Yarns

I honestly can’t remember the summer sun in grandma’s backyard but I recall the swing brushing the gooseberry bushes even though I still don’t know the shape or tangy pop of the berries. Who knows what fragments of light crossed that upstairs Spanish painting terrifying me into bed until sunrise? I can’t remember the face but I know the rounded edge of hat and bag of candy for the girl he’d never see again.

I can’t remember the faces of the babas in line with us. Interlopers we stood in the snow eating their language while reading the maps of the past in their eyes. Stories blended together in our bewilderment at lives that we could not have endured and would leave in ten months. They’ve probably perished since, but not I.  Is that true?

I can’t remember the farm wall color but the smell of cattle and electric fences danced through the window and called for discovery: kittens in the barn – blind wet furies hooked into childhood’s hands and memory. A little fur on the cookies didn’t hurt and who wandered down to the one room school with me? Abandonment and age scarred the board and discarded books. A potbellied stove warmed spiders’ nests.

I can’t remember my aunt’s odd cat named a Japanese name and eating cheese from a toothpick at Christmastime.  Soft, elusive, peering from the almost upstairs – what of me remains with you?

I can’t remember the old farm where the woman lopped off the chicken’s head and it actually ran around before collapsing.  A heap of edible death near the marigolds. Perhaps we made stew or chicken pie? The bloodstain remained for weeks, not so the food.

I can’t remember all those beers and shots of laughter with friends, buying our way to a fake joy that should have never been attempted in the first place. What was I trying to prove the night I smoked that first cigarette and threw up?

I can’t remember the kneeling moment or the taste of the three tier cake, but sickly sweet recalls the blows and bruises and unfairness.  What does it say about me that I remember no kindness but all the dinners of hardship and contempt?  Scars hidden can be denied.

I can’t remember the Barbies and Monopolies and Go Fishes and Kick the Cans.  The twilight of summer that shone in your firefly eyes.  Licorice smiles and watermelon breath after supper, and did anyone like pigs as much as you? Too much pink escapes me now and I feel something gained despite loss.  Leaf houses turn snow forts that we seal by pouring hot water across the walls in frozen sticky red mittens.

I can’t remember the call of the creek but crystal feelings sparkled hope mixed with breeze and salted sunshine.  Something.  Someone.  Out there waiting to stumble across me and I waited for that embrace that never came, didn’t I?

I can’t remember the copulation and the birth is blurry.  Undefined then suddenly manifest.  The shapes of your cries still hang in the air as your paintings on the walls.  Joy anticipated had no disappointment, but shifted expectations speak loudly while childhoods now past whisper conspiracies of guilt and regret from the corners.  Is it possible to hold on and release?

I can’t remember the crafts and shared knowledge little to big.  Your made up language and the green smiling alligator that no one knew.  Robbing the bank on doubles.  How about chocolate eating in the living room.  Did Mom ever catch you?

I can’t remember the reasons, but I remember the stitches.  A fall on refrozen ice or too soft chin on a too hard floor or trying to fly from a desk chair? Indelible souvenirs of the invincible imagination – moments fleeing into small history.

I can’t remember becoming mom’s age.  I can’t remember mom becoming grandma’s age. The fields of time and hamburgers along this path extend beyond imagination. Keeping dreams and hand holds and goodnights while pushing the cry-stained blankets farther away creates comfort of a sort. Who knew that this was a ball of colored yarn tangled beyond recognition? Trying to sort it out will reveal hidden nettles and unspeakable softness.  Who snarled this so impossibly? I can’t remember.  Maybe it was me.

Untitled

Morning would not budge nor move, not even sigh,

keeping grief at bay.

Too early for liquor, of course, (it might not have helped;

such numbing doesn’t last.)

But noon refuses to show her face and

no shadow lurks.

The lost will not return for a toast, and

(try as they might) hard pews can’t

stiffen resolve against tears.

This, this too early release from gravity

weighs much,

we realize our names are written in water –

We, then, corrupters of healing

have our own uses for the silent spaces,

hung like so much 6^th grade artwork.

But what can we do when the bars aren’t open

yet and the gallery owner has run off

with the produce girl?

