Cafe Rouge: 5 Poems to Enjoy a Drink With at the Hotel Pennsylvania

I wrote the majority of my poetry during my sophomore and junior years of high school. During one productive stretch, I was pumping out five poems a day.

If you've read any of my previous poetry posts, you know I hadn't lived through anything yet, so they read exactly like you'd imagine a sensitive 16-year-old boy's poetry to read. However, my classmates back then believed I could make a career as a poet. This one critique from a classmate says it all:

Not so much...

Alas, the poetry career, and the aduring harem that comes with it, were not to be (what reality presented to me was much more satisfying in the end). Maybe I'll one day write a novel about a rock star poet and live vicariously through my degenerate, but kind-hearted, protagonist.

Pennsylvania 6-5000

This song doesn’t go with any of the poetry you’re about to read, but I figured you could use something uplifting before things get grim. My high school jazz band did a rendition of this song that would knock your socks into George Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue. I find myself tapping my foot to the rhythm of that ensemble’s superior musical skill even when I don’t hear music playing. Grandma Ford loved attending my high school band’s performances because it brought her back to when she was hotel bar hopping in New York City in the 1940s.

The headline of this blog refers to the lounge the Glenn Miller Orchestra played at the Hotel Pennsylvania in New York City. The phone number for that hotel back in the day? 6-5000. So swill a single malt scotch, get your heart rate up, and enjoy yourself before reading the inner demons of a white high school suburbanite. I’d also encourage shouting throughout the song in the most public place possible as nature intended.
 

Home

Come in if you like.
Remember to wipe your feet,
I don’t have a vacuum yet.

Have a seat if you like.
There’s plenty of room
on the matching sofa and chair.

Care for a drink?
Sorry,
the fridge is empty.

I’d ask you to spend the night,
but there isn’t even a
bed for me.

Feel free to use the bathroom.
You might want to close
the windows and draw the blinds.

I’d cook you something,
but the stove doesn’t work,
and you wouldn’t want anything that was cooked on it.

I’ll admit it’s not much now,
but just you wait.
In no time at all I’ll having looking like my home!
 

No Tears to Cry

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to tenderly wipe away.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to wash away the pain.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to tickle my cheek.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to cloud my weary eyes.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to mask my fears.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to match your own.

I have no tears to cry;
no tears to share your burden.

Lend me your tears,
so you have no tears to cry.
 

This Night

My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
On this night, her red rose petals die.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, for the rebel she cries.
On this night, in her music she hides.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.

On this night, for the creatures she strives.
On this night, her beauty knows no pride.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, she has no room for lies.
On this night, she has no wings to fly.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.

On this night, despair fills both eyes.
On this night, the bitter winds sigh.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

On this night, the angels weep on high.
On this night, she waves her world goodbye.
My blond beauty empties her heart this night.
My blond beauty cries in my arms in fright.

More inspirational notes from high school English class.

Her Word Say to Me, “I Love You”

Her words of compassion fill
my night with wonderful worries,
as they say to me, “I love you.”

They abandon all that she
has fought so hard to retain,
just to say to me, “I love you.”

They spell out the fabric of her gentleness and strength,
vanquishing any thoughts of misery and dank drips,
with a simple, “I love you.”

Her words cascade, cool and clear,
down the folded page of recaptured dreams of fate,
with the words, “I love you.”

Her dazzling blue baby’s find rest in the late evening,
her anxious mind uncoils around my loving touch,
as my words say to her, “I love you, too.”
 

On the Edge of Heaven

Those storm laden clouds are rushing down
and clash with that sun streaked blaze of sky
and form a nothing….and then a nothingness.

I watch those cherubs cry out loud
and met those demons groans,
both merging into a song silent.

Those divine doves toil
with deadly assassin crows
in biting air of hostile tranquility.

I feel that pleasant prairie breeze
collide with scalding typhoons
that reach in and seduce the breath of lifeless souls.

