|Best Poems About / On CHICAGO
In Search Of Americans
In search of Americans!
There was a new comer in our town, a noisy suburb of Chicago,
With planes above, and four wheels below,
Not mentioning railroad tracks and
The trains passing by day and night, too fast or too slow!
The newcomer moved next door, to 1434 Main street, to the old lady's,
Mrs. Fodyle's place, an old red brick bungalow from the thirties.
I guess he must have seen the 'Rooms for Rent' sign in the front window!
First time, when I laid eyes on him, I got a strange feeling, a bittersweet feeling,
As if I knew him, had seen him before..., a long time ago...
A thirtyish, rather tall and thin young fellow,
Wearing an old farmer's hat, odd to see nowadays
And his jacket which had seen better days!
Just the way he was dressed,
The way he walked...,
And his beat up dusty
GMC filled up with his worldly possessions blocking the car's windows...
It took me a while..., I was sure, I had seen him before..., but where...?
Yes! Indeed: 'Tom Joad' from the Grapes of Wrath...!
He did bare an uncanny resemblance to him! Just like an apple cut in half
Who was he? What was he doing in our neck of the woods? !
His name was Ivan, an ιmigrι from the Eastern Europe
Had lived a couple of years in Philadelphia,
Had been conned by the scam artists there
It seemed he was running away from them, or from something,
Maybe looking for a place to settle down?
One day, early in the morning of a warm July day,
I noticed the newcomer, Ivan, after a few weeks, was leaving Mrs. Fodyl's place for good.
He approached me and asked me (in his thick accent) like a confused little kid:
'Mr. Joe! Where are Americans? !
At work, in the factory, it seems everyone speaks Spanish, I guess they are Mexicans.
At school, it seems they are all Asians, Indians, koreans, Pakistanis, ..., even the only movie house
in town is owned by them, they are playing Asian movies...
Mr. Joe! where do you suppose Americans are! ? '
I hadn't quite come up with an answer, Ivan, the newcomer, hastily added:
'I am on my way to Minnesota, then to Oregon...,
I am sure I am going to meet Americans there...
Goodbye Mr. Joe! '
Then, he got in his old beat up GMC and drove away...
I yelled: 'Ivan! Wait a minute! You asked me a question!
I have to answer you! Ivan! '
Then, again! I really didn't have an answer...
Ivan had to find out for himself!
Read more poems from Joe Sadeghloo >>>
Riding Schwinns in '56
You had to have a Schwinn
to lead this pack of boys
riding bikes full speed
baking under the Chicago sun
laughing after senior year
heading to the local park
to play a game of ball
or lob a cane pole
in the park lagoon
with stinkbait on the hook
to catch a bullhead,
cousin of the catfish,
small but just as tough.
Riding Schwinns was High Mass
in the summer after high school
before everyone would join the Army
or wait to be drafted.
Maybe one or two of us
had sober fathers working
and we would go to college.
I was one of those.
Going to college was something
I was told I'd do from third grade on.
So do the homework, my father said,
or he'd wash up and visit the nuns.
Korea ended not too long before.
Two guys ahead of us
would never ride a Schwinn again
or go to college on the GI Bill.
One guy did come back.
For years he walked in circles
around his family's back yard
smoking real Pall Malls,
unimpaired by filters, very long.
Butch was shell-shocked,
We'd have to pray for him.
They didn't call it PTSD back then.
Read more poems from Donal Mahoney >>>
Now somewhere in the black mountain hills of chicago
There lived a young boy named rocky raccoon
Road Kill was all I wanted to have my tantalizing taste buds taste,
Raccoon, all the raccoons seemed to die waste,
Along Farm Rd.275 North or I-75 or I-94 or Highway 11,
To the gamey diner raccoon is like chicken but more its heaven.
Alices brother said to me Didnt you eat coon before?
I replied They dont prepare the coon in Hamtramck.
But in Michigan, downriver from Detroit, they serve muskrat.
Muskrats and raccoons theyre all road kill,
I thought about and stated we eat lobster, shrimp and crab.
Which are the cockroaches and spiders of sea,
So why not, have some road kill,
you may find out that is your cup of tea.
So is the Captain and Tennille going for this delicacy?
Read more poems from Joe Rosochacki >>>
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
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
Read more poems from Roger Harkness >>>