"rutherford" poems
We were teammates
We suited up
We showed up
We weren't stars
But we rolled in the dirt
With the best of them
Our blood ran red
Like the rest of them
Our sweat tasted salty
As the most athletic of them
Wounds and bruises
Ached like the most
Stalwart of them
We were Bulldogs!
We anted up our
Gifts and talents to
Forge a winning season
A flair for humor
Wry observation,
Encouragement, fortitude
And intelligence were as
Valuable as speed,
Agility and strength
We all pined for the
Affection of cheerleaders,
Bandmembers and the
Adoration of fans
We equally joined
In the chorus of
locker room banter
And honored the
Confidence of camaraderie
Such intimacy bares
We endured thankless
Adversity, while wending
through anonymous toil
As brothers
We grudgingly drank
From the vile cup of defeat
And passed the chalice
Of victory among us
To share the savory
Taste of triumph
As champions
The Duke of Wellington
Said “the battle of Waterloo
Was won on the fields of Eton”
I trust my teammates and
Not forgotten friends
Tasted sweet victories of
Happiness and success
As they coursed through
Their prodigious fields of life
And at games end
I hope their heart swelled
With pride to know they were
A beloved and Valiant Bulldog
David Irving Korsh #75
BCSL Champion 1973
Rutherford Bulldogs
Well done Valiant Bulldog
God bless and Godspeed
Music Selection:
Bruce Springsteen
Thunder Road
5/5/18
Puyallup
jbm
Aug 2, 2018
Aug 2, 2018 at 2:58 PM UTC
August 10th, you seemed so distant
Not quite as distant as the barrel of one gun
The gun that fired the shot that would stun
The scientific world, from Rutherford to Niels Bohr
To find out esteemed fellow scientist Moseley was no more
But before that, in 1913
X-ray spectra was naught more than a dream
Before diffraction through crystals became the truth
The wavelengths needed a meaning, and there was proof
You developed a mathematical system without flaw
One so great, it was named "Moseley's law"
Mendeleev had the right idea, but not a plan
Could not arrange the elements the way that you now can
Without you, my sir, we would not have had this premium
To enjoy the elements technetium, hafnium, promethium, and rhenium
These gaps that like stars littered the periodic table
Were filled with ease, and the cosmos became stable
You had set the foundation for crystallography of x-rays
A method of determining arrangement that is still used in modern days
The first machines in use were those for which you had the design
But their widespread use you could not see as there simply was no time
For during a battle, as you made the phone set run
A bullet took your grace away, a scientist dying young
Oct 17, 2012
Oct 17, 2012 at 4:21 PM UTC
We are Manchester. The City, The place, we’re hospitable people with a smile on our face. You can beat us, mistreat us, and blow us to hell. We have had it all before and we don’t dwell. We’re the northern powerhouse of the northwestern elite, Where the Geordie's, The Scousers, The Yorkshire’s retreat. The premier League, The Roses Cricket, The Heineken Cup Is a one way ticket. United and City two football teams with stadiums full, bursting at the seams.
We are Mancunians Of this fair City, The People, The Love, The old nitty gritty The worker, The Shirker, The Homeless, The immigrants, each one of these they are all itinerants. The Steel, The Cotton, long since forgotten the old smokey chimneys blew out smoke that was rotten. The Massacre at Peterloo. Local politicians just don’t have a clue. With all the sights this city has on show here’s something that people don’t really know. Manchester is where New Zealand Born Ernest Rutherford split the Atom.
We Are Manchester, The City, the Place, where Sir Humphrey Chetham has his musical grace a school of music with musical taste. And where a man with a paintbrush painted streets on boxes. I don’t think Lowry ever painted foxes. And A comedian from Collyhurst who was absolutely awesome, a real funny guy by the name of Les Dawson, and where a man from Chorlton on Medlock became Prime Minister back in the day. David Lloyd-George had a hell of a lot to say.
We Are Manchester and it's the place for me. And a proud Mancunian I’m glad to be. I’ll sit in a cafe watching people pass by. They are all in a hurry and I wonder why. I see a business man in a three piece suit, and the homeless guy that is counting his loot. There's the girl on the street giving out free papers she is smoking those ciggies that give off those vapours. It's pouring with rain and she’s getting wet she’s worried about money to pay off her debt.
We Are Manchester and this is our City don’t waste your time we don’t want no pity. We are Manchester we are steeped in tradition we leave other cities standing. There’s no competition. Where A man from Moss Side a Vicar not a Dean called Rev George Garrett invented the submarine. And where the great Anthony Wilson was a journalist & impresario and a man named John Nichols invented the great drink called Vimto. and so When he wrote “This Is the Place” I’m sure he did so with a smile on his face. We Are Manchester and I’ll state our case because we are Manchester and we are ace.
