Category Archives: Poetry

I Sing the National Black Anthem

I Sing the National Black Anthem

Posted on by

6

Meeting diverse people and getting a glimpse into their Meeting diverse people and getting a glimpse into their inner circle can be exhilarating and moving all at once. Which is how I came to discover the National Black Anthem. Continue reading →

Peter Pan Got it Right

Peter Pan Got it Right

Posted on by

22

Every once in a while I get an urge to write a poem. This is one of of those times. And this poem, I dedicate to anyone who grew up in the Baby Boomer generation. I guess you know who you are.

PETER PAN GOT IT RIGHT,

Clap your hands and believe, he said,

Ditto Gloria Steinem and MLK,

Who swore we’d one day have a right

To be respected

And treated equally, Continue reading →

Boomer Anthem

Posted on by

55

baby-boomers

BOOMER ANTHEM

by Monica Medina

I am a Baby Boomer,

Marked by autumn leaves turning to gold,

Sputnik, Bay of Pigs,

JFK, Camelot,

Uncle Milty and Your Show of Shows,

Dinah Shore singing, See the USA in your Chevrolet,

And Rod Serling scaring the bejesus out of me,

The medium is the message.

I am a Baby Boomer,

Forever waiting for the Good Humor man—not Godot,

Licking the cup of cola ices dry,

November 22, 1963 is seared on my psyche,

And later, the first landing on the moon,

One small step for man, one giant leap for–

–Ms. Magazine,

Caught up in the revolution of,

Women’s Lib, Feminist Mystique and Fear of Flying,

Burn your bra, burn the flag, Civil Rights,

Wild in the streets, NEVER trust anyone over 30.

I’d rather fight than switch.

You’ve come a long way, Baby,

But then so have I.

I am a Baby Boomer,

Celebrating Earth Day, a day we created,

While smoking grass, believing we could be

Anything we wanted,

My Generation, unique and unfettered by the Generation Gap,

Life’s a gas. Everything’s groovy,

Adam West perennially disguised as Batman–Pow, Bam, Whack!

Bob Hope playing golf and Soupy Sales getting another pie in his face,

Sock it to me, Baby!

That Girl–what girl?

My girl,

She’s in living color, Technicolor, playing the hits on the Hi-Fi stereo,

Has anyone seen my old friends, Bobby, Martin and John?

Can you tell me where they’ve gone?

I am a Baby Boomer,

Drinking the Kool-Aid, wearing culottes, hot pants,

Go-go boots that were made for walking,

Bell-bottoms and crazy hair down to there,

Nehru jackets and give peace a chance,

Good Morning, Starshine,

Vietnam, the draft and the fears

In the eyes of the boys I danced with,

In dark rooms at late night parties,

Getting stoned in the basement,

In the backseat of your Impala,

The protests and moratoriums,

The sit-ins where we,

Turn on, tune in,

Drop out, Drop acid,

It’s Psychedelic, man.

I am a Baby Boomer,

Who wasn’t here for Woodstock and Yasgur’s farm

Didn’t see Hendrix or Janis Joplin,

Nor your plastic Jesus riding on the dashboard but

I sang off-key to Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band,

And rocked the night away with Loggins & Messina,

Holding hands with you, basking in the moment,

Our Age of Aquarius,

Cut short by the rumor, “Paul is dead,”

When you played the White Album backwards,

Help, I need somebody.

Anybody.

I was a girl on the verge, after all, terrified of what awaited us.

I am a Baby Boomer,

Enduring the gasoline shortage, the meat boycott–Where’s the beef?

Dear Abbey ragging on a husband, a cheater,

What else is new?

Everything, nothing,

Outer space and the Russians are coming,

You took me to see the One on One concert at the Garden,

And smiled when you said, Who cares about Yoko?

We hated the Beatles’ breakup,

The end of an era, you said, and I nearly lost it.

