Fred's Pizza

Just between you and me

A simple man was he,

Landing here from Italy.

He left his beloved Rome

To build a new home -

From friends he took a loan.

Though the naysayers said you can't,

But a seed he did plant,

So building his own restaurant.

For he knew he had the knack

With the dough and the spice rack;

A market he would crack.

And though his talent was raw,

A vision he saw -

His calling was Pizza.

And he learned well his trade,

The best Pizzas were made -

He had made the grade.

And soon wealthy was Fred,

So he took a wife - Mama Fred;

A former beauty it was said.

And soon she ran the show

While he flipped the dough,

Faded by the oven's glow.

Sixteen hours every day,

With the ovens he would stay,

Quietly working away.

And all the years in his new land,

English he still didn't understand;

Except for Pizza talk on demand.

Five words only he knew

For take out on 'Q'.

"Fifateen twenty minoots for you!"

Yes that was Pizza Fred,

His only English words said;

But what Pizza he fed.

And such was his growing fame,

The rich and famous came;

And of his greatness they did proclaim.

Now so 'avante garde' was he,

Even Andy Warhol came to see;

And well the rest is history.

It was a strange meeting,

These two great men eating,

While discussing fame so fleeting.

But now I think it's time the world knew;

Yes, Andy borrowed Fred's point of view.

"Fifateen twenty minoots for you!"

On the Edge of Seventeen

On the edge of seventeen,

Nary a boy or a man,

Caught I am somewhere between,

Uncertain just who I am.

But that ain’t good enough I’m told,

Nothing is as it appears;

Mixed messages from the old,

And of course those of my peers.

A crossroad if there ever were,

Upon two paths to go by;

At seventeen I walk unsure,

Knowing not how to comply.

On the edge of seventeen,

My uncertain course to steer,

Stuck somewhere in between,

Fighting to hide the fear.

Ode on a Frite Pit

‘Patate a vingt cinq ou patate a quinze.’

Those bargain prices when I was a lad,

And with either size you needed two hands;

For a bigger bag have you ever had?

And to those Summer days lost and dreamy,

Before Cholesterol and inflation;

With a patate a quinze and a steamy,

At the frite pit I spent my vacation.

And carefree me and my buddies quipping,

With salt, vinegar and onions heaping;

While from those huge bags greasy and dripping,

Such memories are surely worth keeping.

And to look upon those days long gone by,

Where many roads I have travelled from there;

And of world cuisine I have chanced to try -

Still I’m coming back to Rue St. Pierre.

Yes, haute cuisine from gay Paris to Rome;

I’ve seen the other - the glamour and glitz.

But I can tell you there’s no place like home,

And a heaping bag of them greasy frites.

A Well Worn Path

A well worn path I travelled on,

Back and forth from home to school,

And all those days I dreamed upon

How it would be if I were cool.

But well worn paths now here’s the thing,

They run the same no matter what,

And back and forth us kids to bring

Felt to me like such a rut.

Now well worn paths I do declare

Get me thinking once and a while,

And in this lifetime it seems fair,

I must admit it’s been my style.

Yes, well worn paths I have followed

Although myself I’ve tried to fool;

Yet, with these pills I’ve just swallowed,

I’m thinking now I’m pretty cool.

Another Moody Montreal Morning

Another moody Montreal morning

At the train station still getting myself dressed;

My God, I’ve become what they’ve been warning,

Breakfast again’s a Pepsi and Mae West.

Tonight for sure I’m going to bed early,

6:30 at eighteen, it just doesn’t work;

Another Montreal morning so surly,

My parents and teachers I see them smirk.

But a working class hero’s something to be,

High school finally I’ve left it behind;

$2.50 an hour, I’m a man you see,

My way in the world I’m beginning to find.

My Montreal morning’s on a downtown train,

Long ago memories I still detest;

But all these years later I shouldn’t complain,

I kind of miss the Pepsi and Mae West.

Chopsticks

Chopsticks at the meal tonight,

I really could have done without,

A little shaky from last night,

I drank too much there’s little doubt.

A fork I would have much preferred,

But when in Rome the saying goes,

And the waitress never offered

And damn Chinese it was me who chose.

So like a trooper placed in hand,

Chopsticks with my Chinese food

And such frustration you’ll understand,

While my wife kept saying, “Don’t be rude!”

But get me going she really shouldn’t,

I’m very immature I suppose,

And though normally I wouldn’t,

Tonight I put them up my nose.

Chopsticks like a walrus ‘stache’,

With my wife telling me I’m dumb;

And that waitress so very brash,

Said, “You like a Dim sum!”

Time to Waste

I looked at life from my chair

In a tavern long ago,

And all I learned I’m here to share

Was just how much I didn’t know.

Now a penny for this thought,

If just one for every beer

In that tavern I had bought,

Now I’d be rich it’s pretty clear.

But ain’t it funny growing old,

All that beer I’d only rent,

If to myself I could have told

What a waste of time truly meant.

But all I’ve learned in old age turned

Is how much still I don’t know;

And time to waste I’m not concerned,

As long as I can keep it slow.

