Skyscrapers in Your Backyard (ed. 2009)

Everything is education,
Parents,
The way you brush your teeth,
Up and down

Or side to side is,
Seen and emulated
By your
Little ones.

The way you sit in traffic,
Fuming. Is it polite to curse
The suffocation of skyscrapers
Growing In your backyard?

The world is watching
From the back seat.
So you might say, the heavy traffic
Gives us more time to draw

Honey, and
The windows need
To be shut
Tighter,

So we can hear
Mr. Mozart better.

Or you might explain, yes
It hurts your ears
Honey,
But we can take the subway,
Ooops,
It looks a little crowded down there,

While the hungry honk
In heat and shadows
because Brooklyn
DEVELOPMENT is

In your veins,
Seething now.
The flyers in your mailbox
Brought it to you yesterday.

Do you remember when,
Honey,
Way back when before the skyscrapers
Blocked the sun?

You used to play here
Where it looks just like
Manhattan now,
By that tree.

You were born there,
Do you still remember the yard?
The noise is deafening in your ears
As it pumps the rage to your brain.

In thumps and bumps and you run, not walk
Back to find your yard, back to find your house,
Back to Brooklyn where Brooklyn once stood
There was a time when the man in uniform could not take away.

Your house your life your yard
When small stuff mattered,
But it is too late,
There are skyscrapers growing here now.

You lost track you think,
You lost the tracks
Beneath the yards someplace.

From the back seat
Comes a quizzical stare,
More unbearable questions
Where did you go Mommy?

Back to the yards again?

No, you mutter lying,
Don’t you just love that?
Your veins popping from your forehead
As you squint through your window shield
Looking to find Brooklyn?

Trying to remember it as it once was?

Now you know
You did lose track,
You lost the distant tracks that lie green
Beneath the backyards of your mind.



c. 2009 Triada Samaras

FOR PATRICK DALY, PRINCIPAL*

Listen to the rain

Wash away the pain

Listen to the rain

Wash away the pain

Drip drop Drip drop

Rain and pain will never stop

Drip drop Drip drop

Pain and rain will always stop

High in the half-lit sky

the Maker opens Her wings

and the water flows down

Down it falls on tan, painted bricks

and on red, baked ones and

on sprawling graffiti

and torn-up sidewalks

On umbrellas old and withered

and on stolen cars

with gold, spindly hubcaps

and elevated rear-ends

pounding with rhythm,

On fading murals

and upon the Spot

Headlights gleam

and make their way

through the dull shower

But the spot

is still a hallowed place

A silvery ghost or

an aura that marks the blot

Where the Principal, Patrick Daly,

died in vain

or in heroism
or simply in the gentle rain

The postwoman makes her way

across the spot

Children run and skip

through it

Baby strollers glide

over it

And dogs dive

on top of it

A tree is planted

upon it/the spot

And all the water

from the vast and cloudy sky

Fills the hole in the earth

where the tree stands

with water and more pain

Up sprout weeds of all kinds

Those that strangle sidewalks

and those with purple flowers

and those that stink

and in the middle

Sprouts a single tulip

with lips so red

and a center so bright

that it glows in the rain

and lights up the sky

Blooming and standing so tall

in a sea of grey

til a frolicking, foolish child

picks it for Mama

Listen to the rain

Wash away the pain

Listen to the rain

Wash away the pain

Drip drop Drip drop

Pain and rain will never stop

Drip drop Drip drop

Rain and pain will always stop

c. Triada Samaras 1996-1998/2005

For, Patrick Daly, beloved school principal, P.S. 15 in Redhook, Brooklyn, was accidentally killed. Daly was the Brooklyn New York City school principal killed in 1992 by gun fire during a drug dispute at a housing complex, as he searched for one of his students who had been missing school. I was assigned to work as an artist in residence at PS 15 after his death and subsequent departure of fully one third of all the teachers at the then traumatized site. I remained there for the next 7 years. TS

Instructions

Instructions


The secret to this thing is:
There is no one in charge

If you need assistance:
Please call the operator

If you need gas:
Please call 9-11

Everyone’s gone
out fighting

but the troops
need better amour

armor
arms
out
fighting
take a break

My needle is on empty
and
I need some
gas

No
frozen concentrate
or citric acid
please,
I like crushed
tomatoes
better than
pureed.


c. 2006/2008 Triada Samaras

Running Away



Far away

From home

Your ran

And grey the day you left.



Which is the home you miss more?

The one you left long ago running,

Or the one you never found so

Far away from home?


Far away from home

Your ran

And grey the day you left.

And the bus was late


But you rode it yes you did but

Did you ride it far enough

Long enough

To really get away?



And the bus was late

But you rode it, yes you did so

Drink your milk now

Get some sleep.


Do you hear your baby crying?

You rang the doorbell

Yes you did,

But you had lost the key.



c. 2007 Triada Samaras

The conundrum

The artist groped through the paint trying to see

With her fingertips the things she could not say

The more she could see

The less she could say so

She spoke in whispers

Even to her secret self

Asking, where does the paint

Want to go?

The more she could say

The less she could see so

She stopped the brush

To catch her breath often

The paint drifted about the canvas

Like waves on a lazy boat

Lapping here

Landing there

Landing nowhere

In particular

The artist played

The game she learned long ago, pretending

Her brush was deaf

Her fingers mute

And the game of smiling

When it was not called for

She stopped the brush

To catch her breath, often

The more she could say

The less she could see so

Asking where does the paint

Want to be,

She spoke in whispers

Blaming paint

Even to her secret self.

c. 2007 Triada Samaras

For Election Day, (the other Valentine's day)


Nirvana

Constant contact

Try it free

A fifth of a

Chocolate cookie

Valued voter

Keep it simple

Made by hand

Share me with your

Significant other oh,

Sweet Valentine!

Will you be mine?

Giving is our Nirvana

Freedom from the endless cycles

Suffering birth death

And even the cookie rumbling

Sometimes or one too many

Be Mine!

The darkest piece

I await you here

On Cloud Nine!


c. 2007 Triada Samaras

Poem for a Garbage Can

Poem for a Garbage Can

There is no garbage in this world

No mess-ups

No wastes of time

Just grist for your mill

Look down it’s all around you

Nothing is ever used up

Only returned

Tell me something new with something old

Remember the past

But understand how and when

To recycle

Never toss back at me

What you think I want you to hear and

Don’t try to pick me up

I am older than you think.

c. Triada Samaras 2006/2007

(This poem lives on an actual garbage can in Carroll Park, Brooklyn where I painted it.)