You may be wondering if he exists except in my mind.    As with all my poetry the people and places I write about are from real experiences and sometimes they, people and places alike, are a compilation so that the parts make the whole.  Sometimes the one I see is simply me.  You be the judge.

 

So yes, he does exist.  Read the poem ‘the statue on 47th street’ and you will be introduced to this man.  He is any man and every man.  Once you meet him you will never forget him.  He lives in every city, big and small and finds warmth and refuge wherever he is able, if he is able.

 

When you see him, please greet him with a smile and perhaps even drop a coin in his tin cup.  Your warmth may prevent the creation of yet another ‘statue on 47th street.’

 

 

two soldiers

 

war had taken part of his mind

and most of each arm

yet he smiled when a kind lady dropped a coin

rolling in a circular motion in a shallow stainless-steel bowl

stopping only when bumping into crumbled dollar bills

 

he guessed from her voice that the coin would roll clockwise

she was left-handed

war had taken his eyes

so it was part of his game, to guess, as he thanked her

and caught a whiff of perfume as she walked away

maybe a lawyer? he wondered

 

his dog, tha thứ, lay at his side, an old yet faithful companion

only tha thứ’s eyes moved as another coin struck the stainless-steel bowl

a child, the old man guessed, based on the slight noise the coin made

a young child with kind parents

his expressions of ‘thank you’ were multi-directional

wishing to give thanks to all involved

 

the next coin was almost hushed,

and dropped from an even closer hand

as if placed onto the bottom of the bowl

falling flat, rolling in no direction

 

“thank you,” the old soldier said

somehow he knew the coin was given by a fellow veteran

“bạn được chào đón” he heard the words back

followed by a strong accent proclaiming, “you are welcome.”

 

“your dog’s tag, i like it.” the man with an accent continued

tha thứ…in your language is ‘forgiveness’

so i say to you, fellow soldier

“cảm ơn bạn rất nhiều,”

that is “thank you so much.”

 

tears fell from the sightless eyes of the american soldier

tears also from his vietnamese counterpart

“cảm ơn bạn rất nhiều” said the vietnamese soldier

repeating in english, “thank you so much”

 

the skinny arms of one old soldier squeezed tightly

around the other as yet another coin was dropped

this by a tall, fast walking man who did not slow at all

counter-clockwise

right-handed the old soldier thought

.

as he managed a weak ‘thank you’ through the lingering hug

tears, he thought, are kindred

tears, whether from a soldier with no sight

or his one-time enemy, able to see his brokenness

are kindred

 

they wept

                       

 

the statue on 47th street

 

 her lissome fingers touched the piano keys

 as a tuxedoed man added rhythm with his oboe

 while outside the fancy french café

 sat a man simply known as ‘the transit hobo’

 

 snow fell softly all around him

 and in the silence of its sinking sound

 his tears were warm on his whiskered face

 as white memories piled onto the frozen ground

 

 no one dropped coins into his cup of tin

 folks were bundled and warm from the bitter cold

 none of them paid any attention to him

 i suppose his story had already been told

 

 seems he’d lost his son one christmas night

 while carrying gifts throughout their small village town

 now he no longer saw the snow in its pure shade of white

 though it painted the landscape as it fell to the ground

 

 but on this night heavy snow was deeply piled

 falling around this grieving hobo on the street

 yet on his face he wore a broken smile

 much like the battered tin cup sitting at his feet

 

 he tightly held a note clutched in his hand:

 asking, “are not two sparrows sold for a copper coin?

 and will a wise king keep fair his command?

 and a righteous man believe what he is doing?”

 

 a hard driving snow fell, piling deeply all around

 yet no one watched as he sat deathly still

 now frozen concretely onto the inflexible ground

 never moving again that night; now he never will

 

today the fancy french café gives him a home

honored as a bronze statue with a cup at his feet

at last the simple transit hobo who died alone

is forever remembered as the statue on 47^th street

 

chocolate shops and shoes with a soul

 

he walked eighty-seven steps from meal to meal

rummaging through too many cans for such a small town

from dented metal barrels he got his fill

before the collection on tuesday when he made his rounds

 

rain water somehow had the taste of imported beer

and his want of a cigarette bordered on pain

so he pulled the old ashtray up closer than near

and sorted through the ashes one more time again

 

he craved the touch of raw sex, dripping with sweat

but hookers with needles just weren’t his kind

so in dark corners his hand was all he could get

not much but it was the best an old man could find

 

when a man has only a single pair of faded jeans

and a button-less collar on a button-down shirt

two shoes as mismatched as his misguided dreams

he can only feel as good as yesterday’s hurt

 

his left shoe was brown, badly worn and size ten

his right, size eleven, stuffed with a cardboard sole

covering the place where italian leather had day been

but pieces of cardboard can never cover the hole

 

so many days he vowed he would stop

no more scavenging through dirty backdoor cans

he felt like a fat boy’s quarter in a chocolate shop

but the quarter, like life, just slipped through his hands

 

yesterday was chicken wings and a hotdog bun

and roast beef in a blue napkin, tightly squeezed

a bit of a burger cooked a little too done

but all the food was edible, so he was well pleased

 

he said “five more cans and at last i am done.

