Tag Archives: poetry

121. Poetry: Series: Harlem On My Mind: 2: Take The A Train

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Part 2 of a series. original poetry It was 1966 and I was a college student in New York City, at the City College Of New York, in Harlem. ! was dependent on public transit. And on my parents.  I was about to grow up.       Take The  A Train ©3/23/02srk all rights reserved 1966 My dad left me on the platform of the A train on my first day of classes.  My mother told him, “Jack, take her.”  The truth was I had never traveled on the train myself. It was early in the morning when the … Continue reading →

110: Poetry: Series: Harlem On My Mind: 1. Skin

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Harlem Parade: Adam Clayton Powell, Jr. Passing in a Car Joseph Delaney, 1971   Collection of The Museum of the City of New York This 1964 Harlem parade honored U.S. Congressman Adam Clayton Powell, Jr., who later served as chairman of the House Committee on Education and Labor under President Lyndon Johnson. Delaney expressed how the Harlem community felt about Powell by scrawling “Baby, I love you” across the upper left area of the canvas. Memories linked to the black community of Harlem in the 1960’s when I was a college student at the City College of New York. Sometimes … Continue reading →

99. Poetry: The Lake

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Ainsi, toujours poussés vers de nouveaux rivages, Dans la nuit eternelle emporté sans retour… ~from Le Lac, by Lamartine     photograph: Roger Williams Park, Providence Rhode Island 11/23/07   The inspiration: Oakland Lake on April 3, 2002 The Lake ©srk 4/02 The day before this day of bright sun, the water was the broken glass of a Perrier bottle; a sullen, yet rich green, refractive along the edges, heavy from the co-mingling of clouds above. Now it leans to blue then gray like the eyes of a flirtatious fickle female. On the promenade, a goose approaches, his broad breast … Continue reading →

234. Poetry: Series: Couples: 3. Shake Shack, NYC

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Asian Couple at The Shake Shack, Madison Square Park, New York City on a Sunday in August 2006 **** photo/art Sans Souci The line for the burgers, fries, shakes and cones was like a snake, winding and twisting around people, trash cans, and little running children.   It thickened and thinned as people stood in twos, threes and fours grinding their feet in the dusty path in anticipation of the “Best Burgers” in New   York City. It was a Sunday, and unlike during the week, the businessmen in suits were home watching the game, and running shoes were de rigueur. … Continue reading →

11. Poetry: 1959

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A retreat back to the late ’50’s where life was simple and safe. original post 4/20/07 I wrote a large collection of poetry after 9/11 while on a teaching sabbatical. This is one of them. When the world gets to be a little too much, I retreat to happy, innocent years. Enjoy the music; it is not all from 1959, but thereabout. I should write a poem about Richard Panik; in 6th grade he was the first boy I ever danced with. The song was Richie Valens’ “Oh Donna.”  The place was the school gym.  I was giddy.  It was … Continue reading →

9. Poetry: Needles

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The author’s grandparents Sophie and Sam Wasserman  original post 4/19/07 My dear Blogland denizens: Yesterday’s topic reminded me of my grandma Sophie who was born in Kiev, Russia, in 1893. In those days the borders changed every other week, so you could say she was born in Romania. The week that Kiev was in Romania. This poem is dedicated to her. She was not educated: the Tsar forbade girls from getting an education, probably because they were indentured to sew for the royals. Grandpa Sam (Wasserman b.1888 d.1949) sent for her and they married, and raised 4 girls in a … Continue reading →

8. Poetry: Tina, Tina, Proud and Free

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I worked in a school located in a city housing project for 17 of the years I worked for the Board of Education in New York City. During this time I evaluated children for special education programs and interviewed parents to update social histories. I was privy to the most personal information; disturbing information from people who were suffering and in need. I was a vessel into which people dumped their pain. All I could do with what was given to me was write about it. When a parent of six children came in one day in a panic after … Continue reading →

7. Poetry: The Horrible End of Roseann Quinn

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original post 4/16/07 This morning Roseann Quinn popped into my head, another friend I failed to mention on my list of losses. Maybe it’s because the weather has been so lousy, raining in torrents. Or maybe the sky is still crying for Rosie. I do. Her sensational murder in 1973 led the way to Judith Rossner’s book, “Looking For Mr. Goodbar.” A movie followed after. I just remember Rosie’s laugh and humor, her post-polio limp, and her great sense of fun. Rest in Peace, sweet girl.     For Roseann Quinn ©2002 by the author, all rights reserved I can … Continue reading →

5. Poetry: Birthing at Bocuse

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My panic attack in a 5-star restaurant in Lyons.original post 4/13/07 ART&Poetry by author Before our son was born, and because we were teachers and had the time, my husband and I traveled extensively through Europe. Nine summers. I could say, “filler-up” in French,Portuguese, Italian, German, Spanish; but don’t ask me to now. That part of my brain has become a gray viscous puddle.As much as I enjoyed my travels through France, I was always under stress. I studied French for eight years, read the classics, blah, blah, or as Seinfeld would say, “yadda, yadda, yadda,” I would drag old … Continue reading →

