September 1, 2005

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  The following "series" of poetry was inspired by the "Hometown Week" theme on the Featured Grownups Site and blogring. Check them out for more "hometown" themed blog entries this week. "My Hometown", "The Apartment", and "Large and Empty House" have all been featured on this blog before. The 91770 Express poems are newly transcribed. The others are from the ElectricPoetry website. where all of my work is slowly but surely being "published" to the world wide web. MFN

  
  

   

  
  

  
  

  "My Hometown"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  ©  1971 (17 years old)
  Previously posted on Xanga 5/17/05

  
  

  Robots sucking up the dust
  Lamplights perpendicularly perfect
  New parkinglot
  4 gasstation corners harboring
    hungry automobiles
  Gang hangout over on Shirley St.
  Gang hangout over on Eunice St.
  Gang hangout on the boulevard
  One lamplight bending unpependicularly ruining the scenery
  Of ripped open storefronts and
  ripped off merchandise and
  ripped up billboards and
  black spraypaint on the
  policestation walls.

  
  

  Robots spewing forth exhaust
  White parallel lines on the road
  Black rubber marks in the intersection
  Gang hangout in the hardware store
  Gang hangout in the food store
  Gang hangout in two of the
  4 gasstation corners...

  
  

  
  Robots collecting money
  Robots arresting violators
  Robots applauding entertainers
  Gang hangout downtown
  Gang hangout uptown
  Gang hangout across the street
  Robots this gang hangout there
  Robots that gang hangout here

  
  

  Robots robots robots
  Gang hangout gang hangout gang hangout

  
  

  Robots standing under perpendicular lamplight frenching goodnight

  
  

  Gang hangout over at city hall

  
  

  
  "91770 Express I"
   Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  ©  1971 (18 years old)

  
  

  
  Morning dawns
  In Rosemead town.
  Sun streams through,
  And brings you down.
  Another day,
  Another night,
  More and more pains
  Crowding in tight.
  Waiting a time,
  For freedom to break,
  Let go the trouble,
  Let go the ache.
  Afternoon comes
  Over Rosemead town.
  Sun overhead,
  Bringing you down.
  Shadows cross
  To conceal the doom.
  You're locked in close
  In your little room.
  Night comes fast
  Over Rosemead town.
  Moon shines light,
  Brings you down.
  Another day, another night
  More and more pains,
  Crowding in tight.

  
  

   

  
  

  
  "91770 Express II"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  ©  1971 (18 years old)

  
  

  A gentle sunburst spreads the day with light
  The small city of Rosemead emerges from night.
  To small boys and girls this is just all right.
  But to some there are feelings which aren't so bright.
  Sure, we have our friends
  And our activities
  And our pride
  And our love
  But whose to say whether or not
  There are some in this town
  Who are not satisfied with the grind.
  The sun and smog bothering your eyes.
  The people who talk and betray all their lies.
  The feeling that there's only one supreme
   being in the form of the
   all-mighty dollar that buys.
  If you listen hard you can hear the cries.
  Why is it that
  This town and all others like it
  Just seem to so flatly exist?
  The world has some beauty
  Hidden away somewhere.
  It has to.
  Doesn't it?

  
  

  
  "Coming Home"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  ©  June 7, 1974 7:50 p.m.

  
  

  
  As often as this, on Friday nights we find
  we have to roam,
  But when you're full, and life seems short
  It's great to be at home.

  
  

  My thoughts are mingled with my deeds
  I have erratic ways
  But when my music stops it's play
  I find I count my days

  
  

  The roads are paved, but autos crash
  Whatever's illegal, they'll find the stash
  You're living on credit, but God wants cash
  In your Grandmother's grave,
   there's nothing but ash

  
  

  While Friday night people cram beer
  down their throats
  And live a small life -
  I never can be at home only once
  That I find I can rest a while

  
  

   

  
  

  "The Schoolyard'
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  ©  December 12, 1977

  
  

  
  They mold our children's lives
    in the schoolyard.
  They act like bees in hives
    in the schoolyard
  The regiment stops at the bell
    in the schoolyard
  If you don't behave you go to hell
    in the schoolyard.

