PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Streamers of pale white, early light cut through the waking, stretches of Oregon Fir gardens giving sparkle to sweet dew that clings to the lacey ferns and carpets of luscious moss at the floor.

My thoughts betray the beauty that fills my eyes and distracts me back to New York City when on that 16^th day in March 1990 blood flowed unnoticed as the bacchanalia of the St. Paddy’s Day Parade advanced conspicuously up 5^th Avenue.
The Irish rarely resisted the clobbering demands heaped on them from the Italian Mafia but that day’s skies were bright blue and the air was crisp and it was a perfect day for a blood letting of resistance and revenge. 

The scene was on the parade route as the wearing-of-the-green participants pranced proudly by, unaware of the mayhem that was taking place just beyond the stained glass windows of Flanagan’s Tavern where dozens of bullets peeled wildly through the odor of stale beer and burned powder.

NYPD’s finest and heroic firefighters marched lock step and proud in lineal perfection.  Waves of music including bagpipes and marching high school bands filled 5^th Ave with acoustic rat-a-tat-tat drum sounds, blaring trumpets and the chromatic ting of breast-worn xylophones.  The warm aromas of buttery pop corn and cotton candy mixed nicely with the gaseous stink of the city.  Everyone, everywhere wore a smile and something green.  The fanfare leveled a spell on those who lined the sidewalks and they were all happy and cheering and fathers donned their giggling children on their shoulders for a better view of the passing procession.

No one heard the furious gunfight going on inside Flanagan’s just feet away.  The atmosphere was so festive and the percussion so thunderous that even if they had heard something they would have paid little attention; New Yorkers could be like that sometimes. 

When it was over eight men lay in coalescing pools of dark blood….six Italian and two Irish. The room was splintered to hell by the brutal turbulence; absurdly Too Ra Loo Ra Loo Ra briefly played from someone’s surviving cell phone.

The young red-haired girl who hid terrified in the storeroom waited a long hour to emerge.  The sight and smell of the carnage brought vomit up to her mouth as she stepped trembling out into the middle of it.  A methodical drip from a broken beer tap was the only sound; all was as still as a necropolis.  The last band in the parade had long since passed by and gone were the celebratory crowds.  Broken glass crunched under the girl’s shoes as she slowly made her way to the front entrance.  The door closed silently behind her as if trying not to wake the dead.   No one was left to testify as to motive for the fatal melee that had taken only a hundred and twenty seconds to complete.
The sweepers who had the earnest job of removing confetti and litter from the streets that evening had stopped for a quick break and a beer at Flanagan’s. 

The scene had been neatly tied off with yellow “crime scene” tape until all the bodies were removed and an investigation had been launched.  The detectives had concluded that it was just another dispute settled the hard way but held the case open until they could gather more facts as to exact motive; which would most likely remain unfounded for many years.  It was improbable that anyone who knew anything would talk with police and those who did or may have seen something would never choose to become involved in the affairs of warring crime families.

I couldn’t stay in the city afterward. As soon as I hit the street that night I flagged down a taxi and ordered the cabby to 38 Mott Street, aka Hell’s Kitchen.  I hurriedly packed a few suit cases, turned out the lights, pulled down the shades, left my one and only plant in front of a neighbor’s apartment door without a note and posthaste made my way down the dimly lite hallway to the street.  As I headed to the corner I remember thinking that the air suddenly smelled oddly fragrant…a bit like the seashore.  The honking annoyance of my city would soon be far behind me but I had no time to imagine how much I’d miss her.

My goal was JFK Airport.

Now these many years later I have found good friends and peace of mind in the enchanted wooded paradise of the Oregon coast where the air really does smell like the seashore.  Its quiet here….no hustle, no clamor of traffic and nothing terribly unusual or scary.

The nightmares have slackened to no more than one or two a year but the sight of the emerald green landscape prods me from time to time to remember….sometimes with a deep sense of relief… that St Paddy’s Day in 1990 when my life took an unexpected and welcomed turn for the better. 

                                                        The  End

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