The Pedestrian and Other Poems Read online

THE PEDESTRIAN

  And Other Poems

  by

  George I. Anderson

  © 2011 by George I. Anderson

  THE PEDESTRIAN

  for Ray Bradbury

  I took a walk through town

  one cold November's eve at a time

  when the streets were alive

  a season ago.

  With hands in coat pockets,

  frosty breath swirling around

  my head like smoke

  from a fine cigar, and the dim glow

  of streetlights to illuminate my path,

  I set out on my lone journey

  past darkened windows

  of houses that stood as tombs,

  the only signs of life inside

  being the flickering of TV screens

  like weak campfires.

  Walking by, I wondered

  what stories those screens orated

  to those entranced masses

  gathered in front of them.

  A murder?

  A revelation?

  Tears of a reality show star

  when reality itself comes calling?

  As I walked further on,

  I listened to the silence of

  the night.

  The steady hum

  of electricity flowing through

  the streetlights like life-giving

  blood flowing through veins.

  The language of dogs

  barking in the distance.

  The stealth

  of a passing car.

  Each deserted street

  of the neighborhood I walked

  reflected the emptiness

  within my soul.

  Walking home, I then realized

  I'd never felt so alone.

  CHILDREN OF THE STORM

  Somewhere

  in the land of the free,

  children played in two playgrounds

  on two sides of a city

  by the sea.

  On one side

  under a green sanctuary of trees,

  rich children played

  with new tonka trucks in fresh sandboxes,

  riding shiny new bikes and trikes,

  swinging on new swings

  and sliding down sliding boards

  that were well cared for, safe,

  and clean from graffiti,

  while poor children played

  on the other side in a playground

  long-forgotten by the rich kids

  who played there once

  when they were poor,

  playing in grass two feet tall

  littered with old tires, broken glass,

  and junkies' needles thrown away

  amidst the skeletal remains

  of a swingset and a merry go-round

  that doesn't go round so merrily

  anymore,

  keeping ever vigilant

  by born instinct

  of gunfire sounds from warring gangs,

  drug dealers and pederasts

  looming about nearby.

  Then one day,

  a storm came from the sea

  like no other before,

  washing away all of mankind's sins

  in it's destructive path.

  When it was over,

  and the sun came out again

  from behind the dark clouds,

  the rich kids met the poor

  and they began to play,

  together under the sun,

  amidst the devastation

  around them.

  EPITAPH

  Here lies an honest man.

  A simple and decent

  and honorable man who never asked

  for anything in this lousy world

  from his fellow man except

  to be believed. He couldn't

  afford to give a woman

  the moon, the stars or the heavens.

  But he could afford

  to give her his love. He couldn't

  teach a boy to be a king.

  But he could teach him to be

  a man. He had no desire to lead

  or be rich. No desire

  for power, or glory, or even

  to make a difference in this world.

  He only wanted the right

  to exist among the sinners

  as an equal, hand-in-hand

  in God's good graces.

  But here he lies, defeated.

  First fatality in the war of life.

  GHOSTS BY THE RIVER

  Down by the river sits an old factory

  where my grandfather's father

  worked his hardest to build a new life

  for himself and his family

  in a new world.

  Wandering through those

  long-abandoned buildings,

  like exploring the ancient ruins

  of a lost civilization,

  I can still hear those machines

  running as they did

  night and day, so long ago,

  and I can feel

  my great-grandfather's ghost

  with others like him,

  sweating,

 

  toiling,

  suffering,

  yet dreaming of a future

  I dwell in today.

  Down by the river sits an old factory

  where the ghosts of a lost America

  can still be found.

  NEW JERSEY

  is such a sad state

  of mind.

  Where what once played

  a pivotal role in the birth

  of our blessed country

  is now paved over

  by an asphalt road

  connecting

  Philadelphia

  to New York City.

  Countless travelers

  crowd this highway in

  their cars and trucks

  every day,

  their exhaust

  creating the overcast skies

  we're all forced

  to live under,

  being far too busy

  getting from point A to B

  to notice,

  or even wonder,

  what lies beyond

  those office buildings

  and warehouses

  off the turnpike exits.

