Urban Poetry with Maya Angelou

You may write me down in history
With your bitter, twisted lies,
You may tread me in the very dirt
But still, like dust, I'll rise.

Does my sassiness upset you?
Why are you beset with gloom?
'Cause I walk like I've got oil wells
Pumping in my living room.

Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise.

Did you want to see me broken?
Bowed head and lowered eyes?
Shoulders falling down like teardrops.
Weakened by my soulful cries.

Does my haughtiness offend you?
Don't you take it awful hard
'Cause I laugh like I've got gold mines
Diggin' in my own back yard.

You may shoot me with your words,
You may cut me with your eyes,
You may kill me with your hatefulness,
But still, like air, I'll rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Does it come as a surprise
That I dance like I've got diamonds
At the meeting of my thighs?

Out of the huts of history's shame
I rise
Up from a past that's rooted in pain
I rise
I'm a black ocean, leaping and wide,
Welling and swelling I bear in the tide.
Leaving behind nights of terror and fear
I rise
Into a daybreak that's wondrously clear
I rise
Bringing the gifts that my ancestors gave,
I am the dream and the hope of the slave.
I rise
I rise
I rise.

Just not to go to work,
I get a check.

Urban poetry with Maya Angelou

Curtains forcing their will
against the wind,
children sleep,
exchanging dreams with
seraphim. Dreaming of
punching elderly Jews,
smiling.The city
drags itself awake on
subway straps; and
I, an alarm, awake as a
rumor of war, it's the man
time to go to work, no I
lie stretching into dawn,
unasked and unheeded.

A Poem by MamaM

Estrange it is
When weddings and divorce,
High honors and engagements,
Arrivals, deaths and other moving experiences,
Cannot be mentioned,
Much less noted or grieved
Shared or celebrated
In anything more than isolation.
Sequestered yet a part.

When body and blood
Cannot bridge an abyss
Such as this to eat,
Drink and commune,
Spirit is all that is left
To remember and believe
In gifts received,
And grace extended.

When outer entry doors
Are closed and barred
And shuttered windows
Block what light remains
Then memories kept inside
Glow in the dark alone
As death and Alzheimer’s
Grow pale in comparison.

When the distance
From all that is life
Becomes too great
For truth to flourish
And grace to grow
While we yet have choice
Where else is there
To go, but You?

ee cummings on Abe Vigoda

but mr can you maybe listen there's
me &
some people
and others please
don'tconfuse.Some
people

's future is toothsome like
(they got
pockets full may take a littl
e nibble now And then
bite)candy

others
fly,their;puLLing:bright
futures
against the deep sky in

May mine's tou
ching this crump
led cap mumble some
thing to oh no
body will
(can you give
a)listen to
who may

you

be
any
how?
down
to
smoking
found
Butts

The Tao of Poo

Filling all the way to the brim
Is not as good as halting in time.
Pounding an edge to sharpness
Will not make it last.
Pounding it hard
Will get you there.

Panda Sex with Charles Buk...err .... I'm Lion!

Earliest morning, switching all the tracks
that cross the sky from cinder star to star,
coupling the ends of streets
to trains of light.

now draw us into daylight in our beds;
and clear away what presses on the brain:
put out the neon shapes
that float and swell and glare

down the gray avenue between the eyes
in pinks and yellows, letters and twitching signs.
Hang-over moons, wane, wane!
From the window I see

an immense city, carefully revealed,
made delicate by over-workmanship,
detail upon detail,
cornice upon facade,

reaching up so languidly up into
a weak white sky, it seems to waver there.
(Where it has slowly grown
in skies of water-glass

from fused beads of iron and copper crystals,
the little chemical "garden" in a jar
trembles and stands again,
pale blue, blue-green, and brick.)

The sparrows hurriedly begin their play.
Then, in the West, "Boom!" and a cloud of smoke.
"Boom!" and the exploding ball
of blossom blooms again.

