"seeger" poems
Written by Arlo Guthrie and Pete Seeger; adapted by Mike Essig.
Halfway around the world tonight
In a strange and foreign land
A soldier packs his memories
As he leaves Afghanistan
And back home, they don't know too much
There was just no way to tell
You know you had to be there
To know that war was hell
And there won't be any victory parades
For those that's coming back
They'll fly them in at midnight
And unload the body sacks
And the living will be walking down
A long and lonely road
Because nobody seems to care these days
When a soldier makes it home
Somewhere in America tonight
In this strange and foreign land
A soldier unpacks memories
That he saved from Vietnam
They said it wasn't easy
Just another job, well done
*Then the government in Saigon fell
To the sounds of rebel guns*
And the faces of the comrades
Who were blown out of the sky
Leaves you bitter and disgusted
That they didn't have to die
*The old men who planned that war
You know they all died safe in bed
With none of their rich and privileged sons
Ending up torn or dead*
Back home they didn't know too much
There was just no way to tell
You know you had to be there
to know that war was hell
And there wasn't any big parades
For those that made it back
They flew them home in secret
and told them to make tracks
And the living were left walking down
A long and lonely road
Because nobody seemed to care back then
When a soldier made it home
The night is coming quickly
And the stars are on their way
As I stare into the evening
Looking for the words to say
That I saw the lonely soldier
Just a boy that's far from home
And I saw that I was just like him
While upon this earth I roam
And there may not be any big parades
If I ever make it back
As I come home under cover
To a world that can't keep track
Of the heroes who have fallen
Let alone the ones who roam
Guess that's why nobody seems to care
When a soldier makes it home
Aug 11, 2015
Aug 11, 2015 at 6:18 AM UTC
On the banks
of the
Delaware
where
memories
of Valley
Forge's
dire winter
encampments
still linger
where sons
and daughters
of liberty
shook off
a mid-winter
rigor mortis
risking the
slow death
of complacency
to seize
the prized
celestial
article of
freedom
America's
Labor
Movement
amassed
in the
streets of
Trenton
a vigilant
battalion of
General
Washington's
invading
brigands
speaking
in tongues
of radical
insistence
armed with
the might
of truth
demanding
respect and
equitable
treatment
from the
lordships
of state
doing the
bidding of
527 llc's
Unionists
stand
firmly
on the
shoulders,
walking
in the
tracks
rowing
the boats
of militant
forebears
pledging to
fight on
in a battle
that never ends
to
liberate
the
******
river
of justice
hijacked
by the
privilege
of plenty
diverted
into
culverts
of greed
a
gluttonous
few
siphoning
off
the spoils
of liberty
engorging
themselves
leaving
workers
wanting
democracies
require
the cup
of liberty
to be
shared by
all
The Spirit
of
General
Washington
has
mustered
new
legions
to turn
back the
entitlistas
the
pelting
rain of
lies, the
flinging
arrows of
ridicule
will not
deter
the workers
trooping
for
justice
the
fight
to roll
back
the ugly
tide of
greed
coursing
through
the veins
of America
despoiling
the blood
of our
democracy
is on
the
explosive
dynamite
of struggle
will blast
the dam
of inequity
to bits
unleashing
the river
of justice
to roll
again
Music Selection:
Pete Seeger:
Solidarity Forever
Trenton
2/25/11
jbm
Apr 12, 2013
Apr 12, 2013 at 8:08 PM UTC
sinner to sanctification
reason over revulsion
reaction begets agitation
converting intransigence
drowning in sin
flailing for a life raft
Music: Pete Seeger
John Brown's Body
jbm
Oakland
010913
Jun 18, 2013
Jun 18, 2013 at 10:33 AM UTC
I saw the ghost of Jack Kerouac
Walking an empty highway at night
I walked with the ghost of Carl Sandburg
In the ancient streets of Charleston
I sang with the ghost of Woody Guthrie
Along Rocky Mountain trials, through Yellowstone
I played music with the ghost of Pete Seeger
On my guitar, around a campfire
I read the words of my poems with the ghost of Allen Ginsberg
Quietly, in the dark, alone in an empty room
Aug 13, 2015
Aug 13, 2015 at 3:05 PM UTC
Lisas and Cheryls in halter tops walk the
Halls of Stoughton High full
Throttle, coiffed fleece fiercely feathered,
Tonys and Tims trawling in tow, toting
Texts.