  And the people who live here

  prefer to be from here

  while living somewhere else.

  AN ARMY OF CLOUDS

  The clouds advance

  from the distant horizon

  like an army in unison,

  marching in lockstep,

  one following another

  across the noonday sky,

  white to gray

  to blue gray

  on a panoramic canvas

  of blue.

  Yet in Baghdad,

  there are no clouds

  to speak of.

  CORSON'S INLET, 2007

  One day I trekked to Corson's Inlet

  in search of the footprints

  of old Archie Ammons, who trodded

  those same sandy dunes

  over forty years ago. To walk in

  the same steps of a great American poet

  such as he felt thrilling

  to this young poetry dreamer,

  like walking in the land

  where gods once walked when they

  were human. But sadly, predictably,

  time and progress eroded them away

  without ever a mention

  of his being there. There was only

  the salty air, tasting tainted

  on that late summer afternoonr />
  by exhaust from traffic

  crossing the bridge to Sea Isle.

  And the young thrill junkies disturbing

  the placid inlet waters with their waverunners,

  which looked so pitifully green

  and nauseous from pollution, with clumps

  of seaweed washed along it's banks,

  that it was any wonder the anglers on shore

  were catching any fish at all.

  How disappointing my pilgrimage was.

  MEMORIES OF DAD

  for Robert Anderson, Sr., 1929-1992

  I remember crying a four-year-old's

  cry of terror at the thought of spending one night,

  on top of every night, in that godawful

  haunted house we'd moved into,

  fearing the ghosts roaming about between

  the ancient walls and creaky floorboards,

  and how you remedied my fear

  by sleeping with me that first night

  and for many nights after.

  I remember you buying me sodas

  at the Morton Inn while you downed your beers

  with your buddies from work, listening

  to your stories of your Army adventures in

  the Alaskan wilderness, and the trials and tribulations

  of the factoryman's life, and how Mom scolded you

  when we got home for tryin' to turn me

  into a seven-year-old you.

  I remember tiptoeing into the living room

  past you sound asleep in front of

  the six o'clock news to try and change the channel

  to cartoons, only to wake you as if you'd heard

  a twig snap in the woods, and I'd walk away,

  snapping my fingers and cursing to myself,

  "Damn! Every time!"

  I remember riding in the pickup truck

  with you all over the county in search of

  that perfect fishing spot, because

  your patience could never last longer than

  ten or fifteen minutes at any one spot,

  until we'd always end our quest

  at this little seafood store outside Fortescue,

  where you'd buy two weakies,

  put them in our cooler and instruct me

  never to tell Mom when we got home.

  I never did, by the way.

  I remember you as my biggest fan,

  sitting in the stands through every game

  of my brief Little League career,

  hoping to see me knock one over

  the centerfield fence when I never really

  got past first base.

  I remember spending my teenage summers

  with you exploring America

  in that eighteen-wheeler that put food on

  our table, talking about lots of forgotten things

  while you showed me a big, beautiful,

  and very different world outside the one

  I always felt trapped in.

  I remember two drunken, drug-addicted

  older brothers terrorizing my adolescence

  much in the way they claimed

  you did much of the same in your younger days

  with your own drunken rants and ravings

  about the house.

  I wasn't there to pass any judgement,

  but I sympathized with you, knowing all too well

  the price you paid for the sins of your past

  must've been damned heavy

  every time you called the state cops.

  I remember that cat one of your grandsons

  brought home to live with us

  in your last days with us, how she'd curl up

  on your belly to nap while you relaxed

  in your recliner, watching television

  and breathing your oxygen, leaving Mom

  scratching her head in befuddlement

  knowing how much you hated cats before.

  And I remember standing over

  the grave of the only real best friend

  I've ever had, and a man I know

  I'll never amount to be

  no matter how hard I try.

  Today these memories

  are all I have of you.

  But sometimes,

  there come those days when

  they're just not enough.