(And all the employees who work in a plants
where such a sound says "Danger," or once said "Death,"
turn in their sleep and feel
the short hairs bristling

on backs of necks.) The cloud of smoke moves off.
A shirt is taken of a threadlike clothes-line.
Along the street below
the water-wagon comes

throwing its hissing, snowy fan across
peelings and newspapers. The water dries
light-dry, dark-wet, the pattern
of the cool watermelon.

I hear the day-springs of the morning strike
from stony walls and halls and iron beds,
scattered or grouped cascades,
alarms for the expected:

queer cupids of all persons getting up,
whose evening meal they will prepare all day,
you will dine well
on his heart, on his, and his,

so send them about your business affectionately,
dragging in the streets their unique loves.
Scourge them with roses only,
be light as helium,

for always to one, or several, morning comes
whose head has fallen over the edge of his bed,
whose face is turned
so that the image of

the city grows down into his open eyes
inverted and distorted. No. I mean
distorted and revealed,
if he sees it at all.

He's not Ike

I'm like Nixon

I love the beach.

I'm like Nixon

I walk in wingtips.

I'm like Nixon

Because I like him.

He's not Ike

But what's not to like.

Who goes with Fergus?

Who will go drive with Fergus now, 
And pierce the deep wood's woven shade, 
And dance upon the level shore?
Young man, lift up your russet brow, 
And lift your tender eyelids, maid, 
And brood on hopes and fear no more. 

And no more turn aside and brood
Upon love's bitter mystery;
For Fergus rules the brazen cars, 
And rules the shadows of the wood, 
And the white breast of the dim sea
And all dishevelled wandering stars.

Tampons with ee cummings

red-rag and pink-flag
blackshirt and brown
strut-mince and stink-brag
have all come to town

some like it shot
and some like it hung
and some like it in the twot
nine months young

Our poet laureate!

ricpic said...

Black coffee and cigarettes,

Lonely rooms above the cement abyss:

Such was the dream of romantic youth,

Sealed by rights with a fatal kiss.

When a man cups his balls

When a man cups his balls
It's an act of prayer,
Like the comfort of walls --
Just knowing they're there.
(ricpic, July 20, 2011)

Oh Hell.

Oh Hell

Jane, with the good genes,
Aged well...
It's unfair, it's not right,
But truth to tell...
The lucky sperm club member
Wins at the start
And wins at the end...
Oh hell.

(ricpic, July 20,2011)

The Man in the Moon

The Yankees have had a traumatic four days.

Actually five days.

That terrible crash with Thurman Munson.

To go through all that agony,

And then today,

You and I along with the rest of the team

Flew to Canton for the services,

And the family...

Very upset.

You know, it might,

It might sound a little corny.

But we have the most beautiful full moon tonight.

And the crowd,

Enjoying whatever is going on right now.

They say it might sound corny,

But to me it's like some kind of a,

Like an omen.

Both the moon and Thurman Munson,

Both ascending up into heaven.

I just can't get it out of my mind.

I just saw the full moon,

And it just reminded me of Thurman Munson,

And that's it.

Pull a String a Puppet Moves

each man must realize
that it can all disappear very
quickly:
the cat, the woman, the job,
the front tire,
the bed, the walls, the
room; all our necessities
including love,
rest on foundations of sand -
and any given cause,
no matter how unrelated:
the death of a boy in Hong Kong
or a blizzard in Omaha ...
can serve as your undoing.
all your chinaware crashing to the
kitchen floor, your girl will enter
and you'll be standing, drunk,
in the center of it and she'll ask:
my god, what's the matter?
and you'll answer: I don't know,
I don't know ...

