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