Long Lifeold Poems
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My grandfather
Worked hard all his life
And died
When I was
Away.
I remember him
Sitting in the dark
By the kitchen stove
On cold winter nights
Rubbing his calloused hands
Over and over again
Not saying a word
To anyone
Listening to the voices on the outside
Whistling in the winter wind.
Once I walked
In by mistake
Breaking the silence
I asked what he was thinking about
Nothing he said
The his voice changed
Listen to me son
Everyone has a lesson
To learn in life
You’re young now
But later on
You’ll need to know
When to grab life
In your own two hands
And shake it
Until you get
What you want.
The sudden anger
In his voice
Startled me like a
Short fuse in the night
And I ran from him.
Grandfather didn’t work during winter
It was too cold he said
The need
To work more
To buy more
Never suited him.
What he needed was nearby
A pair of old work boots
A jacket carelessly slung
Over a chair
A pair of cotton twill pants from better days
And a bottle of brandy.
For him, winter was
Meeting old friends
After Sunday Church
Congregating in the park
In small groups
Standing their ground
Against all outsiders
On days when the snows receded
And winter’s end seemed close.
Some rested on canes
Others stood tall
Survivors of another winter
Arguing politics
Talking about this and that
And how well their grown up children were doing.
Life can go on without us
They seemed to say
To the empty park
And the gray skies
We will meet again one day
But for now
We’ll stay here until the sun goes down
And winter returns.
**A Travel East**
We pass the Grand Mesa cruising like lightening at 95mph,
I feel like a passenger on a toy train.
A mountain 11,000 feet above the ground,
auburn colored, rock faced cliffs, complimented
by a spectacular baby blue sky.
Clouds scatter, trying unsuccessfully to cover
the rapid sunrise.
Blue,
Indian orange,
and red mix together well
with the beauty of the cliff face.
Along the base,
the Colorado river
races.
Not quite a rapid,
yet swift enough to scare rafters,
and small animals.
Miniature icebergs travel through a small channel
created in the ice of the once wide river.
A family of coyotes gather on a patch of solid ice.
The young playfully roam,
while the adults relax, lick themselves and watch.
Deer prance across the terrain,
chasing the train.
Detained,
inside a fence,
cattle graze in a group of one hundred or so.
A cottage rests along the perimeter
where children play.
Bundled from head to toe,
Snow,
thick and heavy.
Frosty is created!!
Homeward bound!!
The ride semi-pleasant,
better than the first.
The lavatory still with that distinctive
musky urine scent.
The passenger car seems bigger this time,
more spacious.
Room for my long legs,
and wide enough to accommodate my beer gut.
I hear the rantings of an old married couple
as they bicker about what time dinner should be reserved for.
Beside me,
laying awkwardly,
an old man snores.
Shallow breaths in between,
I can hear his heartbeat.
Pounding like
a heavy percussion solo,
his feet propped on his duffel bag below.
The lobby car when first entered
looked barren.
A few passengers sit with books and laptops,
others watch as the fast moving terrain passes
through the tinted double glass.
My cell phone lost battery life and I
needed the accommodation of electricity.
Occupied,
I wait for my turn.
From my peripheral I saw her,
I could sense her aura.
Smell her aroma of Vanilla Musk.
Dirty blond hair with red highlights,
short but not to short,
with a friendly disposition.
So,
I sparked a conversation,
that helped better this expedition.
Jared Pickett
3/7/08
Asavvy1
The painting's old and weather-worn beyond a time
I'd never know, and dust-lined
and bold. But still it's crude
how the oil paint collides with aging lines in an age-old taboo.
And daring me to find
a part too daring in something named divine,
and vivid in it's truth or steadfast with its lies.
A shameless sharing of life
that spreads a reality in color-sewn light
that's told her she's promiscuos, she's been kept in strife
to the old shadows of the night.
But here she is after all this time, a smile for all as she takes flight
unchanged. She's not aged
with the passage of judgement, and unshamed.
She stands erect, bare-chested and sure of her right
to be what she is. A woman that lived
with her quiet resistance. She lived to give
her quiet echo through the distance.
And now her pride could match a man's,
as she bears her breast and strokes her violin.
Some have passion and
Dreams in their hearts
That weave in and out
Beyond the edges
Of small places
Their dreams may be only words to some
But to them they mean everything.
And others,
Just as young,
Run off
With no plans
No ideas
And never a second thought.
The dreamers and the aimless
Eventually meet
In the East Village
Center of the counterculture in New York
Birthplace of artistic movements
Punk rock
The Nuyorican literary movement
Site of protests and riots
A place of coffee shops and smart pubs
Hidden inside tenements and dank basements.
And every corner busy.
The older residents
Are immune to the antics of this place
Living in the neighborhood for decades
They have witnessed its many changes
Speaking a hundred different languages,
Accents from the cold climate
Of Eastern Europe
And warm places in the Islands,
Theirs is a smaller world of
Cheap apartments
And open air markets
Where customers
Still haggle over prices.
In dark places
Painted over decades of neglect
Old Polish ladies silently pray
In empty Catholic Churches
Built over a hundred years ago.
By Fall the last Summer’s batch of young leave
Some with promises
Others with regrets
But if there is a regularity
To the ebb and flow of this place
It is the tide
Always bringing in the new.
On Avenue A,
Just off Tompkins Square Park,
An old Spanish woman sits
In a doorway
Watching the artists, radicals and fashion lovers
Walk by
Anyone who cares to listen
Will hear her sing
An old lullaby
"Close your eyes little ones and sleep
And dream while the angels watch over you
I will hold your hand
And when you wake up in the morning I’ll still be here."