Liturgy or litany emerges too close

and sulfur snakes around hugging pantsuits.

Speckled hues accent purple astromeria

stripes that cannot be broached.

Loss – watery with faith but torrential without –

eulogized by a mispronounced gospel.

Afternoon sun cannot smile in south Georgia

summer, neither waiting on asphalt.

 Throwing clumps in after you is meant as salve.

And now with liquid fortifying, we realize the first

days have slipped away where we will reimagine living.

Morning

Hot biscuits steam the wilted grapes in the colander, but the moldy zucchini

was gone when I got up this morning.  What happened as I watched

over flashes of stories and dream bites? Fresh creamed butter moistens blue crockery

next to the sink, and the cloud of fruit flies has migrated.  Bitter percolations

 await sugar and milk.  Lark song repeats through the sunshined slats. 

Quiet white ripples of laughter beckon as two peaches glisten nearby.  A roach

scuttles across the linoleum.

Appearances

Too often missed dawns

reveal perfected homes.

Nests, small gossamer

treasures leap at the nose

and cling to the shoulder.

A stifled shriek wakes

still nodding buds and the

ghost of night shift work

wafts away.

Palm Sunday

A gray opening – yet unearned –

   seen in echoes,

ageless with rounded full edges,

syllables kept reserved in the

   back room: opened this day only.

Entrances envelop;

   attempts at humility are

confession

of a year’s hard word on benches

   still harder while birdsong seeps

through the color and beckons all.

Smoke dissipating leaves blued

   outlines with thirst unslaked;

so it has always been: epoch to

   century: now decade and

year.

Storing burnt fates for futures

   uncertain – a nefarious gamble:

blessing fronds as we watch

the lost

   benediction.

This victory smolders –

   branches fallen silent:

returned to the musty trunk;

   ashes and forgotten felt-backed figures:

a dark communion.

syllabus

um.

they didn’t tell us everything when we were registering for courses.

some days your ankles swell and there’s no pencil sharpener

in sight.

the food isn’t always all that great and there are only a few

loaner umbrellas –

and some of them are broken.

the gym is available except when it isn’t and some of the chairs are reserved

for seniors or men or veterans.

no, they didn’t tell us really any of the details to make an informed choice.

we had no way of knowing and mute advisors are no help even when they

smell funny and hold your hand occasionally ruffling your hair.

what happens out behind the auditorium is secret unless security rolls by, and there’s always too much of never enough time and back aches creep up from behind.

it’s all more tuna fish and corn chips than cristal and beluga.

there should have been a more thorough orientation because pets and children die and it’s not fair

that you have to be 36” to ride the roller coaster.

someone might have mentioned that gardening and arguing are skills that require

development

and even if you get a yearly calendar you’ll never have enough pages and even

at the end you will want and beg for one more.

don’t there have to be more q words without the letter u? and if we kept our mouths shut

and our chins up, i think there should be a prize. 

the syllabus really should have outlined the grading structure more clearly.

we sign up for a second, third, fourth, fifth round of pain because we are here

and we must use our time wisely if we can but use it nonetheless.

and no one said there was an end because really there are too many smiles to see

and toasts to drink and vases to smash.

oh so much that wasn’t included in the opening remarks and it all keeps

going

Trades

We ran a plumb line down the chasm,

   perhaps thinking to balance bitterness

      with affection and cruelty.

Storms of passions don't invite

   peace of a level line and lost vows

      refract sadness in broken glass.

Can it matter if you lie and I don't care?

Trading on futures with promissory

   for a rare, dear flower --

an ancient tulip trade -

leaves us with the bulb unwanted.

Still, we plant and it grows after hard freezes:

    royal promises.

But, unexpected frost gathers on green petals:

    browning leaves wither:

the bulb is starved.

all that's left:  food for squirrels.

Westside

Gates open to the West and streets are named and numbered – repurposed

addresses, a neighborhood not unlike any other:

enclosures for souls plotted, aligned

in a specific grid – walls and fences make

good neighbors here, too.

Walking uneven pathways I realize the connected lives and

silent entwinings are repeating on the breeze of this cool,

light day.

