"stickball" poems
Keen little neons
playfully jump around, colliding with her mind
and she sits there, legs crossed, her ***** aroused,
but it gets doused as the Wall Street pinstripe type walks by
she utters a sigh, looks at the sky, the ending's nigh, and it's night.
Skyline looks pretty
beams and lighted apartment block kitchens and real pop-up ads,
them keen little neons,
her eyes flicker like those hanging lights in horror films,
perpetuate fear, the skeletons are in the clear.
I told you, you schmuck, the end is near.
May 30, 2015
May 30, 2015 at 3:28 AM UTC
.... ( & , of course -- Harry )
|~|
True Poetry comes alive today as the meadows melt
And the naked women dance and play
Amid the hydrangeas and bougainvillea
Turning into layered depths of chrysanthemums
And pain !
And memories of your soft alabaster moonlight
Skimming across fractured feelings once thought aloud
But now lost in the silence of preternatural abandonment
Amid gooseberries !
/./
She makes love before 1000 tiny eyes !
The children wave their penises and razor blades
Unto the starless starry sky amid the sunrise solitude
Of vast city streets of depth defying words
Twisting about in the wind
That never shall be ours again !!!
//
My love !
//
I remember something about you now and then
Oh yes !
How I hate you for something ( I can't remember )
But hate is necessary for there to be love
//
The night departs and Mars marries Venus
On the D-train
::
The twisted oaks of youth play stickball
Still
( in Brooklyn )
and alas
I go Home
for
at last
My poem's done !
And only the scent of
Chrysanthemums
Remain
//
Jun 3, 2015
Jun 3, 2015 at 4:30 PM UTC
First up, first out
Adventure.
Life in the street
Awareness.
Running in new Keds
Activity.
Today marbles and stickball
Organizer.
Here's how we will do it
Leadership.
Back for breakfast. Gulp.
Out to achieve.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 4:39 PM UTC
The street named after the Spaniard who discovered the Pacific
The drive named after the Spaniard who conquered Mexico
The lane named after the Spaniard who blessed the Americas’ first Thanksgiving
Yielded enough rubber bands from newspapers
To twine a ball
Round enough
Bouncy enough
For a good game of stickball
Until the kid tasked
With finding rubber bands
From the circle named after the Spaniard who painted pictures
An oddball among all those adventurers
And a cluster of dwellings that didn’t subscribe
To rolls of paper
Hit it into the backyard with the dog on a chain
But fear kept us on a chain
As we stood over the rock wall
Looking for a manila spot
On unwatered St. Augustine
And spotting it
Disdaining it for
The angry barks
Bared teeth of the restrained beast
Letting it wait
For an archeologist centuries hence
(Maybe even a few decades from then)
To find it and marvel
“Even back then humans played games -- or so we assume --
With round objects.”
Sep 20, 2012
Sep 20, 2012 at 3:47 PM UTC
Jibber jabber gobbledee-goo
tittle tattle engenues
verbosely nosey Velcro verbs
sibilant smacks or lips a purse
wealthy whacks stickball whips
no tweet or talk but mailbox spit
gnawing down our chews of cud
converse with street rubber tongues
pinky-swore on Bazooka gum
summer wonder learning none
we Schwin & Huffy bike the day
child hood friends what else to say?
especially at that age...
Teeny tiny laughter dust
we race like Del Mar champion studs
no babble trouble wordy sting
our Super 8 remembering
"look no handle bars!"
our arms for wings
young ole boys California Kings...
Feb 19, 2016
Feb 19, 2016 at 10:13 PM UTC
( /// • |
<> )
(
/ ( • ) ( • ) \ )
(
^^^. )
(
)
(
\/
/\
/ \
^^^^^
To be sure -------
The simple symbols
Tell the One Story
oh so clear
••
We are the Stuff
of Legends!
//.//
We wallow so pathetically
In the Mundane
•
(((? Note // This is the moment for a timely
Musical Interlude
But there is no Music in the World
anymore ! ?)))
•
•
On the porch stoop
We gather to play stickball in the street !
Me and Nat and Beryl
We show each other our baseball cards
///
All the little girls
Watch and giggle
Put down their pens for a moment to watch and giggle
///
But then the police come and someone is shot and the rest
of us run away
••
All on a lazy misty afternoon
///
We
The stuff of
Legends !
Corpses
In the dying world !
( me and Nat and Beryl )
••
All our symbols
Tell the One Story
///
The boys line up
To get their daily blow - job in the alley
The girls
Write their poetry
The policemen wander once holy streets
Sep 10, 2014
Sep 10, 2014 at 2:08 PM UTC