I'm sure this hill is where it stood.
Amazing shapes of stuccoed wood.
A glass-brick, neon stream-lined place.
As if it flew from outer space,
A swing band auditorium,
An Art Deco emporium,
When romance, innocent in pace,
From dancing to a teasing chase.
The town grew west in modern haste
And down it came, without a trace.
The war and culture's change in taste,
Predestined doom, the past erased.
The future sighs, with solemn face
The wrecking ball, the glittered waste
No plaque to read "Historic Sight".
The swirling dust, a dance goodnight.
Born American, sixth generation of great-grands all German,
not much liking sausage or sauerkraut, English speaking all the way,
except the Germany of my ancestry was fought over and broken
so I’m a bit of France, Germany, Poland, Hungary all the Holy
Roman empire, dissolved down, fought over, egotized, horrified
and remade Into some new state where English is as common as German.
We share a love of flowers in the face of cold and rain, I drink less beer
and wine, meet up somewhere, anywhere around the world on a beach.
From my parents and grandparents, I know to serve up too much food
seven sweets, seven sours and drink and whirl the night away to a band.
Hardworking sorts, unafraid of a little dirt, loving dirt, the turnover
and young sprout brought to fruit, wearing overalls and then washing up.
To sit before a pressed linen table cloth, served up on the finest china,
the cha in my father’s name, the uff da, and other exclamations.
The morning rosaries, the blessed churches where we give thanks for all good
and the setting aside of pride while we work together to make our food.
Sure there are aprons for cooking. Shorts for summertime. A dive into any pool.
What do I know of being German, not much, it's just somewhere in my roots.
Now that I'm retired
And know I can't be fired
I'll do anything I damn well please
And I don't give a hoot
Who hears me when I toot
For I have grown acustomed to the cheese
Old women and old men
As they grow nearer their end
Really just don't care what people think
Say and do what's on their mind
For as they age they find
They kinda like to raise a little stink
Strange or not
Odd and fun.
That’s not all
And still are
Strange and odd.
life is life.
Not is lies.
Truth seeps from
Lies, lies, lies
Move, move, move
Lies are life.
Lies are death.
Lies are homes.
Lies are pain.
Lies are truth.
Truth is life.
Truth is death.
Truth is home.
Truth is pain.
Truth is lie.
Truth is that.
Lies will die.
Lies will cease.
Truth will live.
Truth will be.
and she stares back
through the small window
placed precariously on the hearth
catching my sporadic glimpse.
this morning is different
an interrupted rendezvous,
a young man your arm holds
casting that familiar smile
(One plus one equals two)
these voices remind me through
a Pablo Neruda window sill
exiled by the note found
wants I should know you.
a smile torments my memory
twisting a distant storm
unable to produce rain,
stirs clouds of silt vanished footprints.
you have evaporated now,
your pedestal seated high
next to life’s marble vase;
hidden behind a false wall
as something haunts me
misplaced like an old shoe
understands the process,
while womb to air
escapes without an imprint
Old Grand-Father Clock
now polish cracked,a worn-out broken crock
Gathering dust, His innards out of stock
Standing alone in a dank corner forlorn,
Forgotten in the clutter of the attic,
Not even now considered an antique.
Stilled, His pendulum's hypnotic swing
No more His tick-tocking minutes at play
Muzzled His ding-donging chime
As the deteriorating years chime
Blurry and mouldy His faded dial,
His statuesque charm, a forgotten style.
Then perchance finally, the fate's to mock
Ancient Father Time caused the day to arrive
To have Old Grandfather Clock
Refurbished and in grandiose splendour revive
To once more majestic in the halfway to stand
On His refreshed dial a new minute's and hour hand.
His walnut lacquered skin a glistening display
With polished pendulum swinging pride-fully anew
And tolling chimes, pealing the time of day
Now standing in grandeur for all to view
Tick-tocking, ding-donging the time away
A Praying homage to His Redeemer, the Master-Craftsman his Due.