Sometimes when things come at you
from all different directions
you forget to take a breath
So, your mind spins and you
try to do too many things at once
and you forget to take a breath
When a phone call takes
your breath away and
you forget to take another breath
There is no easy solution to
the craziness of life, but the first step
is to take a breath
I usually don’t remember them,
trust them, listen intently to them,
have been known to blush,
been so moved to tears or joy
I had to go somewhere.
Be
by myself
to take it all in
smile on the inside.
There’s a few I do remember:
In fifth grade when my dad went to jail,
we all tried to keep it a secret
for the three month duration,
he sat around playing cards
in an orange jumpsuit,
Sister Amica told my mom
at a parent-teacher conference
where I waited just outside the door
sitting on a hard bench
in the hallway where the janitor
had just mopped,
not in the ugly green plaid uniform
I had to wear at that school everyday,
Sister told my mom I was a real good writer
and to encourage me to write write write.
In college, a grad student I had a crush on–
finally drank too much, took me to bed
placed a needle on some recording of a god-awful
Wagner classical piece that played over and over again,
while I tried to make love like a grad student,
he said:
You are a cross between
Sissy Spacek & Faye Dunaway
At least, I think it was a compliment.
Most recently, my 12 year old grandson,
who grows about 2 inches a week,
and loves to swear around me
because I let him,
said he would really miss
me and G-Pa when we died,
and then we made waffles.
after: The Disintergration of the Persistence
of Memory at the St. Petersburg Dali Museum
(refusing the docent tour
the head phones or even
to read the wall placards
my choice is to settle
down on a wall bench
face the painting
with the squint of blurry eyes
make out my own thoughts
while Dr. Hue & Penelope do
their duet around the glass dome)
Dr. Tom and ZZ viewed the original
Persistence at MoMA many times
so his words ring in ZZ’s ears
with the prejudice of foresight:
the clocks like soft cheese melting
an inside view of Einstein’s brain
ants on their modern march to watch
the old world end, a single tree
spent as if run over by humanity
in Disintergration relativity becomes
a quantum expression of Hiroshima
ICBMs on their way
the one lifeless tree joined by another
the whole scene flooded with sea rise
the melted clocks urgent, the dead
fish dead, pricked by missiles
and laying on the four square
structure of a spoiled sea floor:
it’s like clicking on today’s nytimes
it doesn’t take ZZ two hours to see
Dali as potent prophet,
when Penelope finds him
he’s slumped in sleep
dreaming of walking
hand-in-hand with dear Dr. Tom
down Fifth Avenue
Shortly after the dementia diagnosis, my mother,
who had always had problems telling a straight story,
became a most unreliable narrator.
She was convinced neighbors stole her newspaper,
emptied (or filled) her gas tank,
hid her mail.
She said, “Somebody somewhere.”
I should have known not to ask questions.
I asked where the little Christmas tree was,
so cute with the miniature ornaments
and tiny lights, the perfect size for her side table.
She said, “Somebody somewhere.”*
I wondered where her dentures had gone,
why her coat was covered with flour,
how her glasses broke.
I picked rice out of her hair,
scrubbed ketchup off her cupboards.
She said, “Somebody somewhere.”
I found loose meds in the teacups and in dusty corners.
The fridge held nothing but freezer-burnt fish and a root beer Popsicle.
She repeated the same stories in the same order over and over.
She wore the same clothes day after day.
The arrival of caregivers confused her, made her anxious.
They were telling lies about her to the priest.
They were pumping carbon monoxide into her house.
Somebody somewhere was out to get her.*
During that beginning of what was the end, I lay restless at night, having one wish for any star that would hold it.
Please let Mom remember that somebody somewhere loves her.
Give me all of June. I want
the spring of blue jay babies, mowed grass, baby carrots
rooting. I want
fresh basil, wide white open magnolia flowers
floating. I want
the solstice delivering summer, and syncopating rain in the creek all night
rhyming. I want
the thickest green mountain forest trails that quiet jubilant voices
traveling. I want
you with me here loving all of June.
The donut of necessity
is enrobed in chocolate.
Chocolate, of necessity,
enrobes the donut.
Necessity is a donut
enrobed in chocolate.
Eve ate the Apple, and God cast Adam from Eden.
Eve ate the Elppa, and Dog cast Mada from Nede.
Some folks believe in God. I believe in Dog.
Some folks believe in God, hope beyond the grave.
I believe in Dog, nothing beyond the grave.
Gentle Golden, graceful beast — Dalmatian’s wild array of spots
wiry touch of Terrier’s coat — silky ear of Bassett Hound
booming voice of Pyrenees — yap of Pekinese
puppy’s breath — Shepherd’s unwashed coat
Asian dish and Huskie — eaten to survive.
Senses know not God. Senses do know Dog.
Dog is here now, loving, faithful, brave.
God is nowhere manifest. I believe in Dog.
skin complexions and complexities
She has skin the color of Nutella
her name is Graciela,
eyes intense like capella,
the brightest star in Auriga now a novella
her smile made my knees weak near the patella
tu hablas espanol?
Si, she replied with a whistling like in kwela
like a mysterious figure smoking on a panatela
I said I always imagine it would make me a more interesting fella and she laughed as the table next to us talked boring business things, selling umbrellas
what I see when I look at her
She’s dorky and fun,
clicks of her tongue, with slight gestures of finger guns
a height of five foot two,
interacting feels like writing haikus
bright like the sun,
bringing back memories of someone
reminding me of the lighter parts of you, partitions you out grew
a Finnish girl with a green streak in her hair (DREAM GIRL #3)
she likes to stand on her tip toes so her elaborate socks show
a favorite fable I didn’t know
of elephants meddling in a meadow
Christmas underneath a mistletoe
I liked the way her face glowed
I didn’t like to see her go as her dismissal
left me wondering so about the dimples
I would only know from a conversation that made me feel more whole
Dream Girl #17 (the artist)
She’s eclectic, and thinks it’s funniest when it’s least expected
she’s luminous and inner connected, like lightning she’s electric
a canvas, of her sky, painted with streaks of colors she’s inspected
a place where the bizarre is normal, and the surreal is subjective
I dream of her in her studio until I’m awakened by a thunderous interjection
