"frederic" poems
Transplanted to these '...fruited plains...', grandpa,
One of Gaia's fruits, what was his twinkle among
The countless stars? Here, millions have come
To stay, imbuing us with their place of origin,
Their souls dancing, flying, in a universal way.
For over 60 years Americans to be came through
Ellis Island, headed to who knows where West,
My grandfather, Uru, which means hero, a Fin,
One of three who left a concentration camp that
Fifteen thousand entered, did too, to NYC, NY.
Following freedom's beacon, its first light he saw,
The Statue of Liberties still unscorched torch, thanx
To Frederic Auguste Bartholdi, and the French. Of
Libertas, the Roman goddess of freedom and a
'...Tabula ansata, a tablet evoking the law, upon
Which is inscribed the date of the American
Declaration of Independence, July 4, 1776.'
The broken chain of tyranny lies at her feet,
Upon a pedestal, wherein etched words are,
From Emma Lazurus' sonnet, 'The New Colossus',
Which may rise again, only if we embrace them:
'...Her name Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
'Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!' cries she
With silent lips. 'Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!'
Only 151 feet tall, she will ever stand taller, or
Be turned to dust with us, all of humanity and
Large mammals, as well as the Earth, tragic
Members of extinctions annals, if we don't stop
The permanent altering of weather cycles through
Overuse of fossil fuels, the degradation of the
Earth's orbit around the Sun. We can walk in
Nature's abundant balance again, humane beings.
Still, she gives hues to the vast canvas of what
The Big Apple, and its beautiful mosaics' art, can be.
I shine only because he, a Merchant Marine, did.
Dec 23, 2018
Dec 23, 2018 at 2:06 AM UTC
After the painting by Dana Schutz
Notice the lid’s up on my piano,
to keep the strings dry.
Instead of a pool on the shiny black
hood the water just slides away.
It rains blue rain
here on the prairie,
big clouds, blue rain
coming down in arrows.
My hair’s a mess,
but I don’t care
bare-foot pianist me,
firm fingers on the keys,
you see I’m playing
Frederic Rzewski’s
Winnsboro Blues,
those **** Cottonmill Blues,
*Oh Lordy,
You know and I know,
I don’t have to tell,
Work for Tom Watson,
Got to work like hell.*
For James who likes his poetry with music
Nov 4, 2013
Nov 4, 2013 at 2:35 PM UTC
Surely you’ve realized,
Chopin is more than
a late night run
through dark alleys.
It becomes a compromise
to wake up
every single morning
of your life
with a spring.
Relatively speaking,
flowers blooming on
your knitted socks,
and the frenzied
mating of bluebirds.
Regardless of dark
blood-drenched thoughts
traversing the room
it shall feel like
a sun lives there.
Sure there is always
Marche Funebre
but nobody
will notice
a dead body
in such magnificent
weather.
Mar 5, 2012
Mar 5, 2012 at 3:13 PM UTC
Fair maid, your beauty sleeps on marble stone,
Yet warm spring color drapes upon your breast,
Whose rise and fall like splendoured kingly throne
Would overthrow all doubt you are at rest;
How delicate, how soft each gentle sip
Of morning air delighting of your tongue,
Playfully dancing over your sweet lips,
Flitting away to voice your slumbered song;
How sound you sleep, your tranquil dreams expressed
By chest upheaved in rhythms, gaily dressed.
Far far beyond awaking, do you roam
With kindred spirits through a leafy glade?
Nymphs born of elder days welcome you home
To bathe in springs beneath old forest shade;
They sing of love for when the world was young,
When forests grew unhindered o'er the land,
When each new day was blessed by endless sun,
When fertile earth knew naught of desert sand:
Your voice rejoiced to join their merry cheer,
My ears rejoiced with every song they hear.
Fair maid, I wonder will you e'er return,
Or will the dreaming keep you for its own?
My eyes behold your beauty, yet they yearn
For tho' you are still here, I am alone;
Bid farewell to the forests, to your kin,
Bid farewell to each cool refreshing stream,
Return to wear the beauty of your skin,
Your kin will wait in some forever dream:
But now I pray you'll wake, return to me,
To see the dreams my eyes reflect of thee.
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 9:45 PM UTC
It wasn’t your lips
Or your hips
Or the way you walked
Or the way you talked
Matter of fact I’m not sure
Exactly what it was
I just knew
I knew it was you
I knew you
My soul ached the same way
The first time we met
Back when I was Julius Caesar
And you were Cleopatra
And when we met again and
I was Frederic Chopin
And you George Sand
Now I am afraid to say
I recognize you
For fear of losing you
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 2:21 AM UTC
It wasn’t your lips
Or your hips
Or the way you walked
Or the way you talked
Matter of fact I’m not sure
Exactly what it was
I just knew
I knew it was you
I knew you
My soul ached the same way
The first time we met
Back when I was Julius Caesar
And you were Cleopatra
And when we met again and
I was Frederic Chopin
And you George Sand
Now I am afraid to say
I recognize you
For fear of losing you
Sep 6, 2014
Sep 6, 2014 at 2:20 AM UTC
Luther walks forth in yon majestic frame,
Bright beam of heaven, and heir of endless fame,
Born, like thyself, thro toils and griefs to wind,
From slavery’s chains to free the captive mind,
Brave adverse crowns, control the pontiff sway,
And bring benighted nations into day.
Remark what crowds his name around him brings,
Schools, synods, prelates, potentates and kings,
All gaining knowledge from his boundless store,
And join’d to shield him from the papal power.
First of his friends, see Frederic’s princely form
Ward from the sage divine the gathering storm,
In learned Wittemburgh secure his seat,
High throne of thought, religion’s safe retreat.
There sits Melancthon, mild as morning light,
And feuds, tho sacred, soften in his sight;
In terms so gentle flows his tuneful tongue,
Even cloister’d bigots join the pupil throng;
By all sectarian chiefs he lives approved,
By monarchs courted and by men beloved…
Oct 31, 2017
Oct 31, 2017 at 9:54 AM UTC
Tessa Cycle III
1
A whisper, Frederic Raphael and glittering prizes. We are not
patients in this hospital ward, a couple. The prize, I under-
stand is my birthday present... Past salt on my face, like the
dream you get in the night. Behind the palace, your first kiss
stolen. Imagine what time would be like, the future? Whispers
midday in the summer heatwave we will be hiding in the cool-
ness of the river. Time in the clock is flying, your pickup sticks
Mikado solitary game behind the wide hourglass, I am still wai-
ting for the body- sun- eclips. In your secret location, a song
about the garden, what's on the petri dish? Micro tessalation...
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 8:54 AM UTC
1
A whisper, Frederic Raphael and glittering prizes. We are not
patients in this hospital ward, a couple. The prize, I under-
stand is my birthday present... Past salt on my face, like the
dream you get in the night. Behind the castle, your first kiss
stolen. Imagine what time would be like, the future? Whispers
midday in the summer heatwave we will be hiding in the cool-
ness of the river. Time in the clock is flying, your pick-up sticks
Mikado solitary game behind the wide hourglass, I am still wai-
ting for the body- sun- eclips. In your secret location, a song
about the garden, what's on the petri dish? Micro tessalation...
Aug 27, 2019
Aug 27, 2019 at 8:57 AM UTC