mar 26, 2014
Mar 26, 2014 at 10:15 AM UTC
Stuck to their thoughts, the quiet dealings while the world restlessness exposes itself before their eyes, and they do not flinch, there is a fear at the fibre of New York City, the ananymoty keeps one brave in their singular ways, just a scratch, just a droplet, without considering one another, exchanges at the counter kept short, exchange a few wads for cheap goods that will last a while, that happens to be my style. Astoria queens, where the colors don't mesh together quite right, taxes, payroll, bookkeeping, lots of wine, novelty next to 99 cent, cars crammed at the intersection, baffled in the brook, crammed in the nooksc the books are protected by a sheet to keep out the rain, at the corner there is a man going insane, city living, the expression, nothing's good, but can't complain, dotted taxi cab advertisements, launching a career, launching an attitude, launching a party, we can do business for you, step right in and see keep my business card hardly an issue, hardly the matter, coffees crummy, coffees not so bad what's the matter with you? Emotionless, dreamless, left to the lights and sleepiness, a work day, a day of pay, churning out a penny at the end, churning out dollars that we can spend a loss of security for a good, or perhaps an investment in a future security, the city wish it could do it all for you, Astoria queens, sewn together freakenstein American Dream
Jun 26, 2015
Jun 26, 2015 at 5:11 PM UTC
I was feeling
Really ****** tonight
But listening to Astoria
Has kinda made it better
It tells the story of getting over a break up
And sometimes
We need to revisit old relationships
And work through them again
I think that's part of being human
Jan 27, 2019
Jan 27, 2019 at 3:17 AM UTC
Astoria, Queens, New York
Born but not raised
To a family enslaved
To work till their graves.
Daddy working late
Mom’s food on my plate
Mom will stay up to wait
She’ll be there to greet her soul mate
Day and night jobs
No regular 9 to 5
As long as we survive
Our children can strive.
Port Chester, New York
Moved to a town
Where we put rent down
Hope we don’t drown.
4 years old
A move so bold.
The winters were still cold,
But my dad’s taxi no longer gold.
Mom and Dad as a team
Working full steam
To achieve the American Dream
They believe to be supreme.
Mortgage down payment
A house with a basement.
All our money spent.
What an accomplishment!
Struggle to maintain
Tensions hard to contain
Money down the drain
With a house we can’t sustain…
Aug 7, 2017
Aug 7, 2017 at 4:36 PM UTC
out of the clearing there is a feeling that there is a sense of importance, significance, discovery and thoughts, loss, lost
Elders love to bestow their bits of wisdom, constantly thrown about in a heap of dry vulgarity, coated with a candy normalcy, listening to their own ideology, go about your way, go about your way and we, youth are forced to listen and to agree or disagree and explain, and because disagreeing requires too much work and we are polite, we nod in agreement
but the elder doesn't realize they are taking something crucial from the youth , as they embark their little remarks, each one weighing heavily on the soul, weight like water on top of the tarmac, absolutely overwhelming
and the youth goes to bed and lays down and lets it all sink in and that is that, until one day they are older themselves and they go on purging everything before they leave themselves
It's a vicious cy le and in a lot of ways I'm glad it broke with my dad, who never told me how to live my life in any way
stories are told and are supposed to preach some kind of a lesson, but how many lessons do we really need? How much before the levi breaks and it all spills over...I sit here and ponder
I ponder at a pub in astoria queens, drunk, realizing that I am doing a lot more listening than I thought previously, the bartenders joke about tips, while everyone else sits with their phones dreaming of new ways to live, drink drink drink to that. Starry eyed, a worry, human, and breathing, just drinking drinking drinking, and thinking about this and that
I sit here and ponder
on the subway now
of stories that I've heard
with good guys and bad guys
and grey in between
and death hanging in the balance
between right and wrong
the ultimate punishment
Death
And I sit here
and ponder that
for a second
then I shrug
then look up at the people
minding their own
Friday evenings
Jan 29, 2016
Jan 29, 2016 at 7:05 PM UTC