Here, the edge of heaven waits for me,
losing the virtuous on the backs of the wicked,
long waiting to be saved.

When you’re done snapping your fingers, check out:

• Good Friday: Take 5 Poems to Bed With You This Weekend  

• Birth of the Cool: 3 Poems You Can Rest Your Moon Dreams On

• From the Archives: Summer Poetry

High School Graduation Speech: 10 Years Later

2012 not only marks the tenth year I’ve been in New York City, but also the tenth anniversary of my high school graduation.

The combined milestones have compelled me to rummage through old photographs, musings, letters, speeches, and keepsakes from the last decade. Much like my recent “A Look Back” series, it gave me a chance to see my evolution as a human being and appreciate both the good and bad moments from the last 10 years.

A student at Bristol Eastern High School had to audition if they wanted to speak at graduation. I stayed after school on the day of auditions and was so interested in everyone else’s speeches and stories that I ended up being the last student to go before the selection committee. I’ve always been at ease speaking in front of people, so I said my speech as effortlessly as if I was having a casual conversation with friends.

Toward the end of the week, my AP English class held a celebration of family that allowed our parents to come in and hear the essays we had written about them. It just so happened that it was the same day that the graduation speakers were announced. I remember walking by the door with the piece of paper tacked to it that had my name on it with both of my parents by my side. I was thrilled, but what made me more proud was that I got to share that moment with them.

I must have read my speech at least 50 times the day of my graduation. I don’t remember feeling nervous though. Once my classmates and I marched into the auditorium and took our seats, I felt a strange sense of calm come over me. Laura Lindstrom—who was actually a neighbor of mine who also ended up in New York City—could have given a beautiful speech before me, but I was too busy mentally preparing for mine, that I don’t remember a word of it.

When I got to the podium, I recalled what a friend of mine had said a couple days before. “Don’t be nervous, all graduation speeches are boring. No one pays attention to them but your family.” Needless to say, my goal was to make people pay attention.

I hate when speakers thank everyone in the room for being there. I much prefer they just get right down to business. We get it, you’re honored, but we’d rather you show us that by blowing our socks off rather than boring us from the start. In that spirit, all I said was “good evening,” and started talking.

As you will not at all be surprised to hear, my speech was constructed around baseball. One of the things that I’ll never forget is watching the men in the audience sit up in their seats during my opening lines. There were more than 2,000 people in the room that night, and I knew from my first sentence I had them. It was the most fun and exhilarating experience I had in front of a large audience up until I spoke at my younger brother’s wedding last year.

However, there was one thing I’ll never forgive myself for doing. I flubbed the last line. The words tripped coming out of my mouth and I mangled the closing. My family couldn’t tell in person, but it’s clear as day on the video. I knew it after it happened too, which took some of the glow off the standing ovation I got (#firstworldproblems).

Oh, you probably want to read the actual speech huh? Here it is along with some pictures from my high school days. I’ll have more retrospectives on my last 10 years in New York City in the coming weeks.

Take a Breath

Baseball fans remember two things about a great baseball game; the beginning and the end. If you ask a fan who the starting pitcher was, or who ended the game with a grand slam, you’ll probably get an answer. Few fans remember the third baseman that came in in the seventh inning for defense, or the relief pitcher that laboriously tries to clean up the starter’s mess.

Beginnings and endings have a special place in our culture. They carry great significance in our mind’s eye and that is why we are here tonight. The Class of 2002 is here to end something. We are here to begin again.

I went to my best friend Jocelyn's senior prom as a sophomore. She remains an important part of my life is expecting her first child with her husband! 

In Field of Dreams, Kevin Costner’s character says, “There comes a time when all the cosmic tumblers have clicked into place and the universe opens itself up for a few seconds to show you what’s possible.” The Class of 2002 has arrived at that moment.

