Friday Poems

I think I might try to post one of my dad's poems on Fridays. God knows there are volumes and volumes to choose from and this is one way for me to make time and read them. I have no idea when this was written. I don't even personally think this is very good poetry, but I do like the image of my dad sitting on some New York street watching the world go by.

A Few Minutes on Eighth Street

Now I'm here
sitting on a step
on Eighth Street
near the avenue
of Americas
I tell you this
the streets are
being walked on
the wrong way.
The shops are
being looked at
the wrong way.
I bend my head down
and stare at the ground.
I see the sun shining brightly
and everything is beautiful.
But beauty's not what
I want to write about
or is and should be known
but isn't and
that's why I must write
this next line.
Something's wrong, terribly.
I hear the feet go by
and everyone is walking.
I see the eyes
all roaming
and everyone is looking.
I see the sky so blue.
I see clouds of
angels hair
upon it.
I hear voices with
the footsteps.
I see the whole world
of Eighth Street
and it's flowing
green, green.
Someone again
said to me
What's the matter
with you?
It's been only
a couple of minutes
on Eighth Street,
But such a
long time.