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Poems On / About CHICAGO  12/21/2014 3:54:08 AM
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Best Poems About / On CHICAGO
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Hard Dog Blues

baby, i've been to Babylon,
and downtown Chicago.
i've smelled the stink
of poverty's greed.
i've lain helpless
in your burnt out apartment.
and sold my soul,
to fill the need.

i've seen god,
and walked with the devil.
i've stood naked,
while the building burned.
i've been the storm,
destruction and hunger
in the executioner's line,
just waiting my turn!

so dont give me half empty,
half full, or half lit.
dont kiss me and leave me,
saying you'll never forget.

i buried your father
in an unmarked grave.
wrote you letters in crayon,
and sent them first class.
turned my back on my future,
and laid down my cross.
now it's time for redemption,
and i'm fading fast!

so dont give me half empty,
half full, or half lit.
dont kiss me and leave me,
saying you'll never forget!
Eric Cockrell

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Vivekananda And His Voice To The Mankind,

The Parliament of Religions,
Chicago, -1893, world’s representations,
From inherited wells,
Ready to ring own bells.

‘Sisters and brothers’
From vast Unconscious,
A voice vibrant flashes.

‘You are all assured immortals,
Radiant souls in body’s walls.
Rise and wake from slumber,
Add fire to emit your amber’

Silence, turns to pin-dropp or more,
The hearts started opening new door.
Stillness’ tranquility, to quantum-nucleus,
Liquid –luminous, beacon-focus.

You are born lion and lioness,
Lend your ear, lend me please.

Once in a lambs’ herd a lion had its truck,
A lion there in, was running to save attack.
Its mother died during giving birth,
The lambs fostered it since it came on earth.

It grew up on lamb’s habits,
It forgot its glory, and turned a rabbit.
Ray Subrata Ray

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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!
Joe Sadeghloo

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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,
neighbors said.
We'd have to pray for him.
They didn't call it PTSD back then.
Donal Mahoney

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Poems On / About CHICAGO