"morningside" poems - Hello Poetry

Saw your pictures, Mom the sadness in your eyes so calm There was a minute when I barely recognized your face Shame on me look in the mirror and see your features have left a trace Well your pictures look great March 20th, 2013 was the date An obituary photo shoot how fabulously like you Preparing for sad days ahead planning like you’re already dead Morningside Cemetery plot number six another family member to add to the mix Tombstone of granite grapevine wrapped cross engraved on it These conversations are sad but true you only want less for me to do I’m sorry because you love me so much while I’m here in Chicago far out of touch Call as much as you please hearing your voice is the worst tease I want to see your face now, hold you tight please just know I'm doing alright.

0

Apr 8, 2013

Apr 8, 2013 at 3:55 AM UTC

snoo

Obituary Pictures

Saw your pictures, Mom the sadness in your eyes so calm There was a minute when I barely recognized your face Shame on me look in the mirror and see your features have left a trace Well your pictures look great March 20th, 2013 was the date An obituary photo shoot how fabulously like you Preparing for sad days ahead planning like you’re already dead Morningside Cemetery plot number six another family member to add to the mix Tombstone of granite grapevine wrapped cross engraved on it These conversations are sad but true you only want less for me to do I’m sorry because you love me so much while I’m here in Chicago far out of touch Call as much as you please hearing your voice is the worst tease I want to see your face now, hold you tight please just know I'm doing alright.

25

I'm missing the smell of sunscreen splattered in white blotches across my wind chapped cheeks, that will soon blend in with the snow I'm missing the three layers of socks I yank on and stuffing my boots with shakeable hand warmers because my toes always freeze I miss the sound of heel toe heel toe heel toe as the hard plastic boots click against grated metal stairs down to the buses I miss the smell of hot chocolate and barbecue in the air and snow flurries tenderly kiss my face floating downwards I miss the sound of the chair lifts thud thud thud and clicking my skis together to shake off the fresh powder that has accumulated I miss the sound of my poles hitting each other accidentally, and the dots they make in fresh champagne powder between the glades I miss the feeling of relief when I ski into the four points lodge by sunshine peak and grab a cafeteria trey and get my usual macaroni and cheese I miss the feeling of watching snow flurries melt as they land inside my hot chocolate that tastes cheap and watery but so warm I miss singing songs on the lifts, especially the quads, and deciding which runs to do next, black blue or green? I miss saying mountain words like "elk head, jackrabbit, slopes, hockey stop, sunshine express, morningside, storm peak, thunder- head" the list goes on I miss feeling completely at home in a helmet, huge goggles, fleece chilis and a ski jumper I miss Steamboat, I miss skiing, I can't wait for this year.

0

Nov 10, 2015

Nov 10, 2015 at 9:56 AM UTC

RJB

Missing Steamboat

I'm missing the smell of sunscreen splattered in white blotches across my wind chapped cheeks, that will soon blend in with the snow I'm missing the three layers of socks I yank on and stuffing my boots with shakeable hand warmers because my toes always freeze I miss the sound of heel toe heel toe heel toe as the hard plastic boots click against grated metal stairs down to the buses I miss the smell of hot chocolate and barbecue in the air and snow flurries tenderly kiss my face floating downwards I miss the sound of the chair lifts thud thud thud and clicking my skis together to shake off the fresh powder that has accumulated I miss the sound of my poles hitting each other accidentally, and the dots they make in fresh champagne powder between the glades I miss the feeling of relief when I ski into the four points lodge by sunshine peak and grab a cafeteria trey and get my usual macaroni and cheese I miss the feeling of watching snow flurries melt as they land inside my hot chocolate that tastes cheap and watery but so warm I miss singing songs on the lifts, especially the quads, and deciding which runs to do next, black blue or green? I miss saying mountain words like "elk head, jackrabbit, slopes, hockey stop, sunshine express, morningside, storm peak, thunder- head" the list goes on I miss feeling completely at home in a helmet, huge goggles, fleece chilis and a ski jumper I miss Steamboat, I miss skiing, I can't wait for this year.