Young Slick a Real Teenage Mutineer

Young Slick stands outside the pool hall

And oozing a belligerent tone,

As though from Brando he’s heard the call,

His well rehearsed sneer he makes known.

“For crissake Slick it’s 2006,

Ain’t this Brando thing a little old?”

And as I say it, his hair he flicks,

While his dull eyes stare empty and cold.

Argh, another teenage mutineer,

And I smile at Slick all knowing,

But all I get’s that angry sneer

And the second hand smoke he’s blowing.

So I babble on ‘bout when I was a kid.

While of course mostly lying ‘bout stuff,

For behind a similar mask I hid,

Just a scared kid trying to act tough.

But to him I’m just an old fool

And it’s apparent from his sneer,

That there’s no way I was ever as cool

As young Slick a real teenage mutineer.

Of All the Things

Of all the things I like the least

Are those amongst who put on airs.

Poet, pirate, pauper, priest,

Who amongst us really cares?

In their mansions oh so stately,

Heaven help me I am drifting;

Maybe I’m just Johnny come lately,

But who amongst is doing the lifting?

And so it is I will gauge,

Words with actions on the face,

And so it is at every stage,

I’ll decide their rightful place.

And in my heart those that dwell,

Be they eunuchs, egg heads or long eared elves;

I’m here to tell you, bloody hell,

They best be able to laugh at themselves!

Feelings

A lounge lizard is singing "Feelings",

In plaid and a white vinyl belt;

The bar has mirrors on the ceiling

As into a dark corner I melt.

"Waiter," I say, "Make it a double,

It seems I have feelings to drown."

Double, double toil and trouble

Of all the gin joints in this town.

But what feelings I'm here to tell,

I'm about as empty as this bar,

But, "Play it again Sam," I yell,

"That song could make you a star."

And drunkenly I sing along,

"Feelings wo-o-o feelings," Way out of key.

Yes, feelings by God in a song,

That are completely denied by me,

Within These Woods

Within these woods of red and gold

Where autumn surely is the look,

I braced myself against the cold,

And wandered 'pon this path I took.

A path I think beneath the leaves

For most dead they were all around,

Leaves so deep above my knees,

Till paths alone could not be found.

And fairly kicked I turned and tossed

A brand new path amongst the leaves,

And though of course I now was lost,

Opportunity was mine to seize.

For in such faith I made the leap

In the autumn amongst the trees,

And though this path of mine runs steep,

I'll follow fairly them who be leaves.

Wild Horses

Wild horses on the Montana range

With the sunset blazing bright red;

From day to night in a slow change,

Under big skies where freedom's bred.

 

Freedom such a fine word of course,

Maybe the finest ever spoken;

And what better way than a horse,

Out on the range wild and unbroken.

 

Does your wild heart not skip a beat?

I know it surely does for me,

When wild horses I'd chance to meet,

On the open range running free.

 

Forever etched one of those scenes,

Across the range a rambling herd;

Wild horses wander like my dreams

Where freedom is the finest word

Spiritual Healing

In the footsteps of the Wise men,

I swear to God it was as I thought;

Upon the road to Bethlehem,

Was the child savior I sought.

 

Follow the brightest star

To Bethlehem in the west

On I 78 in my car,

I imagined the very best.

 

For I never knew it I swear

When just by luck I came this way;

This luck of mine beyond compare,

To learn Jesus was born in PA.

 

Bethlehem PA who knew

With Nazareth just up the road;

A revelation it is true,

Now much lighter is my load.

 

And spiritual healing to be found

My faith to follow in these places,

The baby Jesus somewhere around

Where I searched in so many faces.

 

Now Bethlehem and Nazareth PA,

My spiritual healing on the map shows,

But what truly saved me I must say

Were the deep woods of the Poconos

She Seemed to Be the Perfect Host

She seemed to be the perfect host

When she invited me to tea,

And so it was I raised a toast,

'Cause most perfect she seemed to be.

Till many visits so I paid

To this ever kind perfect host,

But then one day I over stayed

And then it was I saw the ghost.

A ghost before me sitting there,

And yes it was it frightened me,

For hollow now her soul laid bare,

Her true emptiness I could see.

And feel her pain I almost could,

When she projected onto me,

And of her pain it's understood,

When of herself she could not see.

Yes empty was this perfect host

And sadly I saw through and through,

But now I know the way of ghosts

And why they all cry, "Who, Whoo."

Stones

A stones throw from the other side

Where in my glass house come what may,

It's here amongst I must decide,

Just how the game I'm going to play.

So it was I sought the Sages,

On how myself I should conduct,

For my life in all its stages,

I've come to see has mostly sucked.

But hands upon which we are dealt,

"To make the most of," so they said,

For Sages who in courage dwelt,

They tell me now to go instead.

And though a stone throw's mine to make

An easy toss from here to there;

It seems a claim if I'm to stake,

Of stones - I need to grow a pair.

An Old Wooden Bridge

A quiet path I traveled by                                                                                                      

When soon a bridge the path became,

And over waters rushing by,

I wondered at its wooden frame.