Mar 30, 2018
Mar 30, 2018 at 9:45 PM UTC
i remember that day in the afternoon sun
the garter snake passed lazily through the tall yellow-headed sourgrass
or maybe time was edging toward stillness
as it so often does in mental replays
there was cold, clear water in a tall, clean glass
that sat still at the end of your fingers
the sunlight hit the sides and it came through the water tilted
at the same angle as your head as you smiled
i saw the condensation on your hand
and wondered if it would feel cool against my skin
or if all I'd feel was the warmth of you
i could feel the glaciers melting
drop by drop by drop
and a warm, soft wind
covered up everything
on the day your love came screaming through me
you had oranges and lemons in a canvas bag beside you
different hues of summer in that pouch you brought along
there were seven different kinds of light welling up inside of you
you smeared citrus pulp all over me, in laughter like song
gone too quickly to tell you I longed for you to stay
gone to good old east rutherford three thousand miles away
i felt the warm surge blast my mind
coming in from behind
on the day your love came screaming through me
in the fresh light of day
i felt something falling away
on the day your love came screaming through me
*i remember that day
time was edging toward stillness
as it so often does in replays*
Dec 15, 2014
Dec 15, 2014 at 10:14 PM UTC
coffee house is a place where you doubtlessly see all the people being swept away in an invisible connection you can not see--sometimes, there are also some people who get caught in discussion and stuck by diffusion. the coffee that you drink often converts you its energy to analize your life's difficult problematics.
coffee house is a place where you will genuinely feel sane if you see some people reading their own scripts or feel well-earned if you witness the self-interested people--where they hear their own tunes just for themselves, where they do not want to give you the same opportunity for joining them in thrilling your cochlear, even through the air filled with whiff of vapour. vapour which doesn't comprise the fumes of nicotine, but there is just a little amount of caffeine in its womb. however, vapour is vapour. it has its ability to serve you an effect to crave which oftenly makes yourself lose its excuse to refuse.
coffee house, is a place for the people who are looking for identities. coffee house is made for the people who keep analizing the layer by layer of their lives, for the ones who keep hunting the nucleus of your providence's atom, for the people who keep ripping apart their particles. not dalton, neither rutherford, nor thomson, not even bohr, as the ones who might be able to serve you a soup of theory which if you eat it, you might be enlightened and your life might suddenly be well explained. the chaos of your life can not simply be explained that way.
coffee house is a place where you will find the lonely people whose lives will always be tossed around, the people who keep glorifying the fumes of caffeine that can hit you back to the point where you can be boiled by new hopes. and it remains that way all the time.
coffee house is a place for them who are hurt and diseased, but feel like hospitals are not the right house to canalize their moans. precisely, they will find their house here.
in a coffee house, you will learn to be yourself, and you will never find the lesson at all schools.
in a coffee house, you learn how to admit your predestination as the Audience of Lives.
coffee house is a place where you will always find your own cinema seat.
Stefan Sagala,
February 4th 2017.
Jun 26, 2017
Jun 26, 2017 at 1:35 AM UTC
Paramus? I bought a desk in Paramus. Don’t remember what it looked like.
There were ***** men outside the store. Or maybe they were Mexican?
They played a Skiffle beat as I haggled for that couch I was getting.
“When I’m dead and in my grave. No more good times will I crave.
When I die they’ll burry me deep. Way down on old Chelsea Street.”
Title was “Freight Train”.Think that one was by Nancy Whiskey You said Rutherford you’re from or Roebling?Ya, that Lonnie Donegan could sure make a song The song those Mic’s in front of the store I got the hutch at in Oradell was called “Face in the Rain”, went, “When I’m dead and in my grave. No more good times will I crave. When I die they’ll burry me deep. Way down on old Chelsea Street.” Wait what were we saying bout’ Paramus?
I mean Patterson.
Dec 23, 2009
Dec 23, 2009 at 8:17 AM UTC
A bird at port authority
has no wings
he just sits there
whimpering
because he has no wings
He can not fly
so he hops
for his food
and he dances a soft shoe
for his tips
A disabled american
picks him up
I will be your wings
says the vet
but, we can not fly
He hides the bird
in his coat
as he pays the fare
to go through the tunnel
into jersey
In ridgewood, rutherford,
passaic, and paterson
and other train/bus stations
the bird dances for vets of one nation
but, only one vet gets drunk on that
Oct 24, 2014
Oct 24, 2014 at 2:21 PM UTC
Poor Willie Williams
Waiting for the train
Traffic Cops stole his money
It's a sad story; it's not funny
Poor Doctor Williams
Awake in Lincoln Park
Arrested for his scribblings
"We don't like your kind" they bark
Carlos won't you come back
Give this old town a haunt
They crapped on paradise again
Your town is full of greed and sin
Apr 28, 2016
Apr 28, 2016 at 10:02 AM UTC
There is a girl on Central Park South
Near Mantle's
I call her Satan
She can fly to the west coast
in about twenty minutes
It makes your stomach turn
She's some kind of a demon
or a government project
It's been usurping me since 1973
And I get so tired of it
If it was human
Then, how does it turn into a pinball
How does it break my window
Then, put it back
And why can't I remember her name
Lot's of people know her
She takes care of animals
She shows them she cares
She turns into that steel ball
And puts me into air
Like at the Predators game
Against Tampa at Orlando in '02
or Rutherford Day in '04
Wish this government project would leave me alone
Wish this devils' daughter would just stay home
I showed her to all my "friends"
But, they can't see her
She is real though
They have felt her hand
She pays my friends to make disguises
Then climbs in them
My friends come back from the dead
She taunts me that way
Then destroys me again
Anybody know her?
Dec 22, 2015
Dec 22, 2015 at 9:48 AM UTC