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 afternoon
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,