Tims and Tonys slip
Slyly away, skip shop, talk
**** **** a doob behind
Bob’s Baitshop’s garbage dunes, tunes of
Geils and Seeger and Stones, applaud
Lisas and Cheryls, laud deserving
Donnas and Dianes (but dude, don’t
Let on!)
See,
A solitary Tony takes to one shapely
Cheryl’s sultry swagger, staggers, blathers
His rathers, turning her hair’s fair feathers
A-flair, she helping his hand higher up her hip, her
Cup, her concupiscent luscious lower lemon-lacquered lip, he agog, a *****
Dog with a bone. And a libidinous loner
Lisa prefers a particular turgid Tim, digs
His Doors tee tucked
In to tight tan cords, affords
Herself a longer linger as his fingers
Dangle, thick thumbs hooked in belt. Looked at,
Felt, ***** his hip, flips a nod, draws a
Sneer, paws her rear, she his
Haunch, he steady and
Staunch, Steady and
Staunch
Not gonna
Launch
Steady
gawdamnsunuvabitch!
Thaws the sneer
Right there.
High gears it outta here.
Jan 27, 2015
Jan 27, 2015 at 5:44 PM UTC
It’s the sound of peeling wallpaper,
Damp seeping in from the frost bitten windows.
Daytime traffic on Christmas eve,
And misted breath between pages of Pound,
Eliot and Rimbaud.
It’s the sound of mouldy drapes,
Clutched to the rail that clings to the rust.
The hiss and crackle of today,
And the wave of the colonial - of Guthrie,
Williams and Seeger.
It’s the sound of a Tangier typewriter,
Clacking to the chimes of a generation.
The scrawl of freedom
And the echoes of our fathers – of Kerouac,
Ginsberg and Burroughs.
It’s the sound of the swamp,
A hoodoo beat winding through the ruins.
From bayous to boroughs,
Following the march of Washington,
Franklin and Jefferson.
It’s the anthem of a teenage disease,
The force of the Devil’s crossroads.
The returning of a light, obscured
In the ruins of time.
It’s the song of the tambourine,
And the lasting footsteps of a song and dance man.
Feb 28, 2014
Feb 28, 2014 at 5:54 PM UTC
He sang the people's songs
and faught the people's causes.
Others heard and blacked his name.
That was for him no badge of shame.
A five string banjo man,
folk singer, left winger,
he sang brave words in trying times,
striving to strengthen basic rights.
Pete Seeger died aged ninety-four
and left a heritage for man.
Asking us to Turn! Turn! Turn!
Urging us to overcome.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
Gliding across the hardwood
with band-aids on both ankles,
bare feet collect summer sand and cigarette ash,
a season gone with declining health.
Sliding into frame with street worn soles,
cracked leather and cobbled heels.
Your height is a deception,
your heart, harder to read.
Burrowed in blankets,
the unbearable bleakness,
frost slowly creeps across the window
only to recede when the sun decides to shine.
All the young Allenites with their surrogate Keatons
clog the streets this time of year,
smoking pipes without a hint of irony,
but making me jealous all the same.
The eternal longing
blooming, while the trees
slowly shed their sullen bounty,
a harvest now past due.
A brief marvel at the array
a muted, warm spectrum;
people always ignore the leaves
once they’ve fallen.
They’ve gone,
sentenced to black trash bags
and the joyful stomps of those little nightmares
called children, who won’t let me sleep past ten.
Pale light and a quick breeze,
swept up by the indifferently romantic,
the urge to call home
to a love more tangible.
