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Poems On / About CHICAGO  2/13/2016 5:37:16 PM
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Best Poems About / On CHICAGO
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A Massacre


Valentines Saint Massacre Day was in Chicago the man played them a tune on his fiddle. The Aftermath The newspapers instantly picked up on the crime, dubbing it the 'St. Valentine's Day Massacre.' The story appeared on front pages around the country, making Capone a nationwide celebrity. While Capone seemed to revel in his new fame, he also had to deal with the new level of attention from federal law enforcement officials. Capone is sitting by his swimming pool catching his non existent fish and he begins to reminisce this is Capone speaking now 'The boys missed MORAN it was a terrible thing' The spaghetti was gotten cold and now the fish that eye find will have to do to feed the diseases in my mind eye the Capone knoe that now eye am just dying of all the real good times. Alphonse 'Al' Capone was one of the most famous U.S. gangsters during the 1930s, a Chicago-based boss involved in illegal gambling, bootlegging (illegal alcohol) and prostitution. Capone got his start in New York, working as a thug and bouncer (where he got the three scars that spawned his nickname, 'Scarface') .Al Capone spent the last year of his Alcatraz sentence, which had been reduced to six years and five months for a combination of good behavior and work credits, in the hospital section being treated for syphilis. He was released in November of 1939 and taken to a hospital in Baltimore where he was treated until March of 1940. For his remaining years, Capone slowly deteriorated while staying at his Palm Island estate in Miami. On January 25,1947, he died of cardiac arrest. Eye saw a stranger carry love in his right hand today he carried his love in his hand a bunch of flowers in a wrapper for a vase and eye thought of Al Capone disgraced. Eye can still remember the movie how he bit the punk's ear in Jail to make him think that he got sick too. The only thing worse than that is to lay in a blanket that has been stolen many times. On another of his movies the floozie was in bed asking him if he liked it too of course they was talking about manicures. He made the Chicken if he made creation was it the full blown bird or just the egg it would make no difference to that Chicken only to the education evolution. A small reference to the Jesus how can anyone still please him. There is a marker on ALS grave My Jesus Mercy.
Charles Hice

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Until It Finds A Tree

A bird flies round until it finds a tree;
its spirit doesn’t tell it one is better,
and even when it lands it feels it’s free
to try another, avian jet-setter.

Inspired by Ricardo Muti who told Daniel J. Wakin (“And the Brass Ring Goes to the Chicago Symphony: Riccardo Muti Says Yes, ” NYT, May 6,2008) :

Mr. Muti called the Chicago Symphony “a perfect machine, ” with the versatility to play huge works like Prokofiev’s Symphony No.3 and Scriabin’s “Poem of Ecstasy” or to display the refined delicacy needed for small-scale Schubert.He remained steadfastly unattached after resigning as music director of the Teatro Alla Scala in Milan in 2005 in an operatic kerfuffle. Orchestra musicians and other workers at the theater had turned against him in an internal political wrangle. “I thought it was time for me to be absolutely free, like the birds in the air, ” he said. “Birds go around and they enjoy their happiness, their freedom. But sometimes it can happen they find a tree, and they like to stop on a tree, and they didn’t know about the tree before. It doesn’t mean one tree is better than another tree. It just happens at the right moment in life.”

gershon hepner

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Providential Hope In The Windy City

The streets of chicago
are settled by raindrops in this spring

Each sound surrounded by trumpets
of citizenry on their quest to fortune

Where medicine and teaching are combined
into one and bolstered by magic faith

Where the residual hopes of forgiveness
in the healing power of life can conquer

Sweet chicago rain, surround me now
consume my body in providential hope.
Albrando Lucino

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Someone From Home

When I was a child we always went to church but only once a year as a family.

My father would rise every Sunday and attend the 6: 30 Mass, then come home and read his Sunday paper, every word of it, section by section, saving the obituaries for last.

My mother would stuff my sister and me into our Sunday best and send us off to the Children’s Mass at 10. It was a short walk to the church and times were different back then. We were children but safe in our little neighborhood of brick bungalows where neighbors kept an eye out for strangers or anyone or anything that looked odd. The south side of Chicago in the Forties and Fifties was blue collar, little villages teeming with immigrants and very peaceful, except for the occasional fight that might break out in a neighborhood bar.

After sending my sister and me off to church, my mother would put the roast in the oven, ask my father to keep an eye on it, and she would go to the 11: 15.

This was our family pattern, even on Christmas and Easter. I recall not one variation.

But there was that one day a year when the four of us as a family went off to church together. And that was on Good Friday when we walked to the church, my sister and I in front, my father and mother right behind us, to attend the Stations of the Cross at 3 p.m. Not a word was said as we walked those few blocks. But I was impressed by this family event because if it was important enough to get us to go to church together, I figured Good Friday must be a pretty important day.

The only other time we went anywhere as a family was an Irish wake. Chicago back then was not only home to the Stockyards filled with cattle, swine and sheep. It was also home to large groups of immigrants. And my father would always want the family to dress up and go to an Irish wake, hoping, as he so often said, to meet “someone from home.”
Donal Mahoney

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Poems On / About CHICAGO