| I. The Mockers: Winter and Summer | | | | Who played a guitar and wrote poetry: |
| Winter, the gray mocker of death; | | | | Nobody is sure where he went, and why... |
| Summer, the rose that never wept, | | | | A few folks perhaps, but no one is saying. |
| Come both with me, whisper-- | | | | A singer, dancer, karate man, soldier, poet, lover. |
| The soft silver harvest | | | | He broke a lot of hearts, and he felt the pain |
| Of your seasons; come touch | | | | likewise! |
| My face with snow and sun | | | | I wonder if anyone remembers him at the bar? |
| For you are the unanswerable ones. | | | | Or knows where he's gone to--I doubt it. |
| #1512 10/17/2006 | | | | #1516 |
| II. Between two Houses | | | | VII. Donkeyland--Sunset |
| Between two houses | | | | I remember the last day in the neighborhood; it |
| The wired fence stood | | | | was in the year 1968. |
| And the trees and chimneys | | | | After that day, I'd never return to stay--(I'd |
| And the heat and the light | | | | follow the sunset; travelwe world). |
| And the hot, hot summer | | | | The day had a gleam of light to it, and in my |
| Was there. | | | | body a hesitation, the airwas cool, it was April. |
| My prayers were said | | | | I didn't realize then, I'd remember so well, and |
| And the neighbors were at rest | | | | keep so many photos inmy mind (I suppose I |
| And the night allowed us to sleep | | | | was getting ready for San Francisco, leavingthe |
| And the presence of mother's voice | | | | Midwest behind). |
| Was overall.... | | | | I remember her long (my neighborhood): hearts |
| Note: When I was growing up, wherever one is, | | | | that escape you, corners that hate you; life there |
| simple tings are remembered, when they get | | | | for many, have gone from roses toashes; harsh |
| older, so it has been with me, and the voice of | | | | and trampled are her streets: "Donkeyland,' they |
| another, a neighbors house, sounds and images, | | | | callher, who never weeps. |
| one never things will arise, do. #1513 | | | | Note: Our neighborhood was called Donkeyland by |
| III. Across the Street | | | | the St. Paul Police; nicknamed by a police officer |
| Night, from an attic bedroom window | | | | called Howey (or Howe; not sure of the correct |
| Is a gray, dark thing? | | | | spelling) who used to comb Cayuga Street, and |
| Street lamps reflecting railroad cars | | | | the rest of the neighborhood back in the late 50s |
| Broken across the street; | | | | and 60s. #1517 |
| My brother's quivering under his covers, | | | | VIII. Mrs. Stanley |
| Says: "Go back to sleep!" | | | | She sits on her porch and knits |
| #1514 | | | | Bending at the window-sill |
| IV. Empty Lot | | | | With old, old waxed fingers |
| In the middle of summer | | | | Smiling away |
| In the empty lot | | | | (my old neighbor)Mrs. Stanley) |
| Next to grandpa's house | | | | Now forenoon has come |
| (where I lived with my brother and mom) | | | | She switches to another window |
| We'd play softball (reckless days of my youth); | | | | (still on that little porch) |
| Eager was everyone thereafter | | | | Looking down now, to the street |
| With their wilds wishes and all. | | | | (I'm but fifteen) |
| #1515 | | | | "Doesn't she have anything else to do?' |
| V. Cemetery Whispers | | | | I say... |
| (Oakland Cemetery, St. Paul, Minnesota) | | | | I look at her again, her face |
| Over the cemetery fence we went | | | | Through the drapes |
| As if the dead were calling us; | | | | She seems homeless |
| The graves whispered--yet, voiceless | | | | In that big house (I think). |
| (perhaps just in my mind)) but--deaf I wasn't): | | | | #1518 |
| As a result, the shadows flickered | | | | IX. God Saw Death (7/1/2003)) 10:55 PM)) |
| In the light of the moon, made the earth groan | | | | Perhaps death is gift from God, my mother |
| Under my wobbly feet... | | | | wished it, when I came to the hospital to visit |
| As I put my lips to the bottles of brew, | | | | that is; she was tired of living she said, knowing |
| Splattering it here and there, | | | | after her last operation life would not be the |
| As the sea of dead continued to whisper. | | | | same. |
| Note: we really were not bad kids back then, not | | | | I remember quite well, she was afraid to turn on |
| compared to what kids do nowadays; we were | | | | the stove, lest she forget to turn it off I |
| bored out of our minds, needed a placed to get | | | | suppose, especially if I was gone (not sue what |
| drunk, and the cemetery for a few years looked | | | | happened, or went wrong, but perhaps something, |
| the place to do it (especially when you are 15, 16 | | | | I'll never know). |
| and 17-years old). #1516 | | | | She even dreamt of going back home, we lived |
| VI. Left (1968) | | | | together, her downstairs, me, upstairs, and when |
| Most everyone loved Chick on our city block | | | | she learned she never would, she didn't feel any |
| (neighborhood) | | | | loner she belonged here on earth, she had to go |
| So we all loved a wild, infatuated boy, | | | | she knew, and she left. |