12

Coming down with something blame summer point a finger at the city worn-down pizzazz drunk trumpets and I hide in my coat trees look better without leaves is it just me? see the sun bellow into buildings student affairs like heat rash bounce along hallways foreign mumbo-jumbo mishpelt words they say *him met her saw six pictures last night* I haven’t met me books know truth not brunettes good poetry better than *** they’re running running running away with it between spritzers and sandwiches now snooze until Halloween brown back in fashion caught in the middle piedra de aguacate I handle guitars they fiddle with women now let apple juice trickle from my lips and a man gets out a taxi drops his phone

0

Jul 23, 2014

Jul 23, 2014 at 5:06 PM UTC

reece-aj-chambers

Morningside Heights

Coming down with something blame summer point a finger at the city worn-down pizzazz drunk trumpets and I hide in my coat trees look better without leaves is it just me? see the sun bellow into buildings student affairs like heat rash bounce along hallways foreign mumbo-jumbo mishpelt words they say *him met her saw six pictures last night* I haven’t met me books know truth not brunettes good poetry better than *** they’re running running running away with it between spritzers and sandwiches now snooze until Halloween brown back in fashion caught in the middle piedra de aguacate I handle guitars they fiddle with women now let apple juice trickle from my lips and a man gets out a taxi drops his phone

36

*Morningside" Morningside The old man died And no one cried They simply turned away And when he died He left a table made of nails and pride And with his hands, He carved these words inside 'For my children' Morning light Morning bright I spent the night With dreams that make you weep Morning time Wash away the sadness From these eyes of mine For I recall the words an old man signed 'For my children' And the legs were shaped with his hands And the top made of oaken wood And the children That sat around this great table Touched it with their laughter Ah, and that was good Morningside An old man died And no one cried He surely died alone And truth is sad For not a child would claim the gift he had The words he carved became his epitaph 'For my children'

0

Dec 5, 2015

Dec 5, 2015 at 8:48 PM UTC

jude-kyrie

Morningside a Neil Diamond Lyric

*Morningside" Morningside The old man died And no one cried They simply turned away And when he died He left a table made of nails and pride And with his hands, He carved these words inside 'For my children' Morning light Morning bright I spent the night With dreams that make you weep Morning time Wash away the sadness From these eyes of mine For I recall the words an old man signed 'For my children' And the legs were shaped with his hands And the top made of oaken wood And the children That sat around this great table Touched it with their laughter Ah, and that was good Morningside An old man died And no one cried He surely died alone And truth is sad For not a child would claim the gift he had The words he carved became his epitaph 'For my children'

33

When times get tough, and tensions should ride high; When one’s hands are lashed and frustration’s sound, I take a ride through the morning country. Like a sweet raspberry cream filled fruit pie, I savor the pleasure that gets around. The morningside country beckons to me. The city’s too busy; crowded and fried. I wish to kiss the winds with a resound! I take a ride through the the morning country. I wake up, and the sun is in my eye. She's there with me as my feet hit the ground, The morningside country beckons to me. This woman I love, she knows how to try, She knows where my sincere heart can be found. We take a ride through the morning country. There are those days that certainly blindside. What I do often for sorrow to drown-- I take a ride through the morning country, The morningside country beckons to me.

0

Sep 9, 2018

Sep 9, 2018 at 3:21 AM UTC

Tb76

Through the Morning Country

When times get tough, and tensions should ride high; When one’s hands are lashed and frustration’s sound, I take a ride through the morning country. Like a sweet raspberry cream filled fruit pie, I savor the pleasure that gets around. The morningside country beckons to me. The city’s too busy; crowded and fried. I wish to kiss the winds with a resound! I take a ride through the the morning country. I wake up, and the sun is in my eye. She's there with me as my feet hit the ground, The morningside country beckons to me. This woman I love, she knows how to try, She knows where my sincere heart can be found. We take a ride through the morning country. There are those days that certainly blindside. What I do often for sorrow to drown-- I take a ride through the morning country, The morningside country beckons to me.