For old and tired it looked to be,

Its rotting wood in weathered gray;

But if the far side I was to see ‑

Well then there was no other way.

So I considered my choices,

Having for sure come from somewhere,

While from the stream came no voices;

And what if beyond lead nowhere?

Although to go back I couldn't,

And in my heart of hearts I knew;

While pining I know I shouldn't ‑

But standing there what could I do?

And of such fear it's not denied,

As I held that rickety wood;

But here I am on the far side,

And now what's overcome is understood.

North Carolina Nights

The moon over Polecat Creek,

Merry in the month of May;

The reflection a white streak

Across the water to display.

 

North Carolina nights to tell,

Croaking frogs and a whippoorwill;

Like Alice in Wonderland swell,

Yeah, for me this state fits the bill.

 

But instead of Polecat Creek

With the full moon oh so bright;

It's that Cheshire cat jowl to cheek

With that toothy grin I have in sight.

 

My imagination running wild

In North Carolina nights to tell;

Where Cheshire cat moons have smiled

And polecats you can't even smell.

 

Now broadleaf tobacco I surely know

For I've been to Raleigh and Winston-Salem,

But at Polecat Creek in time so slow;

What's this thin leaf stuff I've been inhaling?

 

Oh yeah, North Carolina nights of mine

And your moon so very beguiling;

It don't matter for whatever the shine,

You keep this cat forever smiling.

Virginia is for Lovers

Virginia is for lovers said the sign

And even though we were just passing through,

My good wife and I inside the state line,

Said, "What the heck, let's find out if it's true."

 

Now we've been married what seems forever,

Complacent and comfortable in our roles;

And romance well, I shouldn't say, "Never,"

But in our fabric truly there's been holes.

 

So to Jamestown on to Virginia Beach,

A bit of history to the present day;

Like our life the two of us, side by each;

Through thick and thin together come what may.

 

Perhaps at times we've taken for granted

Our years together now fading from view;

But the truth to tell she's all I've wanted,

And Virginia's for lovers, I now know it's true.

 

Yes, a hotel in Richmond changed it all

Such renewed passion the old wife and me;

And feeling like Traveller sixteen hands tall,

I rode 'neath a photo of Robert E. Lee.

One Day

I set my sights on one day,

One day not too far from now;

And whatever come what may,

I would get there somehow.

 

But now that day's come and gone,

Just like that it came and went;

All those dreams I dreamed upon,

So much time I had spent.

 

And older now I look upon,

All the one days I have had,

And though most have come and gone,

Still I think it ain't so bad.

 

For dreams I still have a few,

And one day soon or far away,

I see at last what's overdue,

All my one day's are today.

 

Out on the Wire

Come walk with me out on the wire

High above and without a net

And your troubles no matter how dire,

I promise you'll soon forget.

 

Take the step leave the ledge

To that high wire in your mind,

And walk with me on the edge

In the moment so well aligned.

 

Two steps forward one step back

And in the middle let us meet,

Where only one way we can track

And fear at last we'll defeat.

 

Yes, upon this high wire let us dwell

Where all our worries we'll forget,

In the moment, what the hell,

Let us walk without a net.

The Gulag Gopher

The gopher in the garden of the gulag

Where the inmates looked upon with envy,

For if only burrowing was their bag,

Free as the Gulag Gopher they too might then be.

Yes, like the gopher beneath the fence to dig,

So many inmates held onto this vision.

Past the barbed wire their dreams were big,

Till like the gopher, tunnels became the mission.

Such an inspiration was the Gulag Gopher,

Until almost a deity to be,

For to follow its path the inmates were sure,

The Gulag Gopher alone could set them free.

Until cult like the gopher’s following became

And if in the garden the inmates would see,

To the Gulag Gopher they’d kneel without shame,

Praying to their little furry deity.

But within that gulag garden’s poor crop,

It seems somehow deities and the underfed,

Well you can imagine when they got the drop,

How quick the Gulag Gopher became dinner instead.

23 Skidoo

I saw a man in a muskrat coat

Who said, “23 skidoo!”

And I clicked the remote

As the channels I flicked through.

But there he was on channel 10

In that muskrat coat looking back at me,

And I kept going back again,

The muskrat coat guy wouldn’t leave me be.

And with a pennant so he waved,

From the twenties he seemed to be.

“Rah, Rah,” he said, “And you’ll be saved!”

Now sitting inside a Ford Model T

“Saved from what?” I asked the TV.

And you’ll not believe it but it’s true,

The muskrat coat guy answered me,

Saying again, “23 skidoo!”

“What the hell does that mean?” I said.

Just as he swallowed a gold fish,

Then throwing back his head,

He said to me, “Make a wish.”

So all my wishes I went through,

And there were 23 to choose from.

And once again he said, “23 skidoo.”

But still I had to pick just one.

And of all my wishes, who knew,

I said, “I’d like to become a flapper!”

And we both cried, “23 skidoo!”

As I flushed this poem down the crapper.