Tonight marks the turning of the page, the end of an era. In this end, we find new beginnings. Some of us are off to the workplace, where we’ll strive hard to supply our families with a safe and happy life. Some of us are off to college, continuing to challenge ourselves and to discover the pleasures of education.

The AP English class that made me the writer I am. This was after taking the AP test. Thanks to  my friend Brian for saying something funny and making me look like an idiot.

Whatever the case might be, the Class of 2002 is playing in a very different ballgame. The events of September 11 have created a world that is uncertain of itself and scared of what tomorrow might bring. In the ashes of a tragedy, the world is discovering new beginnings. The Class of 2002 is apart of that beginning. We are the next answer to evil.

Neil Young teaches us, “you have to turn on evil when it’s coming after you. You have to go in after it and never be denied.” We are now all citizens of planet Earth and great change is on the horizon. At the end of our high school careers, my peers and I face a tremendous challenge. In the words of Bob Dylan, “You better start swimming or you’ll sink like a stone, for the time they are a-changing.”

Running around Muzzy Field at halftime of the annual Thanksgiving Day football game with a giant American flag.

We begin our quest to make the world a better place. We have the chore of reversing the decisions of negligent politicians who have been afraid of change. We are left the job of restoring hope to a world now afraid of its own shadow. Sir Isaac Newton once said, “If I have been able to see further than others, it was because I stood on the shoulders of giants.” The Class of 2002 will be the shoulders the world will stand on.

On the set of Funny Money. I played an English cab driver. Our director may or may not have walked out on our performance both nights.

Tonight, we leave high school behind. There will be no more study halls that last forever or endless excuses for forgotten homework. We no longer have to worry about getting caught going to McDonald’s for lunch. We are left with only the memories of first loves and horrible break-ups.  We leave behind a piece of ourselves tonight. We leave behind the rebellious, free-spirited teenager to embrace the responsibility of adulthood.

After being awarded the most improved player award my last year of organized baseball.  I didn't make the All-Star team, but got to run across Muzzy Field one last time as a baseball player.

Tonight the Class of 2002 walks off the playing field, eager for the next season; the next at-bat. I realize now there are no endings, there are only beginnings. Endings are simply a place where we can stop to catch our breath.

My advice to my classmates is: take a deep breath; we have a long game ahead of us. Thank you.

June 14, 2002

My brother Tom said I would regret wearing a stylish button instead of a bow tie for my junior prom. My only regret is not wearing my friend Paul's top hat. He also had white gloves and a cane. It was awesome.

Go Daniel Go!

“Go Daniel Go!”

Are you %$&*-ing kidding me?

That was the only thought going through my head as I started to sprint toward second base. I put my head down and pumped my arms as fast as I could. I could feel the dirt kicking up under my cleats and hitting the back of my legs. I heard the ball hit the catcher’s mitt. The umpire barked a call I couldn’t make out. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the catcher stand up and heave the ball to the shortstop who was covering the bag. I accelerated again the best I could and then pushed my legs out from under me. My outstretched foot hit the white bag before the fielder swiped his glove across it.

“Safe!” the umpire bellowed.

I raised my hand up to call timeout. I stood up and shook off the brown earth off my black T-shirt and gray baseball pants. I took my helmet off and wiped the sweat from my forehead. While the pitcher readied for his next pitch, I glared at Coach Tim who was cracking up along the first base line. I hadn’t reached first base all that often in the last couple of years, never mind steal a base.

“Daniel, the pitcher was in his windup, I had to send you,” he explained as I trotted in after the inning had ended. “Your wheels still made it a close play.”

I grabbed my glove without saying anything and ran back out to my position in left field. I was able to pick up my heart that had fallen out of my chest around first base on my way there.

