A Chat With Your Mother
Lyrics by Lou & Peter Berryman
Oh, the pirates in their fetid galleons, daggers in their skivvies,
With infected tattooed fingers on a blunderbuss or two;
Signs of scurvy in their eyes, only mermaids on their minds;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.
Chorus (repeated after each verse):
We sit down to have a chat,
It’s F-word this and F-word that.
I can’t control how you young people
Talk to one another,
But I don’t want to hear you use
That F-word with your mother.
There are lumberjacks from Kodiak vacationing in Anchorage,
Enchanted with their coal-tar soup and Caribou shampoo,
With seven months of back pay in their aromatic woolens;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.
There’s the militant survivalists in Gucci bandoleeros,
Taking tacky khaki walkie-talkies to the rendezvous;
Trading all the latest armor-piercing ammo information;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.
There are jocks who think that God himself is drooling in the bleachers,
In a cold November downpour with a belly full of brew
Their entire grasp of heaven has a lot to do with football;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.
There’s unsavory musicians with their filthy pinko lyrics
Who destroy the social fabric and enjoy it when they do,
With their groupies and addictions and their poor heartbroken parents;
It’s from them I would expect to hear the F-word, not from you.
Conscientious Objector
By Edna St. Vincent Millay
I shall die, but
that is all that I shall do for Death.
I hear him leading his horse out of the stall;
I hear the clatter on the barn-floor.
He is in haste; he has business in Cuba,
business in the Balkans, many calls to make this morning.
But I will not hold the bridle
while he clinches the girth.
And he may mount by himself:
I will not give him a leg up.
Though he flick my shoulders with his whip,
I will not tell him which way the fox ran.
With his hoof on my breast, I will not tell him where
the black boy hides in the swamp.
I shall die, but that is all that I shall do for Death;
I am not on his pay-roll.
I will not tell him the whereabout of my friends
nor of my enemies either.
Though he promise me much,
I will not map him the route to any man's door.
Am I a spy in the land of the living,
that I should deliver men to Death?
Brother, the password and the plans of our city
are safe with me; never through me Shall you be overcome.
Invitation
By Shel Silverstein
If you are a dreamer, come in,
If you are a dreamer, a wisher, a liar,
A hope-er, a pray-er, a magic bean buyer. . .
If you’re a pertender, come sit by my fire
For we have some flx-golden tales to spin.
Come in!
Come In!
Red Clay Halo
Lyrics by Gillian Welch & David Todd Rawlings
All the girls all dance with the boys from the city
And they don't care to dance with me
Now it ain't my fault that the fields are muddy
And the red clay stains my feet
And it's under my nails and it's under my collar
And it shows on my Sunday clothes
Though I do my best with the soap and the water
But the damned old dirt won't go
[chorus]
But when I pass through the pearly gate
Will my gown be gold instead?
Or just a red clay robe with red clay wings
And a red clay halo for my head?
Now it's mud in the spring and it's dust in the summer
When it blows in a crimson tide
Until trees and leaves and the cows are the color
Of the dirt on the mountainside
Now Jordan's banks they're red and muddy
And the rolling water is wide
But I got no boat, so I'll be good and muddy
When I get to the other side
And when I pass through the pearly gate
Will my gown be gold instead?
Or just a red clay robe with red clay wings
And a red clay halo for my head?
I'll take the red clay robe with the red clay wings
And a red clay halo for my head
Reluctance
By Robert Frost
Out through the fields and the woods
And over the walls I have wended;
I have climbed the hills of view
And looked at the world, and descended;
I have come by the highway home,
And lo, it is ended.
The leaves are all dead on the ground,
Save those that the oak is keeping
To ravel them one by one
And let them go scraping and creeping
Out over the crusted snow,
When others are sleeping.
And the dead leaves lie huddled and still,
No longer blown hither and thither;
The last lone aster is gone;
The flowers of the witch hazel wither;
The heart is still aching to seek,
But the feet question ‘Whither?’
Ah, when to the heart of man
Was it ever less than a treason
To go with the drift of things,
To yield with a grace to reason,
And bow and accept the end
Of a love or a season?
Summer’s End
By Judith Viorst
One by one the pedals drop.
There’s nothing that can make them stop.
You cannot beg a rose to stay.
Why does it have to be that way?
The butterflies I used to chase
Have gone off to some other place.
I don’t know where. I only know
I wish they didn’t have to go.
And all the shiny afternoons
So full of birds in big balloons
And ice cream melting in the sun
Are done. I do not want them done.
The Blanche That We All Knew or,
To Make a Long Story Short
Eulogy by Gene Chavez (son)
Babies, Beans and bunco
enchiladas too
Solo Serve and trees in bloom
remind us Mom, of you
Double ups-and-downs in Jacks
Cartwheels and jump rope too
St James, Luby’s and Vegas
… will ALL be missing you
Sewing plain and fancy
Paid cash for everything
Big band sound for dancing
Were things you used to do
that ‘mind us all of you
Rocking on the swing outside
Scotch ‘n water late at night
A dresser to the nth degree
Laughter, love and honesty
Fritos and fajitas
Peanut butter too
Colors bright and crispy white
Always look good on you
Tortillas burned and flautas
Everything in place
Finger snaps and popping gum
Never one for haste
Bargain hunter shopper queen
Fruit and cottage cheese
Pack Rat to the Maxxus
And sneeze
and sneeze
and sneeze
Hated so those plastics
(only glass of course)
Instead of cooking you’d prefer
to make a salad first
Hated so to argue
yell or get upset
Would always say the right thing
to entice us to our best
Mason jars and pillows
Shapes in clouds above
Mogen David toddies
put us to sleep with love
Cutting paper with a knife
to wrap our presents true
Angels, cupids you did like
Containers old and new
Crisp pickles, olives too
Morning coffee brewing
Cookie at your heel
Jello-O cubed and milky red
Naps—you love to steal
Folding was an art to you
Ironing had a pattern too
And clothes were hung
and never flung
Aunt Grace and Pepe, Adam H.