19

The sometimes tremulous glimpses of surprise, I think what a book it would make. I hear the late afternoon cheer the honest type somewhere lurking behind old Sixth Avenue Road. I suppose it is not just a phenomenon of nature that goes instinctively on, not the appalling detail of any large human scheme, eroded by schedules But I accept it as one of the miracles. (Which I never see anywhere else)

0

Feb 17, 2019

Feb 17, 2019 at 9:15 PM UTC

lillianmay

Morningside Park

The sometimes tremulous glimpses of surprise, I think what a book it would make. I hear the late afternoon cheer the honest type somewhere lurking behind old Sixth Avenue Road. I suppose it is not just a phenomenon of nature that goes instinctively on, not the appalling detail of any large human scheme, eroded by schedules But I accept it as one of the miracles. (Which I never see anywhere else)

16

How long it seems this night so full of dreaming,the night streams willow reaching underneath my pillow and rocking me,'til my eyes close upon the sights to see which these dreams seem to offer gladly up to me. Nothing here is real,imaginings and fantasy deal with the mundane that I am,they say a man can dream of being god and ruling like a king over continents or that he may sing as sweet as any skylark,in the dark it doesn't matter who you are or where you've been or married to a king or queen,we look the same to others in the night,shadows to the left and right and nothing here is real. I feel ashamed to say that in sleeping I long only for the day to wake me,I break out of the dreaming night as a prisoner might break out of jail,sneakily as if no one could be awake to see me,craftily,like a fox I unpick the lock and open wide the morningside of the night. But how long it seems that dreams have trapped me in that cell,released now dreams know well to leave this man alone,I make more reality my home to live and give those sleeping willow pillows leave to dream elsewhere.

0

May 6, 2014

May 6, 2014 at 2:27 AM UTC

john-edward-smallshaw

Inching forward

How long it seems this night so full of dreaming,the night streams willow reaching underneath my pillow and rocking me,'til my eyes close upon the sights to see which these dreams seem to offer gladly up to me. Nothing here is real,imaginings and fantasy deal with the mundane that I am,they say a man can dream of being god and ruling like a king over continents or that he may sing as sweet as any skylark,in the dark it doesn't matter who you are or where you've been or married to a king or queen,we look the same to others in the night,shadows to the left and right and nothing here is real. I feel ashamed to say that in sleeping I long only for the day to wake me,I break out of the dreaming night as a prisoner might break out of jail,sneakily as if no one could be awake to see me,craftily,like a fox I unpick the lock and open wide the morningside of the night. But how long it seems that dreams have trapped me in that cell,released now dreams know well to leave this man alone,I make more reality my home to live and give those sleeping willow pillows leave to dream elsewhere.

5

Inspired by Neil Diamond's "Morningside" A tale of when an old man died, Of nights spent alone, and days that I've cried, For my children This poem is real, this poem is me, Far from the person each one of you see, Depression, emptiness, a life I can't flee, For my children. By mistakes a plenty, my life defined, The gift I hold, verses from what's on my mind, A tormented soul, with the words I've signed, For my children. Emilia and John, years spent apart, Thinking back each night, tearing at my heart, To go back in time, and correct from the start, For my children. Isobel and Lydia, off doing their things, Watching them flourish, the joy that it brings, Two ladies growing, in my heart it sings, For my children. And obviously Ben, my Junior Sharkbait, My final reason to smile, this tiny wee mate, Giving me purpose, keeping life great, For my children. People believe as a dad I am good, But I've let them all down far more than I should, And I'd change it all for a chance that I could, For my children. As a father I know that I truly am blessed, I've five stars that to me, are simply the best, With their joy, love and laughter, my heart is caressed, For my children. But when I die, truth is sad, Not a child will claim the gift I had, The words I write become my epitaph, For my children." Cinco Espiritus Creation 2018

0

Mar 2, 2018

Mar 2, 2018 at 5:58 AM UTC

paul-gilhooley

For My Children

Inspired by Neil Diamond's "Morningside" A tale of when an old man died, Of nights spent alone, and days that I've cried, For my children This poem is real, this poem is me, Far from the person each one of you see, Depression, emptiness, a life I can't flee, For my children. By mistakes a plenty, my life defined, The gift I hold, verses from what's on my mind, A tormented soul, with the words I've signed, For my children. Emilia and John, years spent apart, Thinking back each night, tearing at my heart, To go back in time, and correct from the start, For my children. Isobel and Lydia, off doing their things, Watching them flourish, the joy that it brings, Two ladies growing, in my heart it sings, For my children. And obviously Ben, my Junior Sharkbait, My final reason to smile, this tiny wee mate, Giving me purpose, keeping life great, For my children. People believe as a dad I am good, But I've let them all down far more than I should, And I'd change it all for a chance that I could, For my children. As a father I know that I truly am blessed, I've five stars that to me, are simply the best, With their joy, love and laughter, my heart is caressed, For my children. But when I die, truth is sad, Not a child will claim the gift I had, The words I write become my epitaph, For my children." Cinco Espiritus Creation 2018