I was in my third, and as it would turn out my final, year playing organized baseball with the Bristol Park and Recreation Pony League. I was a member of the Phantoms in the Scott Division. I had been drafted by my older brother out of pity and necessity after a horrendous tryout which I will go into more detail at some point (let’s just say it was the last time I ever played an infield position). I went hitless my first season, going an impressive 0-17 with 15 strikeouts. My last two at-bats were ground outs and you would have thought from the fans’ reaction that I had laced a hit to win the World Series. The next year I improved to 2-17, with only 5 strikeouts. No one, including myself, expected the year I was about to have under Coach Tim (my cousin-in-law who had taken over the team after my older brother became a league director).

The first practice pretty much set the tone for the kind of summer we were in for.

I was the first player to arrive and Coach Tim’s buddy and assistant coach Scott asked if I had a hose once he found out I was an outfielder. I stood there like a dead fish with its mouth gaping open for several minutes not having any idea what the hell he was talking about.

“Your arm, man,” he replied. “Do you have a good arm?”

“Oh. Yeah, of course,” I lied.

Unlike my older brother, who went over basic fielding/throwing/running drills the first practice, Coach Tim had everyone take their positions right away and started smacking balls off his fungo bat. It seemed like the extended infield/outfield routine went on for hours with none of the drudgery that usually defined a first practice. Despite my weaker arm, I had turned into a decent outfielder and had no trouble making plays and getting the ball into the infield. There really is no better feeling then tracking a white baseball sailing through bright blue summer sky and feeling it settle abruptly into the leather webbing of your glove.

The highlight though came when we started to do base running drills to finish off the day. All the players lined up behind home plate. Instead of just barking directions on the sideline, Coach Tim went to the front of the line to run with us.

“Alright guys, we’re going to run out a base hit. Give the guy in front of you a minute before you start,” He instructed us. I watched him get into a running stance and then heard Scott yell out “Go!”

I was one of the first people in line, so I got a great view of our new head coach trip over his own two feet, fall to the ground in a heap and then roll violently away to avoid being stampeded by the rest of the team. Needless to say, it wasn’t the best omen for how our season was going to start. I don’t remember Coach Tim running with us after that either.

The Phantoms started 0-4. And it was an ugly 0-4.

It didn’t take long to realize we had some real characters on the team. Our shortstop thought he was God’s gift to creation even after making error after error. We had two brother outfielders, one who got tossed from a game early on for calling an umpire a “bitch” and the other who cried if you looked at him wrong. We had one of the most talented players in the league playing at second base, but he wasn’t hitting a lick. We had several players who were playing their first season of baseball ever and it showed.

The real gem was an outfielder named David who had barely seen a baseball field, never mind set foot on one. At our first game, he strode up to the plate for his first at-bat in the tightest baseball pants Connecticut has ever seen. To complete the mental image, he wasn’t wearing a cup. My cousin, also Coach Tim’s girlfriend and future wife, tried her best to point all this out to him.

Caryn: “David, there are bigger pants available.”

David: “Naw, I like these, they feel good.”

Caryn: “David, you’re not wearing a cup!”

David: “Huh?”

It was hard to push the subject any further than that with his entire family sitting at the end of our bench cheering him on. Eventually, to the relief of everyone, he started to wear baggier pants, but unfortunately for the team, that didn’t help him hit the baseball any better.

Coach Tim actually made some pretty good coaching moves to get us out of our funk. Our best player on the team, the third baseman Joe, asked if he could pitch and he was given a shot. It saved our season. He ended up being our best pitcher down the stretch. Coach Tim also moved our shortstop to centerfield after getting fed up over his awful play the first four games. He turned into a different player and started running down deep fly balls and throwing runners out at home on a consistent basis.

There was also something very strange happening. I was hitting. Not only that, but I was hitting in bunches. The game that really stands out is a four hit game I had against the Cardinals. I had a shot up the middle and then three balls through the hole between the first and second basemen. The last one was bobbled by the outfield and I was raced toward second base to take advantage. I felt euphoric as I approached the bag and started into my slide. My foot didn’t hit anything. I realized that I had slid too early and was still a couple feet away from the base. Before I could get up and do anything about it, the second baseman tagged me on top of my head with the ball in his glove. The good news is I was credited with the RBI. I don’t think that helped with the embarrassment at the time.