2. Poetry: Dim Sum Paradise: Soul Food

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In Flushing, Queens, where reality transcends  time and place.  It is Asia. Easily. How could I ever leave New York? art and poetry©by the author, all rights reserved original entry: 3/28/07 Walk into the Kam-Sen Supermarket and you are in China.  People even use Chinese currency. There is a sea of scaly glistening fresh fish, hot sizzling delicacies, lacquered ducks hang in the window.  Every Asian sauce imaginable is in one of the maybe 10 aisles, every tea, soup, bags of little dried silver fish and shrimp, dessicated chestnuts, frozen confections with ridiculous translated names.  Happy Mouth. You Taste.  Rice … Continue reading →

143 b. Addendum to Harlem on My Mind: decoding poetry, by the author

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I have decided that an author should speak: A reader is never really cognizant of what is going on in the writer’s mind when a poem is written. I think it would be interesting for us writers to give some extra meaning to our work; the poem then expands and the insight becomes a lesson. If you are an author, please think about augmenting your work with a little background for Poetry Wednesdays. Here’s mine. I wrote this series about a time when I was barely out of my teens, just out of High School, and attending the City University … Continue reading →

146 b. How and why: The story behind the vintage ice cream wagon charm: Why I write in silver

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Memories translate to words and charms.           And here is why. See the little ice cream cart? I’ll take you on a journey to 1959.   8 CommentsChronological Reverse Threaded reply aladybug wrote on Jan 27, ’08, edited on Jan 27, ’08 I don’t see the ice cream cart… I see pans, one open, one closed, then something else I can’t identify, then a woman in an exercise machine (perhaps just my perception?), then a round object, a hot dog, and then… something else I can’t identify either… Am I crazy? reply aladybug wrote on Jan … Continue reading →

Poetry: Couples 5: The Hangman and the Empress

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5. The Hangman and the Empress His father told him, “Christ, remember your faith.” But he doesn’t remember what faith is, so he turns inward, like clockwork, again and again his mind a captive of his fears, trying to figure it out. He looks up, he knows what he has to do, he’s done it many times before and the clock has brought him to that place again;   He artfully climbs the cross, it’s easy! and suspends himself upside down and anchors one foot with rope. Don’t ask how.  He knows. He needs to think, this is his way, … Continue reading →

260. Poetry: Series: Couples 6. Ötzi, the Iceman and Erika Simon

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6. Ötzi, the Iceman and Erika Simon, the German hiker, at their reunion in the Otzal Alps, September 19, 1991     Ötzi made the news when he was found buried in ice; it was thought he was a modern day hiker who had been buried under an avalanche. He was actually an ancient traveler. ***** ©10/13/06 all rights reserved She was the one who found me, not her husband, Helmut. They were hiking on my mountain; I had been lying face-down in a ravine for 3,000 years under glacier and when I heard her voice my heart, a block … Continue reading →

263. Poetry: Series: Couples: 7. Veils

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This poem was written after the wedding I attended on 6/29/08 Veils 7/1/08 first draft His wife died in March; by July he was dating. Marion gave birth to two girls, now women, who, with Richard, watched her disappear, fade, then leave in three years time. When they got the diagnosis, they had the “weekend of tears,” endless crying. The mourning began before she left. She had Multiple Sclerosis then cancer, then cancer again. She bravely made solo pilgrimages in search of a cure. He took her to Europe to the places she always wanted to see. He called her, … Continue reading →

Poem/Prayer and Max Bruch: Kol Nidrei for Yom Kippur

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I took this beautiful prayer/poem from my sister, Laurita’s page; she lovingly posted it, in dedication to me. It is in the Hebrew prayer book for Yom Kippur services. The holiest day of the year for Jewish people is this day, The Day of Atonement, which began Friday evening at sundown and ended this evening at sundown. Birth is a beginning, And death a destination. And life is a journey, From childhood to maturity, And youth to age. From innocence to awareness, And ignorance to knowing, From foolishness to descretion, And then, perhaps, to wisdom, From weakness to strength, Or … Continue reading →

Poetry: A Poem For My Sister

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Sans Souci and little sister, Laurita about a year or two before our evening winter journey on East 14th Street. (left) Sans Souci pointing to toys in the window of Murray’s. That’s the name that popped into my head. It was on 1st Avenue and about 16th Street in Manhattan in the development called Stuyvesant Town where Laurita and I grew up. (Right) A Sunday walk from Stuyvesant Town to the United Nations, over 2 miles. Mom, as usual, was in her heels. I was about 12 and Laurita, 6. Early 60’s.~The Sans Souci archives. Photos by dad, Jack Margulies … Continue reading →