Ode to Edie: Andy’s Superstar


One from the Archives

Mayflower girl surrounded by sins.
East coast blue blood coursing through her veins.
Santa Barbara born, raised in the bins,
Escaped to New York to ease her pains.

Poor little rich girl, embraced by the crowd.
She’s danced like a goddess
And the maker was proud.

Watching as she groped for love and affection.
Welcoming her with his arms open wide.
She couldn’t
Much help it when “
It” garnered attention.

He liked all the money and elite cache.
Edie and Andy sounded right, kindred spirits,
With each other to play.

Yet times were quickly changing,
As she was led into the dark.
She looked in the mirror; scarred and ravaged
How did she lose that brilliant spark?

Girl on fire rescued from the flame.
At the Chelsea hotel alone, how far
She had plunged from her fifteen minutes of fame.

Andy created his masterpiece with care.
Then watched as the pieces fell one by one,
Dominoes falling in unison to the sound of despair.

The day she died was just another day.
He pretended and postured, but the truth was in the end
He claimed be barely knew his fragile protégé
.

 

 Copyright ©2008 Veronica Romm

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A Little Walt Whitman


When I heard the learn’d astronomer by Walt Whitman

 

When I heard the learn’d astronomer,
When the proofs, the figures, were ranged in columns before me,
When I was shown the charts and diagrams, to add, divide, and measure them,
When I sitting heard the astronomer where he lectured with much applause in the lecture-room,
How soon unaccountable I became tired and sick,
Till rising and gliding out I wander’d off by myself,
In the mystical moist night-air, and from time to time,
Look’d up in perfect silence at the stars.

 

Just wanted to share some genius with you today.  Those old poets really knew how to make a point.  I had a really tough English teacher two years in a row.  A.P. English was perhaps the most difficult class I ever took.  But Mrs. H pushed my lazy ass and I wrote.  I also got grounded if my grade was below a B and in Mrs. H’s class a C was normal.  I got grounded a few times but usually I intercepted the PINK SLIP she would write to alert my mother of my shameful grade.   I remember reading this and totally understanding it, I had the best discussion with Mrs. H about this poem.  I got an A.
Walt Whitman (1819-1892) is America’s world poet — a latter-day successor to Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Shakespeare. In his Leaves of Grass, first published in 1855 and revised and expanded for the rest of his life, he celebrated democracy, nature, love, and friendship. This monumental work chanted praises to the body as well as to the soul, and found beauty and reassurance even in death.

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My Peace


The elusive quest quiet at times, riotous
others, seems ceaseless.
I search for it, I think about it trying to
understand its true meaning.
I shudder when I think I might not get there,
reach it, know it or like it.
It is a word used  often, usually in the same breath
as, war, politics and death.
I write and it gets closer, we are intimate, I feel
clear and it familiar.
It taunts but seems to relent as I embrace it,
recognizing it with admiration.
It is fleeting, and so the trance subsides,
leaving warmth and hope.
One step closer to attaining my peace,
allowing it to attain me.
a reunion.                                                                                                                    
For once at birth,
we were acquainted, now like old friends,
we share a moment and  it’s gone.

Copyright ©2007 Veronica Romm

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