small poems, wednesday morning

this day          moving into          deeper gray

your gentle heart

a rose

leaning toward home

dream dancing: in my purple robe

the moon drips silver

on my upturned face

wandering the icy driveway —

lost gull

I would help you if I could

my darling

if only you weren't

allergic to flowers!

years ago

we lit a dozen candles —

now one flame is enough

when you are not here

I know you are everywhere —

but still . . . .

stretching my ears

your footsteps descend

the stairs

the drummers have all gone home —

welcome back

birdsong

this melancholy morning

Rumi and Sappho

whisper to me

My TO List

This list was inspired by the Verb List created by the artist Richard Serra in the late 1960s. Serra's list relates to his creative process. My list (not all verbs) relates to my life as I experienced it over a few days in early August, 2013.

To wait

To question

To postpone

To wonder

To feel full up 

To undo

To stumble

To snooze and drool

To slide

To be part of

To disengage

To surrender

To regret 

To collect bits and pieces

To rename

To challenge

To lose track of time

To tell

To undress

To redress

To sit and stare 

To get ready to rumble

To pause

To plunge in

To scrub clean

To erase

To turn away from

To shut down 

To embrace 

To suspect 

To grow impatient 

To feel curious

To run out of ink and steam at the same moment

To create space for something new to come in

To cross my arms 

To stretch my legs

To exasperate myself

To read the same line over and over

To force a smile

To fight it all out inside my head

To walk with purpose

To re-cap

To chant 

To stay hydrated

To unravel

To resist

To give in

To connect

To munch

To dither

To shrink and expand; expand and shrink

To be forgetful

To luxuriate in silence

To cuddle

To memorize

To talk about difficult things

To edit and revise

To laugh

To write imaginary letters

To fuss and fidget

To be surprised

To move on

To savor

To lose myself

To resolve

To forgive

To rearrange, replace, recycle

To be creased and wrinkled

To waste time

To go back and forth

To worry and then let go of worry

To list

I'm Being a Visionary Here

Some people have no business being parents and I'm not speaking in generalities, I’m speaking specifically about the woman in apartment 1-C. 

She goes by the name Maddie Pinkwhistle but take it from me, Maddie does not stand for Madeline. It stands for Madagascar. On my ex-mother-in-law’s grave that’s the God’s honest truth. I got it out of Bruno. Supers know these things, he crossed his heart when he told me. 

So, a person with the name of Madagascar — oh, and need I tell you, that is not where she was born — already you know it’s not good news, she’s going to grow up to have problems, yes? Of course yes, it’s fated, it’s in her cards. 

So her first baby comes along, what does she name him? Tortellini. Tort-a-lini, you ever hear anything like this? And I put 100 and 50% of the blame on her head, it’s not like there was a husband. Somewhere on this earth there has to be a father, that I am perfectly aware of, but husband there is none.  

Don’t get me wrong, she’s not a bad mother, I’m not saying that. If anything, she’s too easy on the little momzer — he wants, he gets. He cries, he gets more. So she’s got a big heart, but she’s got no brain. 

Let us jump ahead a few years. Again, a big stomach she’s got. Again, no man. I watch her coming and going — what else am I going to do, I’ve got my windows at the front of the house, I should look away when I see her on the steps? No, God gave me eyes, so I look. She’s getting bigger, she’s getting bigger, already it’s not a joke, I’m scared. It’s maybe not so healthy, how much can you ask of skin it should stretch like that? But finally it happens, a baby. Another boy. 

I want you should come here a little closer and look me in my eyes. Closer even. Closer, what’s wrong with you, you can’t get any closer than that? Look me right here in my two eyes so you can see what I’m telling you is the truth. That lady what calls herself Maddie went ahead and named her second son Fettuccine. You heard me right. Tortellini and Fettuccine. Meanwhile, they’ve got her last name on top of that. Tortellini Pinkwhistle. Fettuccine Pinkwhistle. 

