handful of dirt

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

am i in Paris

or buried in Berlin,

with a handful of poppies

and a bottle of gin?

a killer takes aim,

but my driver knows the score,

running all the red lights

to the next World War

with a simple handful of dirt

i'm tossing it into my bag

hoping to avoid the hurt

of your loss;

and i thought

at what cost?

i'm already suffering the blues

remembering all i can lose

when you depart.

the pain in my heart

takes me to bed

turns out my light

whispers sweet words

but nothing feels right.

crossing the muddy waters

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape,

using all the tricks i learned.

she was a hungry woman;

excitement was in those eyes.

i asked for forgiveness!

i confessed all of my lies!

but she said it was simple:

i lost my way on the track.

beware or i'd find myself

kicked out of the sack;

and i'd be sad and lonesome

with no way to find my path!

there'd be no special woman

to heat water for my bath!

crossing the muddy waters

in a hail storm in the night,

filled with foolishness

and filled with fright;

a lady tried to teach me

while my back was turned;

i tried to escape

using all the tricks i learned.

Erich Priebke

Priebke died in his ripe old age 

but

as a younger man, 

he was a captain wearing a fancy SS uniform

with God on his side, 

a holster with Lugar inside,
and a fierce Nazi salute in the streets of Rome.

years after the 1936 Olympics,

where a black man in Berlin
silenced the adoring crowds of
blond smiles and white teeth
with his flashes of muscular brilliance,

Priebke participated in his own ceremony:

the 1944 massacre
of Italian civilians in the Ardeatine caves
near Rome.

it might have been the highlight of Priebke's career!

but he never shied away
from his enjoyment of
hating minorities and other gypsies,
who sang and danced and drank pure German beer

with the pretty flower vendors in the streets of Munich,
in halls far from Der Marienplatz.

he took a big bite

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

on the street corner

with his eyes open wide,

he watched the passing traffic

looking for a ride.

the traffic was fast,

spinning way out of control;

he looked for a safe spot

to dig himself a new hole.

it took a long time!

he kept digging all alone;

he was looking for love,

but he only found a bone.

and the bone was old;

it smiled and sang him a song:

it was about a rabbit

that was always wrong.

he stopped his digging!

found and lit a cigarette.

thought about destiny

and broke out in a cold sweat.

there hopped the rabbit

with a carrot in his hand;

he took a big bite

before finding it hard to stand.

underneath a railroad coal car

in the backcountry 

thinking backwards

to the devastating Marietta flood 

all the way to the 20's

the 1920's

with Susquehanna river water crossing over the railroad tracks

so people were rescued from their

second floor windows,

boats in the swift brown flow

and residents with no where to go;

and later my grandfather and my dad

carrying heavy coal sacks

back home,

a different home

near Front street

to provide a little heat

because wood was scarce

and the freight train stopped

without a watchman or a guard

nothing easy! 

mostly resignation for anything toohard

acceptance

improvisation 

without a moments hesitation

acting soberly

wearing blacks and white

every day and every night

working dawn to dusk

in the summer months 

delivering ice

when the roads were dry

and the air was hot

laboring for everything they ever got

the outhouse sagging in the back yard

one seat for every butt

hinges that didn't operate

so the old door couldn't shut

pages torn from newspapers

most old and torn

sitting happily or forlorn

eating a simple small town diet

no tv but a contented overnight quiet

with kerosene lamps, conversations and playing cards

three to a room or sometimes four

two sons going off to the Second World War

then, after and later 

sunning on the Jersey shore

with a shovel and small pail

no one sentenced to jail

i heard them say

that that's not the American Way:

no, climb the ladder from the shack

there's no glory in continuously looking back

prepare an adequate garden for your food

no time for being in a sour mood

stay in your own sweet lane

connected to each other

with an unbroken family chain

and with every sentence that one might write

make it short and tight

remembering how to crawl underneath a railroad coal car

where the spillage doesn't have to travel very far

to find it's way into your bag,

even if there's no money to be found

on the ground,

there's always love in the heart.

thousand of years ago

the pine and the downy birch

also the larch tree

all marching 

across the land

up hills and across the tundra

over the mountains

into the softening soils

toward the North Star

where reindeer herds look for solid ice

in the ever warming night.

blue and orange and with shades of green,

the forest expands

where trees once grew

thousands of year ago

before the fires and the wolves 

who walk on two legs.

two wolves then six

a black river

and a small herd

of blue sheep

crossing mountains

in the depth of winter

miles from cities

miles from a warm bath

sitting in a cloud tent

sitting in the wind

sitting with a Lama

perched like a moment

on a thin rock shelf

at 17,000 feet

with prayer flags by my shoulder

watching the air

breathe

watching time

watching myself disappear

smiling in the shadows

laughing in the sunshine

then two wolves

then six

black tails

with specks of white

like snow flakes

and deep drifts

that close the high alpine passes.

i thought i'd take a sip

inside France

she sipped her wine;

she asked me to dance

while picking ripe grapes

from an overhead vine.

on her daddy's land,

the sun was shining;

her body was sleek and tanned.

i thought i'd take a sip

before that drink was banned:

we'd grab a bottle and laugh;

sing a Stone's song & take a bath.

we'd go crazy with the blues.

oh, we'd never need to choose!

she'd read the news

when the highlights were bold,

saying, all that glitters isn't gold!

my fortune was in the cards!

her private estate surrounded by armed guards

and i'd be a fool to try an escape,

inside where it hurts or out of shape

inside France

she sipped her wine;

she asked me to dance

while picking ripe grapes

from the overhead vine.

on her daddy's land,

the sun was shining;

her body was sleek and tanned.

i thought i'd take a sip

before that drink was banned!