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Poems On / About CHICAGO  7/24/2014 5:59:33 PM
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Best Poems About / On CHICAGO
 
 
 
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  181.     

Evening, Just Before Twilight

Evening,
forty miles west of Chicago,
in a frozen field.
Snow spirits appear and disappear
as the North Wind howls
at the winter moon.
I light a cigar
and wish for a shot of tequila,
wish it were summer,
and I was pulling up
to the Baptist Mission in Texas
where my old man spoke the word
and the choir sang,
when I believed in tongues,
in heavenly utterances,
and the Holy Ghost was immense power
seething within,
and you the sacred vessel
I poured myself into.

My thoughts are of a time
when wind surfed the treetops
and apple blossoms swirled down
on an insouciant world and covered two beings
in its mystical cloak,
when I pressed you against earth
as it spun and traveled
around a star that moved
through space and time
to a point
that exalted you
and love
sacrificed self.

I wrap myself in a season
when I walked into the hullabaloo
of a day,
into the bell
of a lost Sunday,
when tulips were a lover's bed
and wild violets were a bouquet
arranged for you.
I remember a ruckus,
a riot
in my heart,
a hooligan love,
a rapture.

I recall
a time
as the North Wind howls
at the winter moon,
and the Big Dipper pours
twilight
into evening sky -

my thoughts are of you
as I follow the North Star home,
a thousand stars
lighting the way.
 
Esteban Arellano

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  182.     

Lady Goulds

Moving from Chicago to Missouri wasn't easy
but breeding Lady Goulds kept me sane
for many years- well, almost.

I was writing then to make a living.
All day I'd rearrange other people's words.
I needed Lady Goulds to look at

in the evening and most weekends.
Otherwise I might have married
some nice lady for the wrong reason.

Right now, a canary helps me dance
away the years or days or hours
I have to face before

I take on a cane or walker.
The canary calls the dawn with glee.
Lady Goulds, you see, don't sing.

They don't have to.
All they have to do is sit there
as if Mondrian painted them

or God lifted a pinkie on the 7th day.
The beauty of the Lady Gould,
some say, is the result of evolution.

There was no grand designer,
most scientists maintain.
The Lady Gould is one big accident

that happened eons ago.
I find it comforting to stare at them
and know otherwise.
 
Donal Mahoney

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  183.     

Fireflies and Summer Nights

At ten I caught fireflies
in the Chicago night
cupping them in my hands
giving them to you
where we watched them
twinkle away
above us
indistinguishable from the stars.

The next day you took me
to see the butterflies
land
to drink the Flower's Ambrosia-
their wings gently swaying.

My hamster got to know you on sight
and squealed when you snuck into my room;
you would feed him sunflower seeds;
he took them staring
lovingly at you.

That summer
on your grandparents farm
you showed me how to position a horseshoe
for each nail driven;
where each day we rode the fences
counting the cows
to be sure
no one was missing.

We were a little family then
boy and girl
mare and stallion
clopping along
by the little brook
coming back
each day
sitting supper.

One day your
grandfather whispered to me
'Did you kiss her yet? '
I stammered and didn't answer
and he said
'Well what are you waiting for?
I know my granddaughter
just like her grandmother
she'd like a little kiss.'

Down state Illinois had fireflies too
and I punched holes in the top of a peanut butter jar
with 25 fireflies inside
who illuminated that first kiss-
yours and mine;
when the jar lid came open
the fireflies flew
some landing in your hair
twinkling and blinking.

I took them out one by one
setting them free
my face close to your face
and I kissed you again
pressing close
an
Eternal Memory

Now
and
Then.
 
Lonnie Hicks

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  184.     

Yep, You Told Me

A plane crashed
Between Chicago and LA
It's all my fault
I didn't do the pre-check
I'm a bit shook-up

Oh Bea
You tried to warn me
You said, 'Young man,
This plane has got to crash
It don't have no pilot
It's running out of gas'
I said, 'Bea,
You just don't see
I'm flying this plane
And the gas will last'
But the engines started to putter
My mind began to flutter
As I held onto the wheel
If it had to smash
I'll die with it
That's the only thing I could see
Then I said,
'Wait a minute
what am I doing
I have to jump'

You know Bea
I'm an injured man
But I'm a living man
That's the way it should be
But the wounds will heal
Again I'll feel
And I don't know
Guess I'll have to see
 
Roger Harkness

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Poems On / About CHICAGO