Sometimes at night I can’t sleep, I’m so upset from this. To bring children into the world and then give them such names to wear the rest of their lives, there’s something wrong there. Also, let me add, Fettuccine is no more good-natured than his brother. What a mouth that kid has on him. Where does a child learn to talk like that, and don’t tell me in school, I went to school and you don’t hear such words coming from my lips. 

Okay, another year or two pass, again with the stomach. Do you think by this time maybe the woman got herself a husband? I’m asking you, in your opinion, yes or no? Go ahead and guess, you’ve got a 50/50 chance, they call that the law of averages. No, you say? You win the prize. 

Another baby, still no man in sight. This time, kanahora, she winds up with a girl. I am talking beautiful here, nobody would say any different. From the second she was born you knew she was something from out of this world. The doctor himself said to the mother “This baby is a Botticelli angel.” So alright, I wouldn’t be surprised to hear the woman named her daughter Angela, only she didn’t do that. She named her Botticelli. 

Tortellini, Fettuccine, Botticelli. You hear what I’m saying? And they’re not even Italian. If they were Italian maybe it wouldn’t be so bad but that Madagascar woman, she’s from Hackensack. From the Jewish section, in case you were confused.

Okay, time marches on. Feigenbaum in 6-B keels over in his Campbell's tomato soup and it’s curtains for him. They say it was his heart but who really knows for sure? I'm not eating anything out of a can just to be safe.

So, 1,2,3, the apartment gets advertised. Dr. Jeremy Schwartz moves in. A dental surgeon. Very nice hands. That’s the first thing I notice about him. A learned man, too, he subscribes to a lot of magazines, and not all of them are about teeth, either. The mailman told me. No, not Donald, the substitute man, Paulie, he’s easier to talk to. Donald, I don’t have much use for Donald. Don’t get me started on Donald, that’s a whole other story.

Dr. Schwartz is a nice looking young man, has a good head of hair on him, right away I ask him if he wants to meet my niece Jessica. Not the social worker, the school teacher.  What a brain she has, plus, an excellent complexion. I don’t push, I just ask the once, but the man’s not interested. That’s very nice of you, he tells me, but don’t bother. Not in so many words, but I got the message: thanks but no thanks. 

Yes, okay, he was polite, why wouldn’t he be, he’s a dentist, but still, it was a  brush-off. But no is no, so I don’t mention it again, I figure maybe he’s that way, it wouldn’t be the first time a good-looker with a healthy stock portfolio didn’t care for women. 

But what do I know? When I'm wrong I admit it, and I was wrong. That woman is big with the belly again and this time Jeremy Schwartz, DDS, is the father. And proud of it. He even wrote a little notice on the back of his business card and taped it to the mailboxes. “Dear tenants of 229 Honeywell Avenue,” (so formal he is!):  “Ms. M. Pinkwhistle from Apartment 1-C and Dr. J. Schwartz from Apartment 6-B are pleased to announce the imminent birth of a child.” 

Imminent, that’s what I said. Not even the birth yet. Also, it turns out, a marriage is in the works. 

The Doctor’s apartment, it happens to be the larger one, so the Pinkwhistles are moving up. I don’t envy old Mrs. Dominy in 6-A. She’s not used to children. With Feigenbaum she got maybe the occasional snoring through the walls, maybe a belch or two, nothing more. He was a quiet man, I’ll say that much for him. Didn’t take out his garbage as often as he should have, but he was quiet. Now Bertha Dominy has to adjust to four children. I only hope it doesn’t kill her, she’s already got arthritis. 

So let me tell you this and then you can go — I know, you’ve got your shopping to do yet, you told me already.

This morning I’m at the mailboxes, the Doctor is also at the mailboxes. One thing leads to another, I’m trying to make a little conversation, I say, “Dr. Schwartz, tell me, do you know yet what you’re going to name the baby?” 

And he says to me — Spumoni. Just like that, like it’s something normal. Spumoni Schwartz he tells me, and he’s smiling. (Nice teeth he has, but I suppose he’d have to, him being a dentist). Spumoni is good for a boy or a girl, he says, like that was maybe the issue. 

