Van Houten & Cianci Street, 1943

A quartet plays
in the gazebo
at the center of Paterson
Tri-color bunting and streamers
line the roof and banisters
more on the red brick windows
black and white couples
dance in the street and square
kicking sideways at each other
mouths open in a song or yell
Statesmen stand around a plaque
smiles with suits and cigars
like a card game without a table
Townsfolk in simple clothing
stand at the curb
eating over-wrapped hot dogs
their children look up
anchored to balloons
the clarinet player in mid-solo
leaning back to bring the horn
up to the microphone
the drummers arms and cymbals
invisible from the beat
The sax players face
a smudge under a hat
the balding bass man
takes up half the stage
looks down through sunglasses
surprised at what he is doing
all of the colors and sounds lost
leaving only a second
found in a faded print.

17.4.03

By the time I was born
he had been playing music for forty years
So why, at the age of seventy
he still felt the need to practice was beyond me
but now with him gone for only ten days
I am thankful for hearing those never ending ups and down
The Soundtrack To My Childhood.

His full head of salt and pepper hair
with brave sideburns
the clarinet sticking out from the cheeks
between the chops
slight head tilt, back and forth
left and right
keeping rhythm with the lifting and falling notes

He would play songs too
being so young i didn't know
Mack the Knife or
Strutting With Some Barbeque
All I knew then was The Muppet Show
All I remember are the graceful steps
From low B to High C then Low A to High B
Maybe he was telling me
that life has it's ups and downs, high and lows

Ten days ago
his family surrounding him
sharing memories and talking to him
half conscious but foot still tapping
arthritic fingers still playing notes with
The Joe Mooney Quartet on the CD player
He finally perfected the simultaneous High and Low A's
The highest and lowest he could get

As I held his hand
he took his last breath
let all of his pain win
But lost all of his pain, forever.

Rewritten History Books

My Grandfather fought for a country
getting through every theater of war twice.

I used to lie in bed hearing his stories
of a battlefield worldwide.
He told us of a people united;
covering each other with blankets,
sacrificing for the next man,
looking out for neighbor’s children.

I dream of visiting this land of stories
but the road to that place is lost
hidden under graveyards,
skyscrapers and newspapers.
At every corner is a liquor store
a post of road signs pointing
in eight separate ways.

I wonder what he thinks as he looks down on us.
The country he helped build while he was alive
faded away while we slept with our TVs on.

Grits

For Andrew Fitzgerald

My Grandfather traveled
Around this world twice over
One time with a gun
Both times with a horn
In those times he learned
How bright the sunsets can be
And how death can take the breath
Of a man you bunked with

From Guam and Germany
To New Orleans and Hoboken
Theaters of war
To speakeasies
Sweating, chaotic

Learning how music can be a life in itself
His life married to it
And my loving grandmother
Whose scent of sun lotion kisses
Would follow me
Even after a jump in the pool
I then shivered out
Dripped inside and sat with this gentle man
And shared two things
Never to be forgotten

One learned in his travels
A wonderful bowl of grits
One he always had
Love
The size of the world, twice over

12.11.99 20:53