i’ll give thanks for everything i received today.”

he stepped up his pace to beat the setting sun

then lifted his hands and began to pray,

 

“without fail, god, you have always cared for me.

 i’ve rarely missed a meal and had plenty to spare,

 and lord, you’ve listened to my every plea

 and when i needed you, god, you were there.”

 

 then he proclaimed this world is such a wonderful place,

 especially beneath the watson bridge at willow street.

 then he brushed away his tears streaming down his face

 and removed the mismatched shoes from his tired, aching feet.

 

“without fail, god, you have always cared for me.

 i’ve rarely missed a meal and had plenty to spare,

 and lord, you’ve listened to my every plea

 and when i needed you, god, you were there.”

 

 then he proclaimed this world is such a wonderful place,

 especially beneath the watson bridge at willow street.

 then he brushed away his tears streaming down his face

 and removed the mismatched shoes from his tired, aching feet.

 

hawthorne zep   

 

 i remember he looked like a paperclip…

 hunched over and limited in his usefulness.

 and to think that several years ago, he rode a bicycle—

 hawthorne zep it was called—1939 model.

 

 i knew the bicycle better than i knew him.

“cleveland welding company.” he always said,

 when i asked how things were going.

 “cleveland welding company built it, 1939.”

 

 he was only eight when the delivery truck came;

 montgomery wards written on the side.

 

 just as he had dreamed…dark blue with white trim,

 tires blacker than night and sidewalls brighter than the moon

 when it hung lethargically in full cycle.

 

 but now, he could barely rise from his chair. 

 i wondered if maybe that bicycle hadn’t kept him alive;

 memories were reason to hope, even in the past.

 

 it hurt to see his spine so crippled;

 his back, an asymmetrical arc leading to nowhere,

 bent like an old fiberglass fishing pole

 overburdened with a seven pound bass with a will to live.

 

 we had roles.

  i spoke…he stared into the past.

 

 “hawthorne zep it was called, 1939 model, white sidewall tires,

  side jeweled reflectors, and a chrome-plated chain guard…

  she was built by the cleveland welding company, 1939.”

  was his answer to any question i asked.

 

  i told him it was okay to tell me all about his bicycle,

  so he taught me about life…

  and everything i needed to know about the hawthorne zep.

 

  seems he forgot all about 1939—and every year that followed—

  but one saturday morning long ago, a bicycle was delivered

  and he fell in love like most folks only wish they could.

 

the last blackbird

 

even now, i’m not sure

why i walked to the end of the avenue

before sitting on the curb.

 

one burping city bus after another boasted

that this news team is better than that one…

at least until the next bus comes.

 

at the end of the avenue

blackbirds wait, watching near-empty sidewalks

from a drooping wire.

 

it was then i decided i would not

leave the end of the avenue

until the last blackbird had flown away.

 

only one remained as darkness approached

until finally it shuddered

and fell to the ground, dead.

 

i had never seen a bird die

but i believe that’s why i walked to the end of the avenue

before sitting on the curb…

 

unsure about what to do with a dead blackbird,

i waited for the next news team to arrive

on the side of a city bus.

 

turns out that when it comes to the little things

—things that matter—

none of the news teams cared much about blackbirds…

 

or about an old man contemplating death

on the curb at the end of the avenue

where a blackbird once died.

 

stones

 

“pick a large stone son,” he said looking into the shallow brook

“one that is heavy and smooth to fit both hands.

 

not a small stone that you can gather into one palm

nor easily hold when using both; test your limits when you choose.”

 

the youngster selected a large stone, one he could hardly hold,

grunting and groaning he finally managed to say

 

“this is the stone i have selected, it is smooth and colorful

this stone is heavy and with a wrong step i shall fall.”

 

“then so be it my son, let this be your stone…

the stone you carry with you throughout your lifetime

 

and when tempted to throw stones at others

whether their cause be just or unjust, agreeable or not

 

always select this stone, too heavy to throw

only heavy enough to remind you of your own limitations.”