  I miss you, Pop.

  UNFINISHED SNOW POEM

  I started writing

  a poem in the snow.

  But an icy wind

  blew in from the north,

  and I nearly froze to death

  before I could finish.

  What a ridiculous statue

  I would have made,

  frozen solid,

  holding my pen.

  LIFE AFTER

  Eventually they'll begin to forget.

  People will stop talking about what happened

  by the following Monday,

  when bills begin replacing the sympathy cards

  in the mail.

  The visits to the cemetery become less

  and less frequent,

  until only the caretaker is left to care

  for the flowers.

  The children will grow

  and move away, leaving the nest

  to make their own in some other

  part of the world.

  Even she will move on, at peace

  with a new life and a new love,

  if only to keep out of those places where

  only the truly devoted are condemned

  behind the stone walls.

  And those pictures of you,

  faded gray and gathering dust

  will be taken down

  and boxed away in the attic

  with the rest of the memories.

  A POOR MAN'S POEM

  Did you ever read

  a poor man's poem? Through

  his penciled lines on the crumpled

  sheet of notebook paper

  have you ever listened to

  the beautiful song from his heart?

  A song of labor and love?

  Of the sorrow and pain

  of his losses and the joy

  of his triumphs? Of his rage

  over his injustices

  and the icy satisfaction of

  his vindications? Of his yearning

  for honesty and truth

  in a world of lies and deceit?

  Of his unselfish hopes and dreams

  of the future, not only

  for his children but for his

  fellow men as well,

  rich and poor alike?

  A NUMBER WITHOUT A NAME

  I used to be known as a human being.

  A person back in the days when

  those words meant something real, invoking

  a certain pride and dignity in being

  an individual. A person with a heart, a soul,

  and a name everyone knew. And for those

  who didn't know, or else never cared to,

  I made it known with an unwavering look

  into one's eye, a smile,

  and an outstretched hand to shake,

  a quick joke when least expected

  to deliver a laugh and a smile

  to brighten everyone's dreary Monday,

  an ear always open for a friend

  who's feeling down, a brutally honest

  opinion or an outright lie

  whenever the situation called for it,

  a shirt from my back ready to lend

  to one without, an extra pair of hands

  whenever one pair won't finish

  the job, and a debt promptly paid

  in full with my last dime.

  But nowadays my character

  and integrity have been reduced

  with the rest of humanity, chopped down

  like a sequoia redwood, chipped

  and shredded into numbers, ratios />
  and mathematical probabilities

  in a banker's computer, telling me

  exactly how big a piece

  of the American pie I can have.

  This is all that I am now. This is

  what's become of us all.

  A number without a name.

  CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE

  What was it like, Henry,

  doing time in the slammer for your

  civil disobedience?

  Did you sleep with one eye open

  all night? Did an icy chill

  crawl down your spine as you

  repeatedly looked over

  your shoulder and around

  every turn for the crazy dude

  with the shank in his fingers?

  And after the gang rape

  in the showers did you ask yourself

  was the cause really worth this?

  A CARDINAL'S VISIT

  A cardinal came to visit

  the neighborhood

  one winter's day,

  spreading a rocket summer

  of red and green

  in it's wake

  as it flew

  across the colorless

  cityscape.

  In a flash of lightning,

  the people of

  the neighborhood

  put their anger

  and miseries

  aside

  and saw

  how beautiful

  everything looked.

  Then the cardinal

  flew away

  and gray returned

  to the cold streets

  of the city.

  STOP SPEAKING FOR ME

  Who is this man on the podium

  and why does he say he's speaking for me?

  He says he's speaking for

  the poor, the oppressed, the working class,

  the people living nickeled and dimed

  with no universal health insurance,

  no voting card, and no hope.

  Yes, I'm one of the poor,

  the oppressed, the working class,

  the people living nickeled and dimed

  with no universal health insurance,

  no voting card and no hope.

  But he doesn't know me.

  He's never even met me.

  I would've loved to invite him to dinner

  some night and show him my book-filled apartment,