All of this goes to prove my point, beyond a doubt, beyond even a shadow of a shadow of a doubt: some people have no business being parents. Some people, before babies are even a glimmer in their eyes, they should be shot. Put me out of my misery already and just shoot them. 

That’s only one person’s opinion, of course, if you have another way to handle it, please, go ahead, I’m open to suggestions. But if it was left up to me — Boom! 

You think that's extreme? No, I assure you, it's not extreme enough. I'm being a visionary here. And I promise you this, the children would be the first to agree with me. 

small poems and a few dreams

May Moon

the way you kiss

each bud awake

my friend's garden

I sit and catch my breath

then let it go again

lilacs

thank you

for filling my empty spaces

hurry —

it's tea time in the fairy garden —

all your friends are waiting

another orchid blossom falls —

my grey hairs

are also shedding

blue morning

a hole in the basket

where a cloud slipped through

first slow rain of summer

dear iris

there you are —

reveling in your 

luscious self —

making the most of all

your moments

a lifetime ago

fitting ourselves

around each other —

   lavender-scented bath

   oh how we laughed

along the back fence

mushrooms —

they weren't there this morning

"lost bird"

a sad sign firmly taped to the lamppost —

   around the corner

   in my friend's garden

   an empty bird house

a stranger's garden

three kinds of mint neatly labeled

"refreshing"

the roses don't know

this house was abandoned

years ago

walking creekside —

a clutch of peonies 

gossip about their neighbors

stars rustling

in the still-grey silence —

the Post Office is closed —

I walk on

"Tell Me" "I'm Pretty" —

2 signs dress up

the sagging grey house

2 a.m.

my dream eyes

snap me awake

2 travelers find refuge

in a tea room —

soft bells and thunder claps —

the afternoon unfolds

slowly, sweetly

2 clouds

one looks like a cup

the other, a saucer —

   we stop the car at the side of the road

   and munch on dry crackers

brushing my fingers

over your laugh lines —

look at the moon!

it's laughing too

9 cups of tea

before the leaves reveal

the answer I am seeking

at the bottom of this small blue bowl:

a single grain of sand —

so many years

since I've been

to the sea

===

the way you stand

beside the tall marsh grasses

waiting to catch sight of the

great blue heron

(the one we call Rupert

because he reminds us of an English gent)

from a distance

I keep my eyes on

you

you are my

precious bird

===

sometimes you ask

did we do that last summer?

and I say

no, I think it was

maybe

eight years ago

you think about it

you're right, you say

eight, maybe even ten

all our long loose years

blowing in the wind

===

In the dream: a miniature horse, the size of a small dog, has come to live with me. She sleeps in a corner of the living room near the radiator but I sense she isn't warm enough and I go searching all over the house to find the perfect blanket for her.

In the dream: I am standing on a subway platform. A change in trains has been announced but I don't know what it means. Trains come and go but I don't get on; apparently none of them are the one I'm waiting for. My confusion and anxiety mount. As a new train pulls into the station I ask someone if this one is mine (though I don't know how to ask in a way that is understandable). A man says "You have to know if you're on the Inside Line or the Outside Line."

In the dream: I am driving up the hill toward Cornell — someone I don't know is actually doing the driving — a young man with a European accent. He's telling me about an essay he wrote for a class but I don't understand him very well. It starts to snow heavily. I realize I am wearing high heeled shoes with slippy soles. I am on my way to the first day of work at a new job at the university. Then I'm no longer in the car, but in a bus going along College Avenue. It's still snowing. I see that my stop is approaching but I'm not sure how to signal the driver so he'll know I want to get off. When I wake up I'm relieved to realize that: a) it's not snowing, b) I haven't worn high heeled shoes ever, c) I don't have to start a new job today, though I wonder if it would it be fun and exciting if I did), d) I don't ride the bus to work anymore, I just walk down the stairs from the second to the first floor of my house . . . and here I am.