 

and this is how i learned about strength in weakness

and how to select stones for the garden of my life.

 

the missing key

 

there's a green door down at the harbor

i'm told it won't open anymore

the harbor master held the key

when one day he went off to war

 

folks used to gather at the green door

waiting for the harbor master's return

but one by one they left, dejected

you'd think even one would eventually learn

 

and then, one sunny sunday morning

a little boy just happened along

he twisted the knob as far as he could

and suddenly feared he'd done something wrong

 

seems all along the door could open

the harbor master had left the key

with a simple note he had written:

if you don't open the door—don't blame me.

 

white room

 

music touches the corners of the white room

gently like the paint that tinted the walls pristine

removing shadows thrown by amethyst bowls

filled with scarlet strawberries and wine-colored  plums

 

loneliness hurts in the depths of sallow reflections

when the music has died and angels have wept

to songs that have too long been silent

and fallen softly in the corner of the white room

 

she stood in front of the glassless window

while an early morning breeze whispered a new song

one to be played in the midst of the white room

while the wings of angels touched a melody to her fingertips

 

the gentle breeze in her flowing hair made me weep

as i longed to reach out once more

to the lady who stood in the corner of the white room

while her song transformed upon soft waiting lips

 

now in the place where she once stood

a white bowl filled with burgundy strawberries and purple plums

sits on the ashen table made of twisted iron and glass

and pale roses of pink and white gather the dimming light

 

as the walls of the white room slowly wither to gray

and her music fades to the quiet sound of silence

while gleeful angels who graced her life with music

dance one last time in the corner of the white room

 

yellow taxi

 

there’s a view from my room

with a dark screen in the way

blocking broken down scenes

from yesterday

 

taxis aligned and ready to go

when the red light turns green

and stop turns to slow

…they move

 

corner windows face south and east

broken breadsticks and crumbs on the sheets

but i longingly look to the crowded streets

for a friendly face

in new york city

 

i watched her stroll on seventh avenue

too young to vote, too old to screw

she traded her smile for something new

but a powdered nose was the best she could do

 

people stared as she walked

like a pro

and from my lingering view

blocking broken scenes from yesterday

 

i was sure i saw her smile

as if she knew things about life

that in darkness i could only dream about

from my screened in window

 

she knew something i didn’t care to know

and yet now my gut said i had to

i was right, she did smile

 

she was right, there was evil in my heart

 

the late lesson

 

george hasbin sat down hard as if to prove his point.

things were built better just after the war between the states;

he wasn’t sure why that was, but it was, he was certain.

wandering the earth for ninety-three years; he knew these things.

 

he laid his hand on the time-slapped, weather-beaten trunk,

it wore a deteriorated padlock, silent,  like fine jewelry.

ghosts of 1891 stirred in the storage places of his heart…

trying to bust out just like the stagnant air inside the dome-topped casket.

 

partially covered heavy canvas

—ripped away by porters and steel blades—

revealed a foundation consisting of shredded fabric and time-tested wood.

beaten metal corners spoke like an atlas of places the trunk had been.

the century lock, marked 1889, protected the faces of people long forgotten.

 

george hasbin knew the battered box too well…

his father used it to desert the family on that cold november  day

(he wished to forget the exact date but calendars read like history books)

and his father abandoned him precisely seven days before thanksgiving

november 21, 1912—the day he lost both his father and a fine storage trunk.

 

twenty years passed since the letter arrived, an obituary of sorts.

his father had died, the prodigal trunk was his only possession.

inherited property of:        george hasbin the letter said very officially.

one trunk w/ contents:      simon seward co. petersburg, virginia. est. 1878.

 

for two decades the lid guarded the contents of a man’s life

while suffocated secrets and smothered dreams died in the darkness.

now the key felt heavy and awkward as his shaking hand sought the lock’s opening

with a swift clockwise motion—click—sound exploded.

 

the lid raised easily, as if the hinges were recently oiled

and when he pushed it open george hasbin was surprised.

in a mirror, his own face stared back at him with a simple question

scrawled across a weathered parchment…

“what would you have done, my son, what would you have done?”   

 

too late to cry

 

 scattered memories were misplaced until today,

 when i remembered your going away.

 somehow i knew you would not look back.

 

 how was i to know that life honors no promises

 and holds no secrets until tomorrow’s sunrise?

 you taught me that without ever knowing it.

 

 a weather-beaten fence now surrounds the burrowed field

 where once you walked amidst the swaying daisies,

 golden in the afternoon.

