in the end, he saves my poem with his presence

 

in the end, he saves my poem with his presence

 

 

 

the streets reminisce

of Neon blinking lashes

flirting with the night walkers

 

the concrete is cold and unforgiving

and one or two trees are espied

here and there.

 

the only leaves are those on dining room tables

in apartments

on sky high floors

 

when I think of you and that '50 Plymouth

trapping me within its four heavy doors

and windows almost as high as those

in the skyscrapers reflecting God off of their windows

 

the city resigns to its expectations

it swallows the weak, spits them

out on sidewalks painted in hopscotch white

and the sound of the underground trains

roaring like MGM lions

introducing old Black and White movies

 

I lived that Black and White film

colorization only intrudes

Ted Turner can stay in Atlanta

 

Bronx finds me loathing but also basking

in its memory for me.

the Chrysler Building...Dad working in its confines

 

smiles out at me from a 15th story pane of glass...

 

I don't see him through the glare of silver worlds

but I feel it...and smile back

 

now I look up and smile back

he's in another building

 

and I?

still riding in that Plymouth trying to see out the window.

 

 

erin-cilberto

6/1/22

Reviews

[LJW]

"the city resigns to it's expectations"
"roaring like MGM lions introducing old black and white movies"
"the skyscrapers reflecting God off of their windows"

These are all words that I wish I had put together.
My highest compliment to their author.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your kind words, LJW,
j.

[Fabian G. Franklin]

This has such nostalgic beauty in the interactions of time, relationship and understanding. It also has the gritty feel of a city sidewalk ingrained in a few of the lines. In the end, it revels in a shared smile, with the then and now. Wonderful to read, F.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you so much for your kind review, Fabian,
j.

[JE Falcon]

Such pleasant pictures to see on memory's Lane, heartfelt and touching. Thanks, Jacob

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your words, JE,
j.

[redzone]

it's an amazing poem Jacob.... such vivid memories of your father, word painting the scene of your earlier years; of looking out from the family's '50's Plymouth, not seeing the world that well and what it holds in store for you.... and even after all these years and the passing of your dad, still not sure of where the world will lead you, but he remains with you, part of you and "saves" each of your poems....

I can only say that your poem moved me Jacob, reminding me of my dad, and that it was his reading to me and my brother poetry as bedtime stories (Puss and Boots, Winken, Blinking and Nod and a few of Whitman, he loved the rhyming poems best).... perhaps you might say he put the desire to write into my pen.... so thank you Jacob for this poem and for the memory of my dad...

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for sharing, Curt....I appreciate your words very much,
j.

[Robert Haigh]

I think we all probably have some kind of love/hate relationship with the place we grew up, and its surroundings. But it is ours, and we feel we know it better than anyone else. Mood and atmosphere are palpable in this poem, Jacob. Sublime imagery, as always in your lines of verse. Another good write!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your kind review, Robert,
j.

[Patricia Wedel]

dear Jacob... when I look back on my Life growing up... I realize how fortunate I was in so many ways. One of my best friends lived across the street and she was like a Sister. She studied Piano and knew all the Scales. Her family took me to a Performance of a well known Artist. The Program listed many of the Great Composers. We were in the Church Choir as Guests every other Week or So. We practiced Songs in Music Class in Grade School and High School. One Sabbath, my Mother said that I was the only Child in the Choir that looked Sad. So the next Sabbath we sang in the Choir... my Mother said that I was the only Child in the Choir who had a Smile on their Face the entire time. It has always been like that to this day-- no in between... No just a Pleasant Look... so I became a Poet in my Silver Years. p.s. Growing up in the Fifties.. I appreciate the words you have written. We Kids did a lot of walking to School and other places in our Town. The Memories Haunt me to this Day. It was "Safer" then and we were Healthier. Our Wealth was counted in Blessings. If only we could once again feel that Safe. tenderly, Pat

[jacob erin-cilberto]

yes, if only. Thank you for sharing this memory, Pat,
j.
very curious as to who the artist was?

[Patricia Wedel]

Lord... I cannot remember. It was not Victor Borge... the Comedian. It was a young Handsome Dude that my friend Bonnie had a Crushon. He played
Tchaikovsky and so forth. I continued to have Crushes on Bobby and George in High School. Robert was a Minister's son and was excited about his hormones. He went to Vegas to be a Singer; however none of us can locate him.. his Mom and Dad have passed. Geoge is an Attorney in California. Another of my Classmates became an OBGyn and delivered my first child my Son in 1970 in the Town where I grew up. Sorry I cannot recall the Concert Artist name... many Moons ago. Most of my classmates are passing away. I am determined to Stay. gently, Pat

[Patricia Wedel]

Jacob.. your Poetry is awesome, and belongs in The Poetry Hall of Fame... where other WC Poets gather to exchange accolades. As ever, Pat

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Pat,
Is that piano player, Van Cliburn?
and thank you for the compliment...
read morePat,
Is that piano player, Van Cliburn?
and thank you for the compliment...

j.

[Patricia]

Oh I love the descriptions and the feel of this, nostalgic and personal and back in the Bronx… I always love your poems about that, awesome!

[jacob erin-cilberto]

Thank you for your kind words, Patricia,
j.

[John the Baptist]

There are memories and then there are memories. Some are better than others. I get the impression of both kinds here. There are recollections of NYC in this one that call forth loathing, but then there is the memory of Dad which overrules all of that. Maybe we can't go home again fully, but hopefully the better part of it will stay with us always.

[jacob erin-cilberto]

thank you for your understanding words, John,
j.

[Chris Shaw]

Trip down nostalgia lane here J. Vivid memories, you create the ambience of that place perfectly for your readers. Hopscotch and underground trains were me. I relate. Your Dad maybe be somewhere else, but I believe he is safe. That would give me some comfort.

Chris

[jacob erin-cilberto]

I believe so as well, Chris.
thank you,
j.