Fire Hydrant / Artichoke

If it's so hot one day that you can hear the little hairs on your arms sizzling and your cousin Lynnie who lives around the corner from you comes over and knocks on your apartment door and says "come with me, I've got a great idea" don't go with her. Slam the door right in her face even if that's rude, listen to me, do it anyway, because the idea she has is a very bad one. 

Your cousin Lynnie wants to open up the fire hydrant in front of her building and run through the spray to cool off. Can you believe it? Okay, that's not even the worst part of her idea. This is the worst part — she wants to run through the water from the fire hydrant with no clothes on. You know what that's called? It's called being naked in public. It's illegal. And also it's a sin. Which is why I'm telling you to slam the door in her face. And later, when all the people in the neighborhood are talking about that wicked girl Lynnie you can just pretend you don't know who she is.

But if you have a friend that nobody likes, except you like her a little bit, you should be loyal and true and never pretend that you don't know her. 

When other kids make fun of her for bringing an artichoke for lunch, even though you think it's crazy to eat any food with the choke word in it, stand up for your friend, say something like "if Pauline wants to eat an artichoke what's it to you?" You don't have to be mean when you say this but you do have to say it.

And if she brings little packets of brown sugar and pours the sugar into her orange juice container and Eileen Krizzer says "yuck, now Pauline has bad breath" you can remind Eileen that sugar is sweet and what she's saying doesn't even make any sense. 

You should be a good friend to Pauline Marconi and never call her Pauline Macaroni (which is stupid) and here's why. 

Because one day soon Pauline's mother is going to make her go to St. Anthony's. That's a Catholic school. You didn't even know Pauline Marconi was Catholic and now you'll never see her again. 

When you think of her eating artichokes with the nuns it will make you sad. You hope the nuns don't make fun of her for putting brown sugar in her orange juice. But probably the nuns won't let her bring those packets of brown sugar to school, they probably have a rule called No Sweet Things. And maybe the nuns don't even believe in artichokes, maybe artichokes aren't Catholic. 

If you could sneak into St. Anthony's and put a little packet of brown sugar in Pauline Marconi's  brown lunch bag you would do it. If you knew she wouldn't get into trouble. And if you knew where to get a small packet of brown sugar. And if you weren't afraid that something unmentionable and horrible would happen to you if you walk through the doors of St. Anthony's. 

Something unmentionable and horrible might happen to you even if you walk on the same side of the street as St. Anthony's. So you don't do that. 

But every time you eat an artichoke (and yes, there will come a time when you are no longer afraid they will make you choke and then die) you will think of Pauline Marconi and you will be glad that you stood up for her when you had the chance.

You can just trust me about this.

Pigeon Park

we call it Pigeon Park

wild boys everywhere

and pigeons, too

passing the basketball court

any hour, any day

I look down

this makes me invisible

my friend Lillian says

just because you can't see them

doesn't mean they can't see you

I don't believe her

black-eyed Susans

grow beside the jungle gym

it's bad luck to pick them

who cares about bad luck anyway?

I bring handfuls of flowers home

to my mother

but we don't have any vases

in our house

Superstitious

slug

you surprised me this morning

and not in a good way

coming out of the cool shadows 

like you did

was I crossing your path 

or were you crossing mine?

I couldn't decide if I should

step over you

or walk around you

and if I walked around you

should I go left or right?

isn't there something about

good luck / bad luck?

isn't there always 

something about something?

I hate to admit it but

I am superstitious

my Grandma Sarah

(father's mother)

was known as the most superstitious woman

in the Bronx

this might not have been true

but I heard someone say it

when I shouldn't have been listening

from the other side of the door

and of course it wasn't meant as a compliment

it wasn't said in a 

"let's pin a medal to the front of

Mama's housecoat"

kind of way

it was said by one of the aunts

meaning 

"we are all modern women here,

aren't we?"

and then another aunt spit

three times

because let's be honest

why would someone choose to take

unnecessary chances?

slug

did you think it odd

when I stepped over you

then circled around

first left

then right?

are you still thinking about it?

I'm still thinking about you