God’s Pocket

The working people of God’s Pocket… dirty-faced, uneducated, neat as a pin inside. They Work, marry, and have children who inhabit the Pocket, often in the homes of their mothers and fathers. They drink at The Hollywood or the Uptown Bar… little places deep in the city, and they argue there about things they don’t understand… politics, race, religion. And in the end, they die like everyone else… Leaving their families and their houses and their legends. And there is a dignity in that. If we stop listening to the neighborhood stories like ours… …


The working men of God’s Pocket are simple men. They work. They follow their teams. They marry and have children who rarely leave the Pocket. Everyone here has stolen something from somebody else… or when they were kids, they set someone’s house on fire… or they ran away when they should have stayed and fought. They know who cheats at cards and who slaps their kids around. And no matter what anybody does, they’re still here. And whatever they are is what they are. The only thing they can’t forgive is not being from God’s Pocket.

 

In the Cold Winter’s Night

Autumn spurns ice cream.

Had the tire tracks been just a dream.

Scratching with  four paws at the door.

They say, bad things happen to good people.

But I say, wicked is wicked.

Like candy from a candy store…there will always be more.

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The signs are still all around in this beat up town.

Rugged is the night, well soiled beaten boots, lonely and homeless…

ten speed bikers abound.

I had not known you but your death lingers in traces of waterfalls and fractured mills.

With innocence of voice could your youth ever be found?

I too get lost from time to time.

Woods shadow my heart…disfigure my mind.

Muddied snowfall calls from a vagrant timber.

Beneath a land of lost souls…I am not always sound.

 

 

Just Another Picture

Had the perception been just a habit…

Would all my images just been another picture?

Am I an open container in a small town?

Unpacking packages of sight…some worn…some run down.

There is no sentence that can free me from the scene.

A sense of urgency…concealed by cemented intimacy.

Almost as though, I had arrived at just the right time.

imageedit_9_8647321294My small town photographed in the mind.

Trendy Times

There are many stories…that I wished to be mine.  And, as is often the case, I cannot tell a tale…like the ‘originals!’

New Hampshire is small!  Let’s be honest.  Our biggest city is rural in comparison to urban areas housing buildings larger than 8 stories tall.  In my youth, I traveled to those big crime areas.  I lived among the savage metropolis.  Where rodents, violence and inbred bad behavior can be found.

Slowly, New Hampshire called me back.  Rural, simplistic, hunched against the winter winds.  Cranky and stuck up…slithering hard upon the LL Bean granite surface.

No matter how you cut it…I learned, what I should have been schooled in years before.  Years before…in parochial school.  Crosses hung from the wall autographed by now defunct bishops…

It took many miles and many cities for me to realize…Truth is stranger than Fiction.  And, small town noise is often more bizarre than downtown rhetoric.

the Zipper

by Elinor Mawson

Trendy Times Volume 9 Number 20/New Hampshire

“Not all times are trendy, but there will always be Trendy Times!”

 

Laura had a job in school for developmentally delayed children.  The school was divided into a home for girls and one for boys and Laura was in charge of the boys.  Most of the time, she made sure they were clean, clothed properly, and attended meals.  It wasn’t the easiest job in the world but she loved it.  She enjoyed watching the boys grow and change and makes small improvements in their behavior.

It didn’t happen often, but when there was a special trip planned, or visiting dignitary coming, things ramped up a bit.  Laura had to make sure that the boys had on their best clothes, their shoes and socks matched, and their pants and jackets were fastened appropriately.  All of these items had to be checked and rechecked since the boys were not accustomed to their different outfits, and Laura had to be vigilant.

On one particular day, the boys had to dress up to go to an assembly.  An important person was coming to talk to both the boys and the girls in the school, and Laura was at the top of her game.  She had the boys line up outside the assembly hall for one last check.

Starting with the youngest, she made sure his zipper was up – it was – and she continued up the line.  Everyone seemed in order except the last one in line.  His zipper was down!  So Laura zipped it up.

“Thank you dear”, said the owner of the zipper, and Laura looked up.  First she saw a clerical collar, and then the face of a priest!

I can’t tell you how embarrassed she was.  She ran back to the end of the line and led the boys into the hall.  She never did remember what the subject of the assembly was, nor who the speaker was.  All she wanted to do was hide – but she had to make sure her boys behaved themselves, got back to their dormitory and changed into their regular clothes.trumpeter-3

Laura has never been more embarrassed.  She blushes to this day when she tells the story.  I can’t speak for the priest, but I suspect he wanted to forget the whole thing.

Downtown in the Spring

No, to the assignment of pied piper…

Of this  I know.

Still there is no other place I would grab hold.

With solicitor’s of carnivorous schemes.

Avenues of incestuous dreams.

And, Jehovah witnessing every other door.

Crackers in sedans…rapping in black face.

Dependents on the state…defending their right to deflate.

My downtown vacant, redressed for lack of success.

Awaiting to make America great.