manifest
destiny
I
look at ghosts on youtube
families
frozen in the fifties
in
vivid kodachrome film
bulbous
TV sets in background
ashtrays
on tables, in cars
cocktails
on coasters
in
suits and dresses
at
dining room tables
around
aluminum Christmas trees
gifts
in profusion beneath them
cigarettes
in hand
glasses
lifted in forever cheers
jet
finned cars promising
a
Buck Rodgers future
children
at school, hands on hearts
pledging
allegiance to their flag
duck
and cover drills
yes
sir, yes mam followed the rules
in
pretty pink houses
full
of made in USA appliances
the
electric dream of ease
the
embodiment of
the
whitebread middle class
American
dream
blessed
by the hand of the god
in
which they trusted
Behind
closed doors
Cities
full of people
All
alone
Neighbourhoods
full of houses
Everyone
home
Churches
without praying
Sacraments
silenced
Everyone
gone behind doors
Faces
looking out windows
Full
of sorrow
Everyone
on furlough
Worrying
about debt
Hopes
hinged on freedom
Promised
maybe In the middle of june
Everyone
gone behind doors
Once
life was open
Once
spring's warmth was a sign
That
everyone could join in the sun
They
could drive in their cars
Tops
down to the air
Sit
beside each other
embraced
without care
Now
gloved hands and masked lips
Stay
safe behind doors
No
visits no gatherings no trips
Everyone
waiting behind their closed doors
through
rose coloured eyes
the
lost poetry of these streets
returns
in spring's canopy
old
houses, renew in its light
scents
of all things green caress me
forgotten
voices whisper in breezes
they
call to each other and me
echoing
forgotten memories
hard
days and harder nights
transformed
by time and nostalgia
into
sunlit joy and acceptance
on
streets that were never mine
the
only poetry within myself
born
of pain and desperation
my
armour and shield to protect me
streets
of shade, sidewalks of silence
went
walking back
early
this morning,
back
to my streets
of
memory, in the shadow
of
the cathedral
looking
for something
echoes
of someone
pressing
on my mind,
past
the houses of classmates
that
were charitable
but
not really friends
houses
well appointed then
bigger
than i had ever seen
in
those years i left behind
there
was no one on the sidewalks
no ghosts
peeking out from windows
no
voices in this early hour
only
my footsteps
whistling
songs
of
early days,
wishing
I could remember less
and
forgive more
evensong
the
silence of houses
whispers
loudest at dusk
seethes
through locked doors
yellow
lighted windows
exposing
the cobwebs inside...
thralled,
i kneel in pale shadows
until
the whispers lose their voice
and
the silence becomes me
without
keys, without light -
waiting
for the darkness
to
capture my mouth
and
swallow my eyes, as
the
evensong preys
through
the houses
Joseph
A Farina is a retired lawyer in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. An award winning poet.
published in Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, Ascent ,Subterranean
Blue and in The Tower Poetry Magazine, Inscribed, The Windsor
Review, Boxcar Poetry Revue , and appears in the anthologies Sweet
Lemons: Writings with a Sicilian Accent, Canadian Italians at
Table, Witness and Tamaracks: Canadian Poetry for the 21st Century
. published in U.S. magazines Mobius, Pyramid Arts,
Arabesques, Fiele-Festa, Philadelphia Poets and Memoir and in
Silver Birch Press Series. He has had two books of poetry published— The
Cancer Chronicles and The Ghosts of Water Street.
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