Oct 1, 2010
Oct 1, 2010 at 5:29 PM UTC
The dollar will teach custom promoters and wireless handsfree. It is the theme of life: the first in the world of women who change climate change. Have a good interview. My life is the rights and reforms, religion and people, Hamilton. People Now is a sign. My program to work? This is not true for the Council. Money, money, drink, drink, drink. I want a new life in a group. Weddings, Weddings, Weddings, Weddings, Weddings, Weddings, Weddings | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | Mother and wife go to Europe, gold, water, yellow, silicon, amino-amino. Power in the Jordan, Jordan, Asia, Iran and power. Weather in Russia. Robert's reflects the beauty of London. Nigeria has decided to complete the new leadership in Nigeria. My son, great and great, mother and dream of my dreams. Immediately, you will receive an email and return to your room. Peter, Peter and the two with without the release, Tiger Seeger Hill. And in the opposite case. Is this illegal? || | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | | Light of the bright lighting of the ground floor-a wall-bearing wall that gives birth to a full-fledged gun that gives the bride the most reliable and reliable wife in the middle in the north. The keys: the brooms **** the dead killed without exit but the specified out took a bit of venison the grass cream lost the lost lost idea of a new man who spoke to the head of the head of Queen Andes. Lu hair combing yarn Samsung broom bite in the hands of the colors of the illuminated light shiny paradise full painting burning farther tidy family Satanic ugly money witch plastic century an earthly base city children eating ***** insurance police gypsy in Sodom's fire religion taking lead ****** rehabilitation relocates The north-east scenery of the winter dance that is in the background of girls' feelings feels the new head of the world that has been fulfilled in the fact that the artists who have the highest degree of degradation skills at first Big wind in the wind blows furry live hold bar talk smart to green is a favorite one you like that angry demon with kisses.
Nov 8, 2018
Nov 8, 2018 at 8:01 PM UTC
When you write a poem
What do you tell them?
Are you honest with them?
Do you tell them that you believe in God
That, though you are not Catholic, you believe in holy saints in plain clothes
Saints that don't know they are saints
No one can tell until they speak holy words of compassion
Do you tell them you think there is a bigger plan?
A greater purpose outside of passing off genetic material to another generation
Would they ask you what it means to you when someone says born again?
Would you tell them that you feel born again most Sundays but let yourself slip back into comfortable death the next morning?
Do you tell them about your job?
(Do they care?)
Do you tell them about your dreams?
(Do they listen to that either?)
Do you tell them that lately your dreams have been faint and you are afraid that one day you are going to wake up and not recognize the pieces that are left on the floor?
Do you tell them when you are down and out?
That you prefer using the term "melancholy"
Because it sounds a lot more artistic than "like ****
Do you tell them that you think you sometimes swear a little too much?
That it makes you seem unapproachable
Do you tell them about your struggle to decide whether or not you want to make yourself approachable for love?
Do you tell them that maybe you saying "I don't have the energy to invest in a relationship" also means "I don't have the energy to invest in a heartbreak"
Do you tell them you have never been that great at love and you are afraid you missed every chance you had
Do you tell them you would rather dig the world
(As your heroes say)
Do you ask them if you talk about your heroes too much?
Do you tell them about the tears shed for Johnny Cash that night after you finished his memoir?
Do you tell them where you where when you heard the news of Pete Seeger's death and wished you would have learned it later?
Do you tell them about all the times you look in the mirror and tell yourself "Joe Strummer lived with such power that his heart gave out, how dare you be so apathetic, with such self pity"
Do you tell them that you love them?
Even if you don't know them that well and don't understand exactly what they are going through
That deep deep down you do secretly understand
What should you tell them when you write your poems?
You should tell them that
Apr 13, 2016
Apr 13, 2016 at 11:03 PM UTC
I take deep breaths inches away from the pillow
I take deep breaths to center myself
I am here
I am now
But have I forgotten who I am?
Am I the boy who went to New York on a weekend trip and visited MacDougal street and Washington Square park and didn't see a single folk singer?
Who ate a date cookie in Chinatown and a cannoli and little Italy because it felt right and good at the time
Am I the Woody Guthrie Pete Seeger wannabe who asked the audience to sing along to a song they didn't know and no one sang but you didn't care because the words were yours yet you didn't write them?
Who freshman year read On The Road and Howl and told himself he would be a poet and saw beauty in the world and thought about all the people with beating hearts
Who sophomore year got his heart smashed against the pavement but decided not to blame himself for convenience sake and is still reeling from his poor choices
Who took a trip with friends to the Ohio river and held rocks in his pocket because he was prepared to fight his way out if he had to
who fed his own delusion that he would ever fight his way out
who lied to himself that he had the spine to fight
Am I the one who read Siddhartha and vowed to be better and looked toward a golden and eternal time where the words would be simple
Who cried at Ginsberg who cried at Wolfe and who cried at the Bible because he knew what things were holy
Who drank tea to center himself who ran to keep himself in shape who had a good time because the world was full of love
Or am I nothing more than what I am now
Breathing inches away from my pillow
Breathing to center myself
So I can be here
So I can be now
Dec 8, 2016
Dec 8, 2016 at 12:42 AM UTC