 

 dried roses—brown from neglect and the cold of winter—

 easily crumble at the touch of my lips

 as i place them against the cracking cold marble slab.

 

 i never knew you except in my dreams,

 and memories of your soft touch were born in wishes

 that i could have seen your eyes just once.

 

 did you cry when you walked away to another place,

 where the yesterdays of your life

 were sure never to meet the tomorrows of mine?

 

 i found you here all alone

 when the snow melted and birds reappeared

…and when the farmer showed me the way.

 

mrs. sanders

 

mrs. sanders sat quietly in her rocking chair

unable to tug on her string of rosary beads

she no longer wondered if God might be watching her

since it had been years since she prayed on her knees

.

ninety-seven years had made her body tired and frail

the days were like shredded paper lost in the wind

now her gold necklaces hung alongside her dignity

it seems she had outlived her purpose and her friends

.

mrs. sanders eyes were shallow and her vision too dim

like seeing through the proverbial darkened glass

through the spiraling smoke that drifted heavenly

from the censer swaying at her catholic mass

.

mrs. sanders sat quietly in her rocking chair

her head tilted forward in silent prayer

some thought she had died when they looked at her

she could have died, she really didn’t care

.

even she wondered if maybe she had passed away

she thought perhaps the angels walked all around

it really didn’t matter so much anymore

though she did wonder about the trumpets sound

.

ivory rosary beads draped loosely in her hand

brittle, spindly fingers could no longer grip

assured that God was faithfully watching over her

she could no longer bring the beads to her lips

.

mrs. sanders didn’t know she had already died

but if she did she knew that all was fine

as she sat quietly, unmoving in her rocking chair

it was the first thing she had done in quite some time

 

the workbench

 

 "tomorrow we will study the map

 and look for new places to explore,

 but today is friday, time to organize,

 to put everything in its place."

 

 he said those words to me

 then shuffled to straighten the picture frame

 as he tilted his head further than his heart

 

 he looked content somehow

 pleased that the lid of  that,

 how can i say it~god-awful red box~

 still fit snugly if he pressed hard enough

 

 spilled black ink had long since dried

 and now i look thursday square in the face

 and wish for friday

 and every tomorrow that chases it

 

 now, i see that he didn't care to organize

 he knew a secret i was soon to learn

 life will align itself if you leave it alone

 he left it,

 indeed he left it alone

 

the breath of angels

 

 some say the music still plays

 in the empty doorway, dark with time

 past ten thousand  yesterdays

 and melodic songs with words that rhyme

 

 only in silence can you hope to hear

 the forgotten songs that used to play

 while harshly made noises of a distant year

 chase the haunting songs away

 

 in the midst of badly peeling paint

 and faded red bricks crumbling into dust

 and a tarnished statue of a captive saint

 whose flowing robe has turned to rust

 

 i felt a song begging for time

 to be released into the waiting air

 back into the heavens on a spiral climb

 whispering to angels everywhere

 

 in time all singers have surely died

 all songs returned to their pillow clouds

 with the purest music buried deep inside

 where vagrant noise is never allowed

 

 'til now the lonely cry of music's death

 rests upon six waiting guitar strings

 while the song has taken its final breath

 and in heaven, a host of angels sing

 

ms. richards (bus 3810)

.

ms. richards sat firmly on her agile hands

 on the wobbly wooden weathered bench

 waiting for city bus number thirty-eight-ten

 to burp around the corner of first and french

 .

 the man on her left had too much to drink

 his eyes had shut like thick flowing cream

 he smelled of last night’s naughty sex

 and his nod said he was still there in his dreams

.

 her glasses, blue frames, with silver hinges

 sat crooked, precarious and ready to fall

 matching her smile, twisted and closed

 like her mind as she wondered about it all

 .

 why should she sit on this weathered wood

 beside a man who snored as he dreamed

 when he had done what she would if she could

 and she knew it from his vivid moans and screams

 .

 he was an ugly man by all accounts

 veiling yellowed teeth, oblique, chipped and large

 unsightly for his small-lipped, tightly drawn mouth

 she shamelessly told the officer in charge

 .

 “it was self-defense” she cried into her hands

 “the bus was late and his dreams were too real

 and he started making unsolicited demands

 so the small voice within me simply said kill!…”

 .

 now she sits on a wobbly wooden weathered bench

 smiling victoriously for the contribution she made

 when she erased an ugly man and his stench

 and ensured that the debt for his sin was now paid

 

lifeless fruit in her bowl of sin

 

 she was an urbanite socialite

 who had done nobody wrong,

 a debutante who had no want

 and she took me right along.