37

I walked along Morningside Heights to the place where the road ended. I was on my way home from The Free School* which my children attend on my way to my apartment on West 121St. where our apartment courtesy of Teachers College was. It was late afternoon in Spring and I was feeling blue but that is another story Just as I was about to turn West I saw on the sidewalk a bunch of household trash seeming remnants of a move. I looked closer and saw three framed degrees from long ago The last was a doctoral degree. It was then I realized that it probably belonged to some old Columbia professor who had died- out living anyone who cared. Sad but New York Is full of sadness and the ambitions of a life are realized and expire and there is no one to know what was achieved now worthless to all who come after. Life is like a war with so many unknown soldiers who's glory if any was never here, never here forever But I suppose we all secretly know We live lives as mysterious strangers Known in this world known but to God *Children's Free School A parent Coop back in the 70s

0

Oct 27, 2022

Oct 27, 2022 at 4:30 PM UTC

david-b-scully

An Unknown Professor

I walked along Morningside Heights to the place where the road ended. I was on my way home from The Free School* which my children attend on my way to my apartment on West 121St. where our apartment courtesy of Teachers College was. It was late afternoon in Spring and I was feeling blue but that is another story Just as I was about to turn West I saw on the sidewalk a bunch of household trash seeming remnants of a move. I looked closer and saw three framed degrees from long ago The last was a doctoral degree. It was then I realized that it probably belonged to some old Columbia professor who had died- out living anyone who cared. Sad but New York Is full of sadness and the ambitions of a life are realized and expire and there is no one to know what was achieved now worthless to all who come after. Life is like a war with so many unknown soldiers who's glory if any was never here, never here forever But I suppose we all secretly know We live lives as mysterious strangers Known in this world known but to God *Children's Free School A parent Coop back in the 70s

26

harlemde akşamüstüyüm rengarenk ve kalabalık reggy kemiriyor morningside'ın, muazzam beyaz dişleri ve kaykaycı birkaç genç, otogaz sistemi gibi sıralı akşamüstüyüm harlemde küçük kızlar, koca kızlara oyunlar sek seks'e dönüşümüş uğramayalı 50 doların var mı ihtiyar? diye soruyor tekne kazıntısı sonra ateşin var mı? aldırıp geldim diyorum, iyiyim böyle peki sigaran? metazori tutuşuyor filtresi köfte dudakların joy'muş adı, tek çocuklu, anne bakar, herif hapiste memphis'te tanışmışlar, o zaman da torbacıymış hergele hikaye uzun ben kısayım sohbete deyip kalkıyorum koca kıçlı donna'nın merdivenlerinden filvaki hüzün, gözaltı peşimde ben Vaha akşamüstüyüm harlemde yoksul ama kalabalık düşü, düşürenin içinde...

0

Apr 5, 2019

Apr 5, 2019 at 4:09 PM UTC

Vaha

Yasak Elma

harlemde akşamüstüyüm rengarenk ve kalabalık reggy kemiriyor morningside'ın, muazzam beyaz dişleri ve kaykaycı birkaç genç, otogaz sistemi gibi sıralı akşamüstüyüm harlemde küçük kızlar, koca kızlara oyunlar sek seks'e dönüşümüş uğramayalı 50 doların var mı ihtiyar? diye soruyor tekne kazıntısı sonra ateşin var mı? aldırıp geldim diyorum, iyiyim böyle peki sigaran? metazori tutuşuyor filtresi köfte dudakların joy'muş adı, tek çocuklu, anne bakar, herif hapiste memphis'te tanışmışlar, o zaman da torbacıymış hergele hikaye uzun ben kısayım sohbete deyip kalkıyorum koca kıçlı donna'nın merdivenlerinden filvaki hüzün, gözaltı peşimde ben Vaha akşamüstüyüm harlemde yoksul ama kalabalık düşü, düşürenin içinde...

27