Live oaks are few with roots too deep, too wide just as the

mothers and fathers and soldiers and

babies here: they have been the beauty of the Westside.

Families are chronicles, the whispering history. Here,

keepers of stories and tellers of tales gather: a peaceful festival

of all that has gone before.

What has come and gone under the Master’s eye? A war

or two: some from Post 204 served gloriously and left a golden

memory. 

On a day some eighty years ago mother and young son

took hands and walked Northward one last time.  Overgrown peace

is unbearable, a lightness reflected here but shaded there by

sentry cedars – their roots running wide but shallow like mine –

we both are interlopers here.

Whole groups: neighbors, families, babies, suitors and girls, grandmothers

and maiden aunts along Third and Brown or

Fifth and Malvern.  Next door, down the road, and catty-corner: set up

as if houses and gardens and gossip

are dormant just now, awaiting the butterflies’ warming, a permission to take flight

again.

Until then, clarity waits atop granite, brick, planters, angels, and faded

forgotten forsythia, an innocent anticipation.

Not enough time – there never is –

and shouts from the playground round the corner have dwindled as chill

drapes my shoulders.  Leaves whirl up, urging me along the path –

a retracing or new treads? I am

unsure.

Reflections on the Front Port After the Ice Storm

Water trickles down the drainpipe –

   an icy mountain river with no

glassy lake to fill

   just my mud dappled yard.

Birds again awake, call and

   flit from branch to porch rail, in search;

reminding us all continues: the cycle of a thousand

   seasons is not altered by frozen water.

Bushy branches resilient and still

   living bounce back, their

greening, two days interrupted,

   now resumed.

Miniature icebergs punctuate grass

   that was not yet fully wakened –

enlivened now by chill; does it want

   hibernation or warming sun?

No choice, we must take what comes.

Sirens – distant and near – attend

   unplanned incidents: a fall,

a blockage, lost breath. And equally the

   invincible who moved a power line a moment

before too late remembering that fifth grade science

   lesson.

My birthday spirea fared better

   than the fence that must be mended;

falling branches do not aim kindly.

   No matter, after eggs and toast,

I’ll get my chainsaw: nature’s might

   now melting and its minions kindling.

Bogey

Dark maws open too soon – but who can tell time? A bandit escaped

just when he was

cleaning up

straightening up

sobering up.

No easy roads along this route: pitfalls and potholes, all miniature

stumblings toward a deeper descent.

Faithlessness wafts from bottles shattered open on tile floors --

what god will answer these echoes?

No astrology, no rising planet in the first house, neither second nor third,

            all is shaded.

  Salvaged memories of lives – over praised,

over privileged,

over wrought.

Charted salvations were drawn but no one reads.  Heat rises to the attic wilting

boxed images next to stored Callaways; two stories lower chicken salad putrefies.

Perfection had frolicked across Sunday links and

midweek lunches. Nothing remains but

god’s favor to others – you know, he stole your putter

on the way out.

House Fire

Secrets don’t just sit in closets or

   roll around in attic-bound boxes –

sometimes they sit on the couch with a coffee

cup, lip-stick stained, lukewarm.

Napkins go unpressed as wrinkly eyes

   swim over souls met, now lost:

gone or abandoned.

Fire, out of place, jumped up –

   trickling in to night gray.

Fled confines, some burst, still

   other seeps ashy out heat-cracked windows:

myriads along broken hearted, steaming gutters.

Nothing lasts.

Mysteries may be gloaming

   mirages, smoky off the singed

rolltop where (unpaid) bills stacked up.

No common prophecy uttered

   this unhealing modality – no therapy

found in embers of pillows;

   photos now phantom fringed, a haunting

that cannot be unlived.

A sudden inhalation cut short, crackles

   echoing, and those secrets: diffused

upward or in shards next to the hearth.

Leaf burning

early Sunday morning

disturbs no one barring

the leaves themselves who

tumble compliantly to

death.

Smoke plumes waft by

windows shut against cool

morning air; a neighbor at tea

might glance up from the

news of yesterday’s calamities –

all is silent.