I was also finding my voice on the field. I was one of the “veterans” on the team and did my best to keep everyone pumped up and focused. I never shut up in the outfield. I was constantly giving the pitcher support and yelling out directions after the ball was hit. All the excitement and passion I had for the game just came pouring out. I was the first one to high-five a teammate after scoring a run or making a good play in the field, I always stayed positive even when we were losing and I worked as hard as I could to have as much fun as possible. I must have known somewhere in my mind that this was it and I wanted to get as much out of it as possible.

Of course, it was hard not to have a good time when you’re head coach was providing unintentional comedy on a consistent basis. We were all over him one practice, cracking jokes left and right about anything and everything.

“Coach, what do you do for a living?” our second baseman asked him.

“I’m a baker.”

“You’re a what?”

“I’m a baker.”

“Coach, isn’t that, you know ‘women’s work’?”

“Hey, how about you run some laps and ask me that again.”

“I want to be a baker when I grow up!”

(Ironically enough, he ended up becoming a chef).

Not so funny was the tirade Coach Tim had during our last practice before the playoffs. After a pretty spirited water fight after a good workout, the emotional brother outfielder started to whine and complain about playing time and how disrespected he had been the whole year. I have never seen a face turn the shed of red that Coach Tim’s did. A season worth of anger and frustration came pouring out. He must have used every curse word ever uttered in the history of mankind. The rest of the players and I stood wordlessly at our positions as we watched our crying comrade take it. After a good five minutes, Coach Tim grabbed his trusty fungo.

“Daniel, the plays at second base,” he yelled.

I started running before he hit the ball. I heard the ping of the bat and looked up. Sure enough, the ball was traveling miles over my head. I was out of breath when I finally caught up with it. I’ve never seen a longer cut off line to the infield when I turned and threw the ball. Each outfielder had the same experience and Coach Tim swore until practice ended. At least we were finishing like we started.

My last game in a baseball uniform came against the Eagles in the first round of the playoffs. It was a pitcher’s duel between Joe and a good buddy of mine Tony. I actually helped Joe out of a jam early in the game when I made a diving catch on a weak fly ball. I remember getting up, flipping the ball to my older brother who was umpiring the game and shouting at my teammates to get something going.

We were down by one run headed into the last inning. Tony had kept our hitters off balance all day with his ungodly curveball. He was still in there and showing no signs of getting tired. I came to the realization that I was up third in the order. I could be the potential last out of the game.....again.

Sure enough, the first two batters made quick outs and I strode to the plate. In baseball, the rule is to take a strike late in the game when you’re losing, so that’s what I did. The second pitch was a curveball that Jesus himself couldn’t have touched. I had a flash back to a game during my first year when I struck out to end the game looking and ended up crying my eyes out. I stepped out of the batter’s box and took a deep breath. I stepped back in and accepted my destiny. I swung weakly at another nasty curveball. The season was over, as was my short-lived career.

I got quite the send off however. On a cool, clear night at venerable Muzzy Field, I stood with the best players in the league, waiting to receive the Sportsmanship/Most Improved Player Award. I couldn’t hear what they were saying over the loudspeaker about me because I was too busy concentrating on not tripping over myself on the way to the presentation table. Finally, I heard them announce my name and I trotted over easily. The best part was that my older brother was the one to hand me the award. He’d been my coach and mentor, not only the previous two years, but throughout my life. Sharing the moment with him was special and made winning the award even sweeter.

As I was leaving the stadium later that night, I received one of the best compliments of my life. Spec Monico, a great coach at my high school and who had just won the league championship managing the Eagles, told me the award was well deserved and I had earned it.

“You don’t forget awards like this one,” he told me. “These are special.”

He was right.