I am a Baby Boomer,

Twisting, evolving, moving through time,

Wishing it to stop, knowing it’ll end,

The best is yet to come,

Disco dancing, feeling the beat,

Riding our bicycles at top speed,

Baby, we were born to run,

Exploring empty mansions then,

Downing chocolate Fribbles at the local Friendly’s,

Amid the blistering summer of Watergate that came and went,

John Dean testifying led to Nixon resigning and

Good, old Ford stumbling into a pardon.

The end of an era you said, and I knew it to be true.

I am a Baby Boomer.

Facing the 80’s with padded shoulders,

Greed is good, and the Me generation,

No longer the Pepsi generation,

Mesmerized by the Challenger Space Shuttle explosion,

And the forlorn teacher fulfilling her youthful fantasies,

Whatever happened to, Ask not what your country can do for you,

Ask what you can do for your country?

We miss you, John Lennon.

I am a Baby Boomer,

A product of my generation,

Drove my Chevy to the Levee and got lost,

Paving paradise to put up a parking lot.

Express yourself, respect

Find out what it means to me.

But I didn’t, and closing my eyes,

I sealed my fate,

Living together, tying the knot,

There was superstitious writing on the wall,

Like a ticking time bomb,

Stop the world, I want to get OFF!

Too late,

How easily we swapped

The marriage certificate for a divorce decree.

We are Boomers, forever young.

Wrapping our dreams in our backpacks,

We took off to see the world,

Time was on our side,

We saved but not enough,

We consumed and swore we’d be different–not like our parents,

We drunkenly kissed, making love not war.

I am a Baby Boomer,

Shell shocked by September 11th

Mourning loss and a world never to be the same again,

Grieving for the sense of security we never really had,

Playing Mother, May I? on the streets with friends until dusk,

Sometimes later,

While something ominous lurked, waiting, simmering, stalking,

Like a beam of light, cracks in the ice,

Hands extended, you let go.

I am a Baby Boomer,

Hearing the silence echo through the school halls,

The empty lockers that once held textbooks,

The notes passed between us,

Our secrets safe, the loneliness growing within,

Like a crescendo, it wails, it haunts,

Chewing gum stuck under classroom desks,

Elmer’s paste and inked-out hearts,

Laurie and Mitchell Forever,

Meaningless now.

Erasers on chalkboards,

Whoosh, it’s all gone.

I am a Baby Boomer,

We were going to change the world

And the world changed us,

We were going to explore new frontiers,

And scrapped the space program instead,

Fighting to end the Vietnam War, we traded it for wars in the Middle East.

Where are they now? The dreamers, the visionaries, the believers,

The ones with hope, the rebels?

Where are they now—the hippies, the hipsters,

The flower children, the skeptics?

I am a Baby Boomer, the product of my generation,

Commercialized, pasteurized, homogenized,

Crystalized and vacuum sealed,

Displaying my small pox vaccine–like a badge on my forearm,

Not ready to give up on Our Town,

Or throw in the towel,

There’s still a kick to these old legs,

There’s still bite to these teeth,

Not ready to say goodbye to Miss American Pie,

Yet knowing I once came close.

No longer thinking we’re going to live forever,

But still believing in that can-do spirit,

Love, compassion and goodwill to all,

Wrong from right,

Knowing you can’t go home again,

Unless you click your ruby slippers three times

And repeat after me,

There’s no place like home,

THERE’S NO PLACE AT ALL.

Now it’s your turn:

What does your generation mean to you?

And I Quote: On Tributes & Loss

Posted on by

45

Among my collection of quotes are a few that pay tribute to some of the people who have had special meaning for me. People who have touched my life–and, perhaps, yours, as well–and who have contributed significantly through their art and passion.

We embraced them, we were inspired by them. Their lights flickered on this earth for a brief moment in time, giving us strength, joy and love, through their music, their writings, their creativity and their vibrant spirits. These are people I admire, who enriched our lives, and who are now no longer with us.

Nobody could do scat like Ella, the "First Lady of Song."