  
  

  I view the little children,
   Innocent,
   Beguiling,
   Touching,
     ...at play.
  From my window I watch
     their lives decay.
  The bell rings
     STOP
   cease moving now
  The schoolyard
     Microcosm of society
     (An oft used phrase.)
  Training like ants in an anthill.
     Authority
     not
     Concern
     *
   Schoolrooms become barracks
    No wonder nobody
     Wants to learn anymore
  They're hardly given the chance

  
  

  ...Between the bells.

  
  

   

  
  

  "The Apartment"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  ©  Thursday, May 28, 1981 11:05 a.m. (poetry for fools)
  Previously posted on Xanga 11/30/04

  
  

  
  The building stands, pipes leaking brown stained blood.
  A dowdy mother in housecoat trudges to the washroom
  Three-year-olders cavort on the stairs, in the
  courtyard, out by the trashbins- satisfying needs
  for friendship with pasty faced elves.
  The same little games are played even as the
  three-year-olders grow up and move away.
  The building breathes. doors open and the fortunate
  sons tread off to work-the others
  toil in their predictability moving around
  the courtyard visiting manufactured
  neighbors-telling stories-how's the weather.
  The afternoon advances-sun hangs bright
  over pretty divorced women sunning themselves
  while the elves get dirty behind the philodendrons.
  2:30 As the World Turns All My Restless
  Children into a monotonous hum on the 13"
  black and white television sets standing on
  top of 12 year old 25" consoles that will
  never work again.
  4&5&6o'clock the drones return from work
  and the stereo wars begin. In the
  summer its as if life is back from the
  dead...in the winter the lives resume
  from behind closed doors
  Over the years the gunshots and yelling
  and fights and policemen and questions
  about whos sleeping with who subside
  into a crazy quilt of boring samenesses.
  People move from apartment to apartment
  like litte backgammon markers trying to find
  the home quadrant.
  There's a school behind the building and a
  market across the street. These people
  never have to leave if they don't want to.
  Some of us find we lost the inclination long ago.
  Life goes on. New landlords come and go.
  Old parties become legends. When you least
  expect it an apartment becomes vacated
  and then someone "moves in" who might
  have bearings on your own existence.
  The elves play on.
  The televisions continue spouting their
  advertisements and I sit here watching
  the brown stained water seep from
  under the toilet's broken gasket.
  Exactly like blood.

  
  

  
  "Large & Empty House"
  Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
  © April 13, 1995 5:50 pm pst (the saddest poem I've ever written)
  Previously posted on Xanga 7/18/05 and 6/03/05

  
  

  I look around and see none of me
       A lot of you
         A little of us
  A couple of birds singing

  
  

  Was it not so long ago they sang for us?

  
  

  Was there ever an us?
  Or was it just you?

  
  

  And me?

  
  

  Where do I fit in
  In this large and empty house?

  
  

  Where is my voice
  I could cry
  I could laugh

  
  

  Sometimes it all seems so funny
  I wanted a house for you
  I wanted to make you happy

  
  

  I failed

  
  

  Now you're happy with someone else
  Away from this large and empty house

  
  

  And since I see none of me
  I leave too
  The birds must be really lonely
  

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  EDIT: 5:02 pm pdt: Occasionally I type in my own name on a google search to find if I show up on other websites besides my own, and I found a wonderful tribute page today that I'd like to share. My internet friend Terry Cuthbert, who recently died of cancer, was one of the most prolific poets on Xanga, and has quite a website on the Homestead server. He and I used to comment about our vast sites. (He paid me the best compliment saying mine was bigger than his (heh heh). I found THIS PAGE on my search, which is a tribute page for other poets on Terry's site. It made me cry, he had never told me about this. Oh Lord Pineapple in a heaven you never believed in when on Earth, I salute you, and thank you, and wish you and the Sarahs were back on Earth again. When the Sarah's left, you knew why, and the rest of us had not a clue. MFN 9/1/05
  

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