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Poems On / About CHICAGO  1/30/2015 1:52:40 AM
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Best Poems About / On CHICAGO
 
 
 
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  205.     

Swami 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.
 
Bazi alis Subrata Ray

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  206.     

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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  207.     

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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  208.     

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