$\"Americana$

Americana – Steven B. Smith<\/p><\/div>\n

The Old Man of The Grocery Store<\/strong><\/p>\n

I have a small grocery store.
\nBy morning light I stand wrapped in my white cotton apron.
\nSweeping the sidewalk with an old broom.
\nSetting up the fresh new produce.
\nPlenty of turnips here.
\nSpinach leaves are glistening.
\nA radio broadcasts that sweet breath of the late 19th century.
\nSoon a child will stop for an apple.
\nUpon a lovely walk the morning rain rises through a quiet summer sunlit mist.<\/p>\n

Upstairs I have an old couch.
\nA rotating fan beside the hand woven curtains by the 2nd floor window.
\nA hand cranked phonograph sits upon an enamel breakfast table.
\nA portrait of my universal rabbi hung upon a nail in the cracked plaster.
\nAn early afternoon dog in the late light of morning.<\/p>\n

An open crate of oranges.
\nThe screen door slams.
\nI am the neighborhood grocer.
\nBe sure to trim off the red leaves from the rhubarb.
\nA rhubarb leaf hand stitched into an immigrant\u2019s diary.
\nI rest peacefully in the time zone of fragrant morning produce.
\nThe quiet early dawn for a youthful peddler packed with slow archival poetry
\nin the hospital light of skillfully painted planets.
\nListening to aging photographs of a beautiful childhood.
\nThe undertaker was carefully attaching her old handmade wings.<\/p>\n

While I\u2019m stacking the iceberg lettuce a customer squeezes a melon.
\n\u201cMay I help you?\u201d I offer.
\nSunlight cuts through the pane glass storefront window.
\nIt is my grocery store.
\nI\u2019m an immigrant from the old country.
\nAn Eastern European voyager.
\nA traveler on the steamship.
\nCarrying an old brown leather bag.
\nMy young feet wrapped in strips of aging cotton.<\/p>\n

Steam billowing from the tall stacks of the creaking freighter.
\nMe, wrapped in a thick brown wool sweater.
\nHeavy dark trousers.
\nA crowd upon the decks
\nAs we pass the monument.
\nEntering the harbor.
\nA new world…<\/p>\n

This child of God stands upon the bow.
\nI light a cigarette.
\nThe fog horn bellows into the morning light.
\nI feign innocence as we approach the beckoning shores.
\nLeaning against the rail.
\nFog billowing before the gentle child of the night<\/p>\n

I have a grocery store now
\nSweet produce in the quiet morning
\nI lower the awning
\nwith a long steel crank
\nand sweep the sidewalk.
\nWrapped forever by the early daylight in my white cotton apron.<\/p>\n

~ Peter Leon<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

Clatter of the Sea<\/strong><\/p>\n

Unvarnished truth<\/p>\n

jagged hand blown glass
\ngolden sliver in muddy water<\/p>\n

rattled prism tinted sea stone<\/p>\n

ancient
\nartifact
\nhanded
\ndown
\ngeneration
\nafter
\ngeneration<\/p>\n

~ Margie Shaheed<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

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