Each persevered through life, sometimes at great odds, sometimes facing challenges and incomprehensible tragedy on the world stage. We witnessed one, as a little boy, salute his father for the last time; another lose her life in a fiery crash. One had a voice like melted honey, and made a new form of jazz all her own, though no matter how great her gift, she still had to enter through the backdoor to some of the clubs where she would perform. Two couldn’t cope with their incredible talent for writing poetry and prose, and the state of their mental health made it impossible for them to go on. And, one will always remind me of my parents, and how they’d play his records on the Hi-Fi, over and over.

And, though they’re all gone, they always will be here, in our hearts and minds, still bringing us joy, every time we pick up a book, play one of their songs, and remember their inner grace and beauty. These quotes are eloquent, expressive remembrances, and worthy of the subject being revered:

On Frank Sinatra:

“But it was the deep blueness of Frank’s voice that affected me the most, and while his music became synonymous with black tie, good life, the best booze, women sophistication, his blues voice was always the sound of hard luck and men late at night with the last $10 in their pockets trying to figure a way out. On behalf of all New Jersey, Frank, I want to say, ‘Hail brother, you sang out our soul.’”  – Bruce Springsteen

 

On Ella Fitzgerald:

Where (Billie) Holiday and Frank Sinatra lived out the dramas they sang about, Miss Fitzgerald, viewing them from afar, seemed to understand and forgive all. Her apparent equanimity and her clear pronunciation, which transcended race, ethnicity, class and age, made her a voice of profound reassurance and hope. – Stephen Holden, New York Times 1996

On Sylvia Plath:

“You were transfigured

So slender and new and naked

A nodding spray of wet lilac

You shook, you sobbed with joy, you were ocean depth

Brimming with God.”

–      Ted Hughes’ poem to Sylvia Plath (to whom he was married), from Birthday Letters

Pulitzer Prize winning poet, Anne Sexton.

On Anne Sexton:

“Suddenly my childhood nightmare had a name and a date. It was reality—not just some wolf under the bed…

“…I looked for a plain box but there was none. This room was full of Cadillac’s, each model padded like a baby’s bassinet, swathed in silks and satins, each displayed on its own pedestal and with its own price tag discreetly tucked under the bedding. Astonishingly beautiful with their wood of burnished mahogany, the caskets aroused in me the first sadness to rise above the shock of disbelief: my mother’s body would lie, cold and final, here.”

– Both quotes are from Linda Gray Sexton, on learning of her mother’s death, in her heartfelt, beautifully-written memoir, Searching for Mercy Street: My Journey Back to My Mother, Anne Sexton

On John F. Kennedy, Jr.:

“His moral compass directed him to an honorable, charitable life. He kept his bearings despite the tragedies he experienced. It is profoundly sad that he is gone. His heart was as big as his mind, and with the deaths of John, Carolyn and Lauren Bessette, our optimism died a little, too. God bless you in heaven. – Glamour magazine, October 1999

On Diana, the People’s Princess: (Check out my post comparing myself to her: The Princess and the Gal from Queens)

“I stand before you today the representative of a family in grief, in a country in mourning, before a world in shock. We are all united not only in our desire to pay our respects to Diana but in our need to do so.” – From eulogy delivered by Earl Charles Spencer, Diana’s brother September 1997

And one more–

On Charles Dickens: (For those of you who missed my interview, 200-Year-Old Man Gives Dickens of an Interview)

“His death, in many ways, also marked the end of the Victorian age, although Queen Victoria would rule for many years to come. For when readers look back on that era today, it is not England’s queen that they recall. It is Pip, encountering a mysterious convict in the marshes of East Anglia. It is David Copperfield fleeing his evil stepfather, and Nicholas Nickleby discovering the horrors of a Yorkshire boarding school. It is Nell dying, and Nancy being murdered, and Miss Havisham endlessly living on, perpetually dressed for her wedding day. And it is Ebenezer Scrooge and Tiny Tim, the Aged Parent and the Infant Phenomenon, the Artful Dodger, the dipsomaniacal Sairey Gamp, the obsessive Bradley Headstone, the hapless Miss Flite, and all of the other more than 2,000 men, women, and children that Charles Dickens created to touch our hearts and to ‘brighten, brighten, brighten’ our days.” – Biography Magazine, March 2000

So, tell me, who has made a difference in your life, through their art or other contribution? And, would you pick any of these?