Louis and Lupe too
Maria, Linda, Bebe
and Diana welcome you
So Mom, Aunt Blanche or
Blanché, Mrs Chavez too
Grandma, Tia, Mrs P
The Blanche that we all knew
We’ll ALL be missing you
The Road Not Taken
By Robert Frost
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.
I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I—
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.
The Significance of Poetry
By Nikki Giovanni
Poetry is as necessary
To life
As salt is to stew
As garlic is to peas, pasta,
As perfume is to summer nights
As shaving lotion is to mornings
As your smile is
To my happiness.
Poetry is a significant
To life
As yeast is to bread
As butter is to toast
As grapes are to wine
As sugar is to lemons.
How else will we get
Lemonade
Poetry is to me
Your voice,
Your touch,
Your laughter,
That feeling at the end of the day
That I am
Not alone
The Swan
By Mary Oliver
Did you too see it, drifting, all night, on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air –
An armful of white blossoms,
A perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned
into the bondage of its wings; a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
Biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
A shrill dark music – like the rain pelting the trees – like a waterfall
Knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds –
A white cross Streaming across the sky, its feet
Like black leaves, its wings Like the stretching light of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?
Thoughts about the Person from Porlock
By Stevie Smith
Coleridge received the Person from Porlock
And ever after called him a curse,
Then why did he hurry to let him in?
He could have hid in the house.
It was not right of Coleridge in fact it was wrong
(But often we all do wrong)
As the truth is I think he was already stuck
With Kubla Khan.
He was weeping and wailing: I am finished, finished,
I shall never write another word of it,
When along comes the Person from Porlock
And takes the blame for it.
It was not right, it was wrong,
But often we all do wrong.
*
May we inquire the name of the Person from Porlock?
Why, Porson, didn’t you know?
He lived at the bottom of Porlock Hill
So had a long way to go,
He wasn’t much in the social sense
Though his grandmother was a Warlock,
One of the Rutlandshire ones I fancy
And nothing to do with Porlock,
And he lived at the bottom of the hill as I said
And had a cat named Flo,
And had a cat named Flo.
I long for the Person from Porlock
To bring my thoughts to an end,
I am becoming impatient to see him
I think of him as a friend,
Often I look out of the window
Often I run to the gate
I think, He will come this evening,
I think it is rather late.
I am hungry to be interrupted
For ever and ever amen
O Person from Porlock come quickly
And bring my thoughts to an end.
*
I felicitate the people who have a Person from Porlock
To break up everything and throw it away
Because then there will be nothing to keep them
And they need not stay.
*
Why do they grumble so much?
He comes like a benison
They should be glad he has not forgotten them
They might have had to go on.
*
These thoughts are depressing I know. They are depressing,
I wish I was more cheerful, it is more pleasant,
Also it is a duty, we should smile as well as submitting
To the purpose of One Above who is experimenting
With various mixtures of human character which goes best,
All is interesting for him it is exciting, but not for us.
There I go again. Smile, smile, and get some work to do
Then you will be practically unconscious without positively having to go.
Werewolf Avoidance
By Nikki Giovanni
I’ve never “blogged” before,
so this is new
territory for me I do
poet though and that
is always somewhere in
the netherland I think
poetry is employed
by truth I think
our job is to tell
the truth as we see it don’t you
just hate a namby-pamby poem that goes
all over the place saying nothing
Poets should be strong
in our emotions
and our words that might make us
difficult to live with but I do believe
easier to love
Poet is garlic
Not for everyone
but those who take it
never get caught
by werewolves
what the mirror said
by Lucille Clifton
listen,
you a wonder.
you a city
of a woman.
you got a geography
of your own.
listen,
somebody need directions
to move around you.
listen,
woman,
you not a noplace
anonymous
girl;
mister with his hands on you
he got his hands on
some
damn
body!
Where the Sidewalk Ends
By Shel Silverstein
There is a place where the sidewalk ends
And before the street begins,
And there the grass grows soft and white,
And there the sun burns crimson bright,
And there the moon-bird rests from his flight
To cool in the peppermint wind.
Let us leave this place where the smoke blows black
And the dark street winds and bends.
Past the pits where the asphalt flowers grow
We shall walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And watch where the chalk-white arrows go
To the place where the sidewalk ends.
Yes we'll walk with a walk that is measured and slow,
And we'll go where the chalk-white arrows go,
For the children, they mark, and the children, they know
The place where the sidewalk ends.
Why I Smile at Strangers
By Rosemerry Wahtola Trommer
In difficult times, carry something beautiful in your heart.
— Blaise Pascal
And so today, I walk the streets
with vermillion maple leaves inside me,
and the deep purple of late-blooming larkspur
and the lilting praise of meadowlark.
I carry with me thin creeks with clear water
and the three-quarters moon
and the spice-warm scent of nasturtiums.
And honey in the sunlight.
And words from Neruda and
slow melodies by Erik Satie.
It is easy sometimes to believe
that everything is wrong.
That people are cruel and the world
destroyed and the end of it all
imminent. But there is yet goodness
beyond imagining—the creamy
white flesh of ripe pears
and the velvety purr of a cat in my lap
and the white smear of milky way—
I carry these things in my heart,
more certain than ever that one way
to counteract evil is to ceaselessly honor what’s good
and share it, share it until
we break the choke hold of fear
and at least for a few linked moments,
we believe completely in beauty,
growing beauty, yes, beauty.