Poems
by Gary Beck

 

Westward

 

The stagecoach in the Old West

was a great innovation

allowing people

to spread civilization

to undeveloped  towns

with limited resources.

 

As a child I saw Western movies

where bandits robbed stagecoaches.

If the movies were accurate,

few passengers arrived safely

and the sheriff’s posses

mostly did not catch the crooks.

 

In one of the shoot-em-ups

the bandits disabled the stagecoach,

forced passengers to walk

through hostile territory,

where the Indians killed them

for trespassing on their lands.

 

The outraged townspeople

attacked the Indians

instead of the bandits,

proving scientifically

they still had not learned

the principle of cause and effect.

 

 

 

 

 

Siren Dirge

 

Once again adrift

in the alluring city,

heeding the promise

of safety, security,

deceived

like most others

when disaster strikes,

mugging, bike crash,

so many ways

for the urban appetite

to devour us

in canyons of concrete,

reflected

by glass indifference.

 

 

 

 

 

Bus Ride

 

The hulking guy

got on the bus,

sat down across from me.

He was big, smelly,

tangled beard and hair,

eyes bloodshot, wild,

mumbling to himself,

then started yelling:

“She’s a prostitute.

They’re out to get me.

You disrespected me.”

When he looked at me

I stood up and got off the bus.

I’m 76 years old

and couldn’t deal with

a crazy guy.

Maybe I was overreacting,

but the nice black lady

got off with me and asked:

“Did you see the devil in him?”

I don’t know if it was the devil,

but he scared me.

I didn’t know what to say

and I was embarrassed

to admit I was scared.

“I don’t know what I saw, Ma’am,

but I didn’t want to be near

that disturbed man.

Have a nice day,”

and I walked away,

trying to decide

if I should go

to the next bus stop.

 

 

 

 

 

Wasted

 

The rejected of our land

wander deranged streets

far removed from coherence

so they cannot access

salvation services.

They pass unwelcoming houses

that still retain existence,

cannot find sustenance,

are blown away

by unkind winds.

 

 

 

 

 

Manhattan Byways

 

Invisible armies

infiltrate the city

sent by the lords of profit

to gentrify neighborhoods,

disengage the poor,

dwindle the middle-class,

retain useful elements

of the working class

as long as they serve willingly,

remove affordable housing

until all that’s left

are tourist accommodations,

playgrounds of the rich,

decayed buildings

with evaporating holdouts,

dreaming of

the French Revolution.

 

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