Goading the Muse

this man used to be an
interesting writer,
he was able to say brisk and
refreshing things.
at the time
I suggested to the editors and
the critics that he was one to
be watched
and also that he had hardly yet been
noticed
and that he certainly should now be
noticed.
this writer used some of my
remarks as blurbs for his
books, which I didn't
mind.
all of his publications were little
chapbooks, 16 to 32
pages,
mimeographed.
they came out at a
rapid rate,
perhaps three or four a
year.
the problem was that each
chapbook seemed a little weaker
than the one that preceded
it
but he continued to use my old
blurbs.
my wife noticed the change
in his writing
too.
'what's happened to his
writing?' she asked me.
'he's doing too much of it, he's
pushing it out, forcing it.'
'this stuff is bad, you ought to
tell him to stop using your
blurbs.'
'I can't do that, I just wish he
wouldn't publish so much.'
'well, you publish all the
time too.'
'with me,' I told her, 'it's
different.'

yesterday I received another of his
little chapbooks
with his delicate dedication scrawled
on the title page.
this latest effort was totally
flat.
the words just fell off the
page,
dead on
arrival.

where had he gone?

too much ambition?
too much just doing it for the sake
of doing it?
just not waiting for the words to
pile up inside and then
explode of their own
volition?

I decided then I should take a whole week
off,
be on the safe side,
just shut the computer down,
forget the whole damned silly
business
for awhile.

as I said, that was
yesterday.

Be Kind

we are always asked
to understand the other person's
viewpoint
no matter how
out-dated
foolish or
obnoxious.

one is asked
to view
their total error
their life-waste
with
kindliness,
especially if they are
aged.

but age is the total of
our doing.
they have aged
badly
because they have
lived
out of focus,
they have refused to
see.

not their fault?

whose fault?
mine?

I am asked to hide
my viewpoint
from them
for fear of their
fear.

age is no crime

but the shame
of a deliberately
wasted
life

among so many
deliberately
wasted
lives

is.

Are you Drinking?

washed-up, on shore, the old yellow notebook
out again
I write from the bed
as I did last
year.
will see the doctor,
Monday.
"yes, doctor, weak legs, vertigo, head-
aches and my back
hurts."
"are you drinking?" he will ask.
"are you getting your
exercise, your
vitamins?"
I think that I am just ill
with life, the same stale yet
fluctuating
factors.
even at the track
I watch the horses run by
and it seems
meaningless.
I leave early after buying tickets on the
remaining races.
"taking off?" asks the motel
clerk.
"yes, it's boring,"
I tell him.
"If you think it's boring
out there," he tells me, "you oughta be
back here."
so here I am
propped up against my pillows
again
just an old guy
just an old writer
with a yellow
notebook.
something is
walking across the
floor
toward
me.
oh, it's just
my cat
this
time.

A Radio with Guts

it was on the 2nd floor on Coronado Street
I used to get drunk
and throw the radio through the window
while it was playing, and, of course,
it would break the glass in the window
and the radio would sit there on the roof
still playing
and I'd tell my woman,
"Ah, what a marvelous radio!"
the next morning I'd take the window
off the hinges
and carry it down the street
to the glass man
who would put in another pane.
I kept throwing that radio through the window
each time I got drunk
and it would sit there on the roof
still playing-
a magic radio
a radio with guts,
and each morning I'd take the window
back to the glass man.
I don't remember how it ended exactly
though I do remember
we finally moved out.
there was a woman downstairs who worked in
the garden in her bathing suit,
she really dug with that trowel
and she put her behind up in the air
and I used to sit in the window
and watch the sun shine all over that thing
while the music played.

Poems of Trooper's Garden

In Brooklyn
You walk down the hot street
And when you get to the end of the hot street
There's another hot street to walk down.
Little do you know that hidden out of sight
Are backyards: hundreds and hundreds of
Hidden sunken sanctuaries of shade
Where hundreds of bare arms are
Raising the beautiful glass of guinea red aloft
And dreamily looking through the ruby globe
At the sun receiving walls of stucco and brick
and clapboard
That rise above their blissfully sunken havens
of shade
And knowing at that moment that
All Is Good.

ricpic, 2011

The Poetry of the great Phil "Scooter" Rizzuto

To Be Alone

Hey White

You know where your loyalties are?
Right here.

The old pinstripes.

No.

You never wore them

So you have a right to sing the blues.

May 12, 1987

New York at Chicago

Bill Long pitching to Dan Pasqua

Second inning, no outs, bases empty

White Sox lead 1-0