HIDDEN YOUTH
Locked inside each oldster,
There's a youngster you will find,
Peering out and looking back,
At all he's left behind.
He's really not so different,
From the youngsters of today,
Though wrinkled now, his eyes are dim,
What hair he has is gray.
He stilllikes a little company,
Enjoys a little fun,
And oh the stories he can tell,
From back when he was young.
He's not as dumb as some will think,
He's wiser now than most,
And you can learn a lot from him,
If you aren't self engrossed.
Most problems that we face today,
He's seen it all before,
You aren't the first to run into,
That self same slamming door.
He has a world of sage advice,
If you will only listen.
He's run that same track once or twice,
And he has hind-sight vision.
He's really not so different,
He laughs and he cries too,
Not just some stuffy old antique,
Inside he's just like you.
Judy Ball
So many people today think once you've passed the Big Five-O life just ends. NOT
SO! For many of us it begins al over again.
We're finally free to pursue all the things we previously set aside to raise our
families. Our brains don't just stop functioning and I've never seen anyone with an
expiration date stamped on their bottom by God at birth.
We still like to have coffee and chat, we still like a good joke, still like to dance, go to
dinner, see a show, etc. Myself I still love the great outdoors and being surrounded
by Nature and my animals.
I'm old I'm not dead.
I'm gonna go full tilt until I just run out of gas and drop one day.
You can do what you want with what's left.
I won't be needing it anymore.
A busy road.
A tree stump.
An old man.
Everyday at eight 'o clock
He sits there, cane tapping
just watching cars go by--
I among them
Such a lonely man
I say to myself
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Same old man.
He looks up, cane twirling
and smiles at me
in that split second
I smile back
A roadside friend is gained.
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different old man.
Day after day
He waves hi--cane dancing
Smiling
I wave goodbye,
no time to stop
Same busy road
Same tree stump
No old man
I screech to a halt
Ask of his absence
Clutching
a piece of paper
found taped on his cane
I weep in my car
and send a prayer
of thanks
to my roadside friend
Eleven words
Changed my world.
"Thank you lady in the blue car.
You make my day."
Same busy road.
Same tree stump.
Different me.
From a store window
We watched a woman hit by a car
Wearing a bright summer dress
She moved in short staccato steps
In a desperate dance to stay alive
Hands reaching out
To no one.
Saw the driver’s face
Anger and impatience
None of us believed that a life could be over
This suddenly.
Sirens wailed in the background
Announcing what was to come
Gaze anchored in the distance
She held my hand
We begged her to hold on.
After it was over we stood up
Forming an impromptu circle
In the street
A father and his eight year old daughter
A middle aged woman
And myself
Strangers until this time
All speaking at once
Awkward handshakes
A timid pat on the back.
Still holding her father’s hand
The eight year old looked beyond our circle
Not listening
Not hearing
The sadness in her eyes
Told us what we didn’t want to know
Sweet innocence
Of a little girl
Was lost forever.
The house we lived in
Was someone's idea of a castle.
Stone and old cement walls
Ornate ceiling fixtures
A faded marble foyer.
There were no buyers
So it went cheap
My parents were also practical.
There were two apartments
Which meant a monthly income.
We lived upstairs
So as to not hear footsteps at night
Our rooms were small
And the walls retained a coldness
That lasted until summer
In the foyer
Near the door
Was a telephone
Perched on a small table
Big enough to lean on
In case the call
Became a conversation.
The phone itself
Was basic black
Ordinary
And indestructible.
Our TV was in the living room
We watched
The Kennedy/Nixon debates
And witnessed the trauma of Kennedy's assassination
The nation grieved
For the Kennedys
But not for too long
Our attention was diverted
When the Beatles arrived.
It was the sixties
America was anxious
And searching for something new to believe in
And so were we.
Things changed
I left
My sister married
And our little brother
Inherited a room of his own.
Parents didn't change
They spent time
Dwelling on old memories and unpaid debts.
I visit the old place
Now and then
Driving by slowly
Long enough to see that
The new family:
Added an extension
Expanded the garage
Used up most of the back yard
Changes which I can't approve.
I still remember
When I lived there
How I was able to see the New York City skyline at night
Lit up
And full of promises
Then
I would dream
Of being someone else
And somewhere else.
Once passing by the house
I imagined
The front door
Opened
I was tempted to walk in
And saw myself climbing
The long staircase to the top
To look out and see
If the city lights
Still shone brightly
Beckoning me with her spell
If so,
I would ask whatever happened to my dreams?
Different worlds, you and I
Is it a blessing or a curse
All the luxuries of modern living
In some ways times are worse
The old man spoke of younger days
Time was so much simpler then
He thought about the hardships
And the struggles way back when
The old man said I’ll tell you a story
Of how things were long before
Of days when families had so little
In some ways, so much more
He told him of the friendships
That had lasted through the years
And he spoke of people dead and gone
And the young boy saw his tears
He talked about the innocence
When love was on the wing
Looking out his back yard window
For the first robin in the spring
Playing baseball in an empty lot
Sometimes fighting with his brother
Picking flowers for a May Altar
For Our Lord’s Blessed Mother
He talked about his mother’s eyes
And how she looked when he upset her
Times were very difficult
In some ways, so much better
He spoke of days when children played
Until after dark not knowing fear
Of monkey bars and merry go rounds
As he shed another tear
He knew all the shop owners by name
He had never seen a mall
Riding his bicycle all summer
Rolling in piles of leaves in the fall
The young boy smiled and said call it progress
We underestimated the cost
In some ways I have gained so much
And in some ways, I lost.