Local poet Jack Eisenman takes us on a Journey through a memory of Toys, Swings and things we have loved.
Journey I walk this dream each day, A path at times dark, Sometimes sunny, Always alone. No signs announce my destination, Nor miles to get there. Perhaps it’s around the next curve, Maybe a ten-year trek. I have a mandate, An inward injunction to continue With promise of reward At the finish line. I walk this dream each day, A path at times dark, Sometimes sunny, Always alone. Judy’s Swing The entire Bailey Street 300 block had swing envy of the girl two doors down from 319. Kids came from as far away as 387 to stand in line for a one-minute float through the sky, soaring so high toes brushed leaves on the lowest maple limb which must have been twelve feet from the grass but seemed Jack in the bean stalk high. Every kid anticipated the grand climax, the jump. The jump, a leap of faith that between letting go, flying through the air, and hitting the ground eight-year old’s lives would not flash before them. 19 I am twenty-first century’s Black Death, Great grandson to all pandemics, Foreshadow of scourges to come. Omnipotent, omnipresent, eternal. Cower, sequester, quarantine, Mask to no avail. I come for you. I win. You lose. You die. What’s with the needle? Omega That day I walked the tracks No whistle blew No wheels rumbled No black smoke Just weeds Rusted rails And thoughts Of men Who shouldered beams Held spikes Swung hammers Built steel ribbons For eternity Sugar-Coated This five-year-old borrowed a nickel from mother’s purse for the purchase of a lifetime. Five pennies bought a bag full of candy back in those days, back when I began to learn right from wrong. My small bag looked galactic filled with Mary Janes, marshmallow bananas, wax juice bottles, gum balls and sweet fake cigarettes. I didn’t see mother on the porch until within fifteen feet of home, too late to stash the sack. Old House The kind in Georgia above the gnat line somewhere east of Atlanta near Athens. A late 1800’s or early twentieth century two story clapboard with front porch where country folk sit on autumn nights beneath magnolias and oaks and listen to acorns fall on a tin roof.
Enjoyed your poems. Hope you guys are doing well.
Thanks you, Gail. Hope to see you soon.