No bitterness, better than me
No measurement of sour, nor apple pulled off
No old man on a corner talking to himself
No old story
No hurt that hadn’t hurt already
No cause for sounding off
No worse than you
No reason for all the things said
No worry, when no one worries, when I’m dead
No reason
No reasonable rhyme
No worries while I’m
No wonder. . . out of time, with
No bitter. . . less. . . than what I left behind
The house wasn't much to look at,
Although it was grand in its day.
But we never got tired of visiting,
Or seeing the family on Sunday.
The floors were old and creaky,
The walls were strong and tall.
The yard was ever the smallest,
Yet, we still found a way to play ball.
The clock in the kitchen kept pendulum time,
Its gentle gongs...as the hours were to go.
The louder sounds of plinking from the front room,
As we toyed with the keys of the old piano.
The sweet aromas from the bakery next door,
Wafter over us in the air.
Always reminding one of that pleasant place,
Filled with cakes and cookies and eclairs.
We didn't understand the words,
That our Grandparents often were to say.
The polish banter among our parents,
The adults kept their secrets from us that way.
Our Moms were helping Grandma in the kitchen,
Our Dads on the porch playing cards.
We ran our own little games outside,
More noise and laughter from the yard.
Only the memories now remain.
And sometimes after a day of aching hands and weary feet,
My mind turns to those happy childhood days,
As I remember the times spent...on Erie Street.
Beauty …
Has this word lost its meaning?
Is not the flower opening its
pedals to the morning more
beautiful than the
repressed mother
dressing up her 8 year old to
compete in her own,
lost dream?
Is there not more beauty in
the 9 year old with
no mom
who still loves life and
achieves her dreams?
Has beauty really become
bought
and Nature can only take you
so far?
Isn’t beauty helping someone cross
the street? Fixing someone’s flat?
Carrying groceries to
their car?
Breast implants, nose jobs,
tummy tucks and
collagen are being touted
as the new you …
really?
Aren’t you beautiful when you smile
because you heard
something funny? Or when your
eyes glitter
because you see something you love?
Isn’t beauty the crickets talking at
night as you think?
Holding hands with one
you love
as you walk bare-foot in the
grass? Isn’t that beautiful?
Beauty …
Don’t lose sight of
what it really is.
The old and young are seldom near,
Their voices sound apart:
What makes one laugh, brings one a tear,
Each has a different heart.
The young think Love’s a Tragedy,
And older men are fools;
The old reject youth’s honesty,
And challenging of rules.
The terminal prophesised an eternal line
of moving faces arriving at their destination,
mothers hold their screaming babies
as the business guys drank their coffee
like insomniac puppets on strings
valleys n lagoons of young children and elderly folk
all moved in a singular motion
to a melee of sound buzzing above their heads
a hubbub of civilisation on soap dish.
Back to life with the old soul and the funky dollar bill
like genoas khan lost in new York city
with new York city blues,
watching the jet planes fly above the mass of buildings
circling the weather stations in New Orleans
in autumn winds and summer rain in Chicago
floating like clouds with its over whelming usual conscience
Towering over towers of old motor’s
with junk yard hands on the dog
and the women drinking buds swearing at a elderly man
for having a faulty back tire on his bike
and the look of hell shaved fear on his face,
used to be in Korea and nam probably still thinks he is.
DREAMTIME: STATE FAIR OF MIND
the barren vendor
sold wishes
to those
hoping
to
forget
at the back of the room
wizened old men
sat together on a bench
across from old fur hats
tricornes and hamburgs
bowlers and fedoras
high hats, admiral hats
and others
too rare
for my knowledge
or experience
all positioned firmly
on
head stretchers
covered in dust
a reminder
linking the past
now
the old Black man
who governed this booth
sold large
round chocolate bars
handmade
of finest quality
he offered my friend one
but
strangely
ignored me
everyone
gathered in the field
as wagons passed by
on parade
the
atmosphere
was quite gay
carnival like
friends
waving to each other
no
one
recognized
me
lonely shadows fly like phantoms
sodium arc lights sickly yellow
the pallor of puss; an old mans bellow
the young rages for parents they never had them
the quiet cold of ebony rain
sepia toned photo seeking remembrance
young old women with too much experience
raspberry lip gloss she's homeless but vain
tenement skyline
lighthouse for the lost
children at sea
drowning in a ocean of humanity disdained
the writings on the wall
dope fiends in the hall
penitentiary collect calls
to grandma who accepts them all
mournfully I hear Marvin Gaye
"brother, brother, brother there are far too many of you dying"
lying in bed silently crying
"we got to find a better way here today"