...As the years went by Nick’s playing
came less often, as he wandered,
he just became a vagabond,
going to almshouses in winter.
That’s how he came to Watertown
in the sad last year of his life,
they say he didn’t play at all,
many felt pity at his plight.
There even was a well-dressed man,
white-haired, and getting on in years,
who came looking for Nick Goodall,
and in that sad poorhouse appeared.
They say he took Nick’s violin,
and played it so the notes were heard,
said, “Nick, don’t you remember this?
And how we played it together?”
Nick then took up the violin,
and ones more played beautiful airs,
some say the man was his father,
he was never seen again there.
Why Goodall died, nobody knows,
he was given a pauper’s grave,
some folk looked at his violin
to understand how well he played.
But they found nothing special there,
the viol was a common kind,
the beauty that he’d drawn from it
was born out of his troubled mind.
After he died they raised money,
for a grave, he had been broke, of course,
in local folklore Nick remains:
The Mad Fiddler of the North.
AT THE WINDOW
She had cut her hair
and wondered if he liked it
“Not a problem” he said
acutely aware of her perpetual
pattern of cyclical change
She was a Cynthian spirit,
a sensual soul, a life giving poem
healing all whom she knew like
an exquisite mixture of sunlight
and rain daily applying their
restorative nutrients to the
damaged terrain of a badly burned
forest, guarded at night by the
changing phases, the ivory white
light of the goddess of the moon
But…..
It was cold outside and the big
Macks and Kenworths with their
smooth-shifting gears pushed up
Route 12 into lake-effect country,
kicking up snow like silvery wolves,
bright lights like big teeth, running
for Syracuse, Watertown, Montreal
and beyond
“I like it” he said, meaning the
trucks on parade, “I know” she
replied, including her hair with
the north country commerce that
connected his dreams to
everywhere else
The Leatherman
many years ago let the truth unfold
one man who lived as a hermit
wearing nothing but leather all around him
had walked many miles in New England
he had thoughts of wild excursion in the sun
but what kept him alive was his deep quest for knowledge...
he survived many years ago
had a stone cave in Watertown, Ct
when rarely seen out in public he would often grunt something with French dialact
looking for every sort of food he could find
his only means of transportation was to walk to his destination...
he was sometimes miles in the woods far from public roads,
Way out in the middle of no where
he created a human obstacle course that was his very own...
many miles he would then roam
on his various stops people would often leave food,
Always seemed to be in a very good mood
walked his trail until the very day he died
the tale of the leaterman has arrived.
The Cafe lights glow with the
resisting urge to dim
It's not long before the darkness consumes
this little town I find myself in tonight
Pouring rain, pounding thunder make it hard
to keep my smokes alive
Shackled beneath a gas station overlay
I count the money in my pocket
Forty, maybe fifty bucks including change
I find an empty car close to the nearest liquor store
jack up the handle and bundle up for the night
The contents inside include a half eaten blueberry muffin
cold coffee, and a dated CD
I hate blueberries
I pull out what juice is left of my tin stash
pour it into the nearly empty Holiday cup
To my surprise, the mixture ain't half bad
I slip away with the sound of beating rain
For my self destruction leads to another man's creation
I fall asleep
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