 

 she graced me with her words of french

 and taught me with her time

 how to love between th’ satin sheets

 and the love she took was mine.

 

 she rarely saw the morning hour,

 and borrowed life from yesterday.

 her time just seemed to be her own,

 yet her minutes slipped away.

 

 she knew where she was going

 yet she wondered where she had been;

 apple trees grew on her barren path

 like lifeless fruit in her bowl of sin

 

 her daddy was a very rich man

 but he didn’t own her mind,

 and the ivy towers behind her college hours

 had made themselves unkind.

 

 she knew the works of whitman...

 and quoted emerson and thoreau,

 but their pages left her lonely;

 and that’s an awful place to go.

 

 so one day she closed her book of life,

 seems she’d erased too many words.

 til the apple seeds were all devoured...

 by the ravens, poe’s darkest birds.

 

everybody’s dying

 

 everybody’s dying, everybody’s dying

 in this world we call insane

 and nobody knows it,

‘cause it’s part of the game

 

 and there is no resurrection

 once we fall down from that cross

 and there is no institution

 to redeem our final loss

 

 and there is no cotton bandage

 that can stop the bleeding wound

 and no time for looking backwards

 ‘cause we are already doomed

 

 everybody’s dying, everybody’s dying

 and we’re smiling all the while

 we just never realize it

 we just line up single file

 

 and the explosion of that bullet

 bursts across the night time sky

 and the mushroom cloud filters down

 and the laughing people cry

 

 and there is no restoration

 once our cities tumble down

 and there is no consolation

 for no prizes can be found

 

 and there is no rhyme or reason

 that can color over dead

 and no time for looking backwards

 to the words that jesus said

 

 everybody’s dying, everybody’s dying

 and some have sold their souls

 and everybody knows it

 after sifting through the coals

 

 and there is no hope for another time

 the stainless sword just fell

 there is no care for your fellow man

 as he stumbles into hell

 

and there is no constitution

 that politicians sign

 for the sign’s already written

 and sealed since the start of time

 

 and everybody’s dying, everybody’s dying

 though none can answer why

 and there are no super patriots

 who storm across the sky

 

 and there is no firm foundation

 to hold your footing down

 and there is no more destitution

 past the hunger sound

 

 and there is no vegetation

 to keep a man alive

 he should have eaten the bread of life

 if he wanted to survive

 

 and no time for looking backwards

 to the way it could have been

 that time has passed and satan’s tongue

 has pierced the hearts of men

 

 everybody’s dying, everybody’s dying

 god, take this pain from me

 this sight of annihilation

 this staining of the sea

 

 everybody’s dying, everybody’s dying

 the anguish is too real

 even a blind man who has darkened eyes

 no longer can conceal

 

 that window of his inner soul

 which holds the picture clear

 everybody’s dying, everybody’s dying

 my friend…the time is here

 

death of a circle

 

 it was in the meadow

 when i first learned to wait.

 

 the marshes were heavy with morning

 and the footstep of a frog became a slight ripple

 born to die in the center.

 

 but only after i learned to wait,

 watching the slow death of a circle.

 

in her garden

 

tomatoes grow round and naked,

brownish green showing no trace of red.

she walks between brittle rows of corn,

where stalks fall limply into the fallow bed.

 

she dreams she is rahab, barefoot in the soil,

with her shoulders covered by a soft scarlet gown.

a harlot in the garden, hiding spies in the night

praying to god they will never be found.

 

at the appointed time her vegetables wilt,

slowly dying from the hot noonday sun,

while her mind is fixed on jericho’s walls

and on joshua and caleb, two spys on the run.

 

dejected, she slipped down, hard onto her knees,

as her dry bucket spilled onto jordan’s banks.

her faith was shaken, her heart was quiet

and with outstretched hands she offered thanks.

 

kings searched frantically for twelve smooth stones

and armies prepared to battle ‘til the end.

their armor was set, shields and arrows prepared

and on her thin scarlet thread they’d depend.

 

the soil beneath her feet was soft

and capable of ruining her virgin white socks,

so she carefully moved through the parched battleground

watchful to avoid the hard, jagged rocks.

 

rahab, the harlot, wept alone in her garden,

as from the heavens, a steady rain began to fall.

and she knew that salvation had come to the house

when in the distance she heard the trumpet’s call.

 

she dried her tears with her scarlet gown

thankful for her vegetables, although so few,

with supper on the table and hungry mouths to feed

she wondered what rahab, the harlot, would do.