I stand guard – my metal rake

also a sentry against intruders –

we the only witnesses: no town

square, no heretics, no pleas for mercy

this blue smoky morn.

The search for released seeds brings

blue wings down, red chests echo

earlier flames now turned to

semi-ash; only sighs of gray

drift upward.

Higher still a beverage service is being

offered – doubtful my smoke

signals seen from such a pass:

have I sent vulgarity

into the atmosphere?

At noon all is gray – the sentries gone in

to books or billiards or a smoke

(well, probably not) –

enough evidence

remains until dusk.

Survivor

If you live
through the unlikely event

of a water landing

and you are able to use

your cushion as a floatation

device

until you dog paddle to

salt-water choked,

shark-encircled safety

of a life raft

and

you and your two

frightened but amiable companions

live on sustenance bars

and canned

water for at least

three days,

praying in all the tongues you know

to all the gods you’ve ever heard of

while your

sunburned face chills

in the moon dark night,

then,

then, madam,

you may appropriate

this title.

A long check-in line without valet service does not count.

Half Way House

               

I don’t own an armchair. It occurred to me

the other day at the doctor’s office. 

What else is my house missing?

Plenty of clutter greets me each morning,

but hours can be eaten by such omnivorous endeavors

as clearing out. 

Something is always clean;

certain spots are often tidy;

ordered clarity lurks in the corners,

but never the three meet on the same

sunny day.

The house holds more than one soul

must needs.  Small things

carry immense remembrance, not so

the big. 

Not much care for matched sofas

and tassels

and drapes.

Floaty curtains absent in kitchen windows –

the porch is the best on a fall day;

the irregular triangle yard, a hot field in summer

outlined by tea olive hedge.

Conversation flits between laughter and the

smell of cinnamon rolls and tears spill

next to the spaghetti sauce.

At the end of each fall the ladybugs

crawl between the window frame and wall,

a pilgrimage to our side before death.  By the hundreds

they pay final respects and lay wings down

on the sills: 

their forever home – mine will have

an armchair.

Eighteen Hours: A Sigh

Eighteen hours –

one for each year,

hundreds more tears

along the highway

running between

our past and your future.

A job I’m meant to

lose.

So I am. Successful

loss.

I’ll not keen –

simple smile and sniff,

a sigh.

Untitled

Chole and tandoori pork:

pungent invaders:

fenugreek, garam masala, turmeric, cardamom:

home for you and foreign to me:

pockets of resistance to bland expectations.

I am delighted by cuisine that is not mine.

Spicy platoons of cloves, coriander, and ginger

are welcomed and blended with a deep warm chai:

alive with the heady stirrings of a country I have never seen –

cannot imagine.

Mind's eye is enlivened and then

almond cake cools.

Нельзя фотографировать: The last year of the Soviet Union

Horseradish and black bread sandwiches

  linger after warm beer and vodka –

bought with – or in spite of – талоны.

Bulldozer music with cockroach percussion –

  nothing built or razed

  just played.

Up Тверская sits Зоя Петровна

  saving final months of Soviet stamps.

Women warm three hour queues –

  hope decorated in gossipy fear.

Мясо is just that – only that

  best not to ask.  But best to just

  have суп.

Trains are officially on time but

  no one forgets the sixty hour

  overnight from Ленинград.

I regret to inform you

that the lizard has died.

Belly up this morning: tiny claws clasped

across leathery belt,

unshriven, awaiting

coffinette and eternity.

Mourners will not include the daily

four crickets – no keening from them.

Curious, though, the small blanched

body next to the water dish:

traveler dehydrated a hundred

yards from oasis.

All was as is should be – yesterday; but,

maybe the New Year with promises

of vituperation from Washington,

crassness from Hollywood was all too much

for a shrunken soul.

Perhaps, though, the loss was felt

long ago: in a life adorned with

tempered plastic,

fabricated sunshine begets instinctual

absence from survival.

And now how to memorialize he who

once ate his own tail?

Final kindness for him who abandoned

existence this cold morn: a garden grave,

marked by logs, leaves, and a makeshift

eulogy.

Now, to tea.