I DOES WHAT I DO I had just turned eighteen and was walking through the streets of old Yorkville, didn’t know what else to do. Friends, all army bound so I’d drift, place to place meeting pranksters, singers and ruffians, wisecrackers of every size, shade and face. Stopped in a bar on third Avenue, lots of laughter and grinning mugs. The bar was called Ireland’s 32. I was sitting there, subdued, killing time when a long, lean gent walked in, dropped down next to me, ordered a dark bottle, poured it into a glass, then ordered a shot of whiskey and plopped that into his brown beer—shot glass and all. I watched as he quickly knocked down three straight boiler-makers all in a row. Then he turned to me, pushed his pea-cap back red eyes all aglow and said: “I’ve no fear of dying, nor of any man. No belief in lying ’tis not where I stand. Whispers in the mist is what I hears, lad. And, its what others doesn’t hear. The world has no conscience, nature no compassion or dread, so I goes out in the streets and I does what I do and do what I does. I challenge the night and I address the universe and we sit in counsel. I ask it how, when, where and why and I hear it speak to me, plainly. It says: ‘This Uni-verse is one. That’s right son, tis only One-verse.’ “So, I does what I likes, feels what I do, and do what I does. I fancy gray days and nasty weather, I walks through snowy graveyards with no coat nor any sweater. I only eats red meats and drinks dark Guin-ness; I never liked fancy things and I’m not a man of great fin-esse I likes what I likes and does what I do—I’m only a shadow of another you.” “Signs and wonders ,in the sky, I do behold, I sense and I feel them all. I’ve learned that Poetry flows from the Spirit to the care of the poet on the street, living hand to mouth, in this sea of human indignity where we must compete.” Then he ups and leaves me with my mouth wide open and out the door he totters. I asked, Connor, the in-keep “Who was that!” He leans in close to me, gets all somber and serious, tells me: “That’s T. J. Kelly and he’s written many a revolutionary song for the people under siege in Ireland. These days, he’s just another unknown Irish poet roaming the streets of New York City. Photo of, T. J. Kelly in his youth. Poet/Songwriter/Revolutionary and my great, great, grandfather. Copyright 2014 Dennis John Ferado My first book “Time On Hand” can be ordered on Amazon, through Barns & Noble or at my publisher: SOULASYLUMPOETRY.COM It collects 80 poems, 2 short stories and 16 vintage photographs or you can get a signed copy by messaging me. Twenty dollars, shipping included anywhere in the USA. Thank you
Posted on: Wed, 19 Nov 2014 05:14:43 +0000
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