OLD WARRIOR OF NORTH BEACH

he walks the streets
of North Beach looking
like an old man with eyes empty
as a broken parking meter
unemployable weighed down
by the years
his mind heavy as an anchor
dragging the ocean floor
forgotten rebel playing old
Lorca ballads in the shipwreck
of his heart
his mind destroyed by shock
treatments and one too many
police batons

at night he dreams
he is riding with Geronimo
has imaginary conversations
with Charlie Parker
rides the ferry with Coltrane
and Mingus
getting off at Bourbon Street
to down a drink with Kerouac

he shares a cigarette
with Charlie Chaplin
at the old Bijou Theater
walks the battlefields
with Walt Whitman
rides the plains
with Red Cloud
in search of the last buffalo

walking the streets of North
Beach
in search of the elusive ginger
fish smell
death a sightless chauffeur
waiting like a concubine
facing another apocalyptic day

 

MEMORIES

no more jazz at the
Black Hawk
no more jazz at the
Cellar
no more jazz in the
Fillmore
just ghostly boarded down doors

gone the clinking of glasses
the waitress who always knew
when your glass was empty
       solo
              combo

                     trio
working their magic
on your inflamed nerve ends
the black female crooner
hitting her notes
like a midnight freight train
breaking the stillness of night
with its long wailing whistle
her sultry smile imbedded
in your skin
long after the closing hour
leaving you sweating
limp like waking from
a wet dream

 

POEM FOR MY FATHER

on weekends my father worked
for Luke Morley
at the corner grocery store
not for money but for conversation
communication he never had
with my mother
stacking shelves with canned goods
coming home with his reward
a pack of Camel cigarettes
sitting alone staring out the window
smoking a cigarette
the ashes falling in the ash tray
like bits and pieces of his life

***These poems were first published in Global Tapestry Journal, United Kingdom

 

THE OLD ITALIANS OF AQUATIC PARK

the old men of Aquatic Park
are dying or dead
they spend their time playing
Bocce Ball
lady death striking them down
like bowling pins

the old men of Aquatic Park
are steeped in tradition
dark skinned dressed in sport shirts
and baggy slacks looking like bit actors
out of a 1950 movie
dancing the last waltz on the deck
of the Titanic

the old men of Aquatic Park
sit on hard benches late in the day
their eyes taking in young women
moving left and right
as if at a tennis match
pausing to feed the pigeons
using their hands as cutting knives
to separate the crust from the bread
which they toss into the air
like rice at an Italian wedding
rising to brush the crumbs
from their pants
one with a suit vest and tie
pulling at the gold chain holding
his pocket watch held securely
next to his heart

the old men of Aquatic Park
have the smell of garlic and pasta
embedded in their skin
Italy breathing in their heart
the old men of Aquatic Park
are dying off with grace and dignity
and a love for the old world ways

there is something sad about being
Americanized
there is something said about growing
old
the Bocce Ball rolls slowly along
the grass
coming to rest like a hearse
parked at an open grave

funerals await them
flowers scattered like empty promises
the mourners fewer in number
their ranks depleted
file slowly into their cars
disappear into the shadows
of late afternoon monotony

Bocce Ball will resume
in the morning
there are pigeons to be fed
wine to drink stories to tell
the thirst for life masked
in the face of death

***From a Chapbook of poems:
    People You Think You Know, published by Foursep Publications.

 

FOR ANNE

Your memory returns
to haunt me
The way you looked at me
when undressing for bed
The way the moon light peaked
through the window shades
the first time we made love
leaving me feeling like a voyeur
resting in God's favorite easy chair

***published as a limited edition broadside by Bottle of Smoke Press

 

68

lines beginning to form
at the corner
of my eyes
and I eat not from hunger
but out of force of habit
the fire in the loins is still there
and the hose still hard
but no one to man it

*** first published by Big Hammer

 

THE WRONG SIDE OF TOWN

cop's flashlight intruding
on my thoughts
loud rapping on car window
demanding to know what
I'm doing out on the
other side of town

pulled out of the car
frisked and taken down
town for questioning
police suspicious
why would a white boy
be listening to a tape
of a black musician
in a respectable part
of town

***Published by Bottle of Smoke Press as a limited 50 copy broadside

 

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     Announcing a new and first spoken word CD by A. D. Winans from Hemispherical Press. CD contains readings from Beyond Baroque, the North
Beach Street Festival, and A Night Of Street Poetry, UC California
Extension Center. $6, or $8 with limited edition broadside.

See www.hemisphericalpress.com for ordering information, or send check made out to Justin Barrett at: Hemispherical Press
C/of Justin Barrett
274 Ramona Avenue
Salt Lake City, UT 84115-2115