The Uptown Express

Posted on by

32

When I was a kid growing up in Queens, we spent many weekends trekking into the city, and for us, there was only one way to get there:  the New York City subway system. We’d take the E or the F train to mid-town Manhattan. Once there, we became creatures of habit.

First, we’d go to Radio City Music Hall, where we’d take in the latest Doris Day flick, followed by a spectacular show, featuring the world-famous New York City Rockettes. Then, lunch at our favorite automat, the Horn & Hardart, where individual servings of Salisbury steak, macaroni and cheese, and warm apple pie were neatly displayed behind glass cubicles. You’d insert a few nickels in the coin-operated slot next to the food item of your choice. The door would unlock, and–voilà!–a fresh, tasty dish, piping hot from the oven, was yours for the taking.

“His Master’s Voice” was RCA’s trademark, depicting this real dog, Nipper, listening to his owner’s voice on a phonograph.

After our meal, we’d cross the street to the RCA building, where you could see a life-size version of the RCA dog, proudly listening to his “master’s voice.” How I loved that terrier and so wanted one of my own.

Sometimes, we’d stop by the Time-Life building, too, to view the photo exhibit in the lobby area.  During the holidays, we were sure to visit Rockefeller Center and gaze upon the breathtaking Christmas tree, all decked out in dazzling lights that reflected upon the skaters below. Then, there were times when we’d take the uptown express to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I loved our trips to the city. Whenever we went, no matter where we’d go, these were magical times, indeed.

Taking the subway was the only way to go. If you ask me, it was the fastest way to maneuver through the city. I was fascinated by the long, pitch-black tunnels that stretched from one end of the city to the other, crisscrossing it (see map), in a mad-dash attempt to keep New Yorkers, moving.  I took comfort in the whoosh of the express train as it sped through each station. The rattle and clatter as it swayed side to side, and the lights that would turn off at random moments, leaving passengers in utter darkness.  It was enough to stir the imagination of any wide-eyed child. It was more than enough to inspire me to write this poem about the subway of my youth.

Laughter From the Uptown Express

We boarded the Uptown Express,

Mother, Older Brother and me,

On a clear afternoon in November.

The train heaved from the station,

Mother sighed, closed her eyes,

Brother tugged at his red bow tie,

While I pressed my face against the window,

Scummy from a thousand rides before.

Darkness swallowed us as the subway

Plunged ahead, grinding a path through the

Blackness, mad maze,

Screeching like nine monsters prowling

  In the night,

Racing like hungry rats down a crooked track,

Fingers curled tightly around the seat’s edge.

The lights flickered off inside when the train,

Rocked and reeled down a curve,

Shaking furiously till Brother fell against me,

And the door between cars flew–

OPEN!

Brother grabbed my arm as a lone woman,

In the doorway’s shadow swayed on flaming stilettos,

Elegantly wearing the glint of an emerald snake on her brow,

While the train howled down through the tunnel.

Moving toward Brother and me,

Frenzy spinning about her head like

Moths caught in a spark,

One thin arm reached above us as we cringed

In anticipation and—OH the lights came on!

The woman saw me shiver and Brother squirm

In his scarlet bow tie,

Her painted lips shaped a wild, cunning laugh,

Like purple goblins dancing maniacally in the wind.

The train slowed,

Grinding to its knees while Mother stretched

From a deep, somber sleep,

Glancing at Older Brother and me,

Meekly sitting beside her,

She took my hand and adjusted Brother’s crimson tie,

 Swiftly leading us off the train,

The door shut tightly behind us,

And as we reached the stairs on the platform above,

I could still hear the laughter from the Uptown Express.