...the chubby penny
...shattered windowpanes
shattered windowpanes and settled dust
wrought iron gates painted with rust
feelings long lost and never regained
oh, how i wish that love had remained...
fingers of fog whisper between the hollow masts
silent—like a note never played on an instrument never touched
gray shades of white crawl delicately
dissipating slowly at the touch of morning's sun
quiet hearts hold the secrets of memories
saved for the harvest on some approaching thursday.
gathered like austere mourners clad in black
they pause to celebrate the passing of another foggy morn.
a new season was kind,
with no holidays to burden overstuffed days
and no expectation of laughter where sorrow had made its home.
a hushed vapor rolled in and lifted away
—harmless and unobtrusive—
except to stir a memory of how simple life used to be
when the silence of morning fog was quiet enough.
purple bowl in the window
he didn’t like city buses spouting black smoke,
park benches overtaken by pigeons,
or towns with straight, one-way streets.
he didn’t care for department stores featuring girls
with plastic smiles
or big-nosed politicians smoking short, fat cigars.
he was raised in the south
and chewed words longer than originally intended.
he didn’t like lemons
or the purple bowl in the window of the hardware store.
monday through friday was sufficient
—and then the weekend came—
complete with the quiet of silence.
he could hear the void in his heart
like a glass of undisturbed water…
or the sound of the sun rising in the east.
barren and hushed—
the purple bowl in the window reminded him of his life—
yet he could not hear the melody of the carnival.
sometimes he dreamed of squeezing yellow lemons
into the purple bowl but that would be fruitless;
the bowl was hollow, the lemons bitter…just like tomorrow. spilled vodka in my orange juice he was a straight talkin’ whiskered man he pulled a guitar from the side of him we took the rails through chicago and then at last he looked at me but i knew it didn’t matter he sang a song i’d never known he said, “don’t you count on nobody always remember who you are well, i smiled at him as he walked away i’d met a man who had an outstretched hand he was a straight talkin’ whiskered man
straight talkin' man
well i walked into the bar room
just to hear the sound
pulled way back on the wooden stool
and set my body down
‘twas flavor for my soul
an’ a stranger sat down next to me
an’ said, “man, your troubles show.”
never said his name
but he set me up with another round
of liquid lovin’ sane
and laid my troubles down
as he sang old songs
of love gone wrong
on th’ streets of every town
and on up to smokey mount
from the eastern coast
to the western shore
was more stops than i could count
and said, “friend, where have you been?”
i looked at him
through a wasted mind
and wanted to ask him ‘when’?
‘cause my days were all the same
countin’ th’ thick glass bottoms
of my liquid lovin’ sane
but now i know it well
‘cause it was my path to the outer rim
of my liquid lovin’ hell
‘cause nobody knows your name
an’ if you walk away from these bar room doors
that’s how it will remain
and never forget where you’ve been
so when the mirror takes a close up shot
it will reflect to you a friend..."
leaving black coffee in front of me
and tears that ran across my mind
made it so easy for me to see
like the man from galilee
who walked from shore to distant shore
jus’ setting people free
who never said his name
but he set me up with another round
that put me right back in th’ game…
so i sang. "jesus, you walked on th' water
an' lord, you healed th' blind
an' now i will never walk alone,
thanks for bein' a friend of mine."
in need of repair
morning is empty when
gray doves no longer coo
and what was once a novel
has been reduced to a few short words
there is nothing left
but a shortened paragraph
in search of punctuation
to slow the silence of emptiness
do you remember your youth
when life was spread out like a cinema
on some wide screen
and acted upon in full color?
a new fog has rolled in
and swallowed the light of day
there are still prostitutes on every corner
and the smell of morning’s laundromats
is unchanged
morning will soon pass
and the sun will move no more
quickly overhead
than it did when I was five
Where Have All the Flowers Gone?
Pete Seeger
empty
there was an eerie silence in the black nothing
behind window panes that once were
and are no more.
once there was a face looking out,
eyes hungry for the promise of tomorrow.
fresh red paint framed her hopes and
dreams with wishes bigger than her heart and
smaller than the point on her #2 pencil.
tornadoes and windmills, tulips and wooden
dutch shoes, cable cars and airplanes were choices
when she doodled in the burned out spaces
of her mind, created from too many fires seen,
too many tears, puddles in the rain.
she backed away from the window
thankful that no reflection would stare back,
no reminder of who she had become.
days when smudges on glass were possible,
when her breath created a place to draw
and her fingertip was an artist's brush
or a conductor's baton.
days when she had a breath other than this~
her last.
can't knock anymore
the path from here to yesterday
has too often been traveled
in search of answers and street signs
darkened corners harbor memories
that reach out like a stranger
in want of a cigarette
and in need of a bath
dusty, smelly corridors
permeated with cheap wine
are more narrow than the minds
of those whiskered men who walk them
and nobody is home
when i knock on the door
the streets of last night
are covered with papers
sports pages and obituaries
honoring heroes dead and alive
homeless men and lonely women
pluck the litter from the city gutters
to wear as jackets and fashion as hats
somewhere in the distance
a little girl cries
and a satisfied man rolls over and sighs
and nobody is home
when i knock on the door
nobody is home
i can’t knock anymore
bleu cheese and teardrops
i’ve walked along stanyan street
where hotels peer from street-lit corners
like generals who once commanded an army
but now stand disarmed, at attention,
waiting for a flag to justify shiny medals.
tall, slender double doors open silently
as if in reverence and respect,
holding secrets of smiles and
memories of how you used to eat crepes
and dance with parking meters
before feeding them undeserved coins.
to order pizza is to read a tourist map—
specialties named stanyan street or north beach
compliment coit tower and the barbary coast
while in neighborhood pubs, glasses of history
are poured, then read more clearly when the bottom is dry.
when did we become too responsible to
remember the simple things in life
and too busy to wonder
about tomorrow and some wednesday in july?
was it on stanyan street, on that cloudless day
when i looked at you and saw a tear
in the corner of your eye?
(now, with closed eyes i recall days like today
made so quickly into yesterday.)
was it in the blue front café while watching young lovers,
(you and me three decades and several pounds ago)
sandwiched between ham and turkey on rye,
tie-dyed shirts to hide the spill of bleu cheese and teardrops?
it no longer matters whether it was november or march,
summer or fall,
it no longer matters at all.
i will always wander about stanyan street
looking for you in the corner of a musty bookstore,
hoping to catch a glimpse
of a lady wearing your smile
and a wishful look in your still-youthful eyes.
proud to be an american
i saw the mailman steal my letter
i saw the tax man steal my dime
just when i thought things were better
i saw the preacher steal my time
i saw the mexican steal my border
and the terrorist steal my plane
gas so high i can’t afford’er
but still i pump ‘er just the same
my boss became a very rich man
and his boss was richer still
i didn’t understand their master plan
and i suppose i never will
the dog pound repossessed my stray
the ford dealer took my car
it was on empty anyway
so i know he won’t get far
the banker closed my bank account
the gardener took back his plants
wells fargo got just a small amount
but levi’s repossessed my pants
alfani took the shirt off my back
florsheim’s now has my shoes
my new socks are from a gunny sack
least i don’t owe union dues
the plumber took my kitchen sink
the carpenter took my wood
so about this time i’m startin’ to think
if this is bad i need some good
tonight i’ll sleep beneath the stars
and feel a gentle breeze
i’ll wonder why god went so far
just to get me on my knees
i’ll listen for that still small voice
and hear what he has to say
that he had given me a choice
but i kept pushing him away
so while he had my attention
and i was so naked and alone
the government took my pension
they picked me to the bone