Mom works the pedal of the Singer,
driving the needle through
crisp rose-colored taffeta.
As she sews we make small talk,
she smiling at her pesky Chatty Kathy
while I, with deepest intention,
thread myself
into the eye of her life.
Mom works the pedal of the Singer,
driving the needle through
crisp rose-colored taffeta.
As she sews we make small talk,
she smiling at her pesky Chatty Kathy
while I, with deepest intention,
thread myself
into the eye of her life.
That’s the good thing about women, man. Because they sing their $!#% insides, man.
Women, to be in the music business, give up more than you will ever know. ~ Janis
Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her
because deep down you knew she was the
free spirit you secretly wanted to be.
Maybe your mama didn’t like her an’ your daddy
called her white trash, but on that stage
she had a presence that couldn’t be denied.
Maybe you got high an’ maybe you didn’t
but you grooved right there with her an’ you
became her an’ she you because Baby, Baby,
when those bluesy notes rose up from her throat
you wanted to jump up on that stage an’ bawl
your eyeballs out right there with her.
Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her.
When she sang the blues you felt her pain right
down to your pretty pink painted toenails.
Talk about love, how it catches you on fire
an’ turns you inside out, well Janis wrote the
book on love Baby!
Whether that love was Southern Comfort or
Bobby McGee her emotions were out there
for everyone to see with no apologies or
pretenses; writhing and wailing on stage till
you’d take that piece of her heart, that ball
an’ chain just to relieve her pain ‘cause
she shone brighter than any stars in your sky.
Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her.
When she was up there on that stage she was
bigger than life itself.
She made love to that microphone an’ her
deep raspy voice reached clear down to your
soul an’ you didn’t care about her looks or
bad habits or sexual preferences.
It only mattered that she sing and keep on singin’
because when you got a little sprinkle of that
sunshine you knew, it didn’t get any better
than this.
Love her or hate her but you can’t deny her,
no more than she could deny herself!
Home again… arising early
I wander through my parents’ house
in search of memories.
In the pantry are the small clear glasses
hand-painted with tulips.
Instinctively I lift one to my lips,
almost tasting the Seven-up my grandfather
used to pour, remembering how the fizz
tickled my nose, grandpa’s laughter.
I imagine him standing there wearing
his felt hat and checkered flannel shirt,
puffing on his long stemmed pipe.
But too soon, the image fades, as set in the past
as the tulips are in their glass prisons.
From a dusty shelf in the den I retrieve
the old Currier and Ives, copyrighted 1952.
Through its pages I’d traveled America,
journeying by steamboat down the
Mississippi, flat boating the Ohio River,
riding the rail to California. Always
enjoying my imaginative adventures,
always thirsting for more.
Wistfully I close the book, leaving its
people and places, now slightly faded,
to a future wanderer.
Photographs crowd the living room,
each one caressing a memory-my birth,
birthdays, school days, first date…
every event cascading for eternity in
wood and glass.
The floorboard creaks as my mother
enters the kitchen. I hasten to greet her
blinking back the tears. Our eyes meet
and we smile, scattering the memories
amongst a million dreams, the air
shimmering with the essence of their
beauty as they surrender, each one
to its designated place.
My body is no longer the flawless manuscript
most men would take time out of their busy day to read;
no longer as exciting as the latest novel,
nor as interesting as the daily news.
There was a time when everything was capitalized
in all the right places,
the i’s were dotted and there were no uncrossed t’s.
Everything was worded right.
Sentences had the appropriate emphasis and titles
fit me perfectly.
Now, I am more like the comics, and even some of them
aren’t funny, but rather tragic.
I was beginning to think I was of no more use
than a rolled up newspaper used to swat flies.
But then you found me.
You read the manuscript, overlooking the flaws.
There is no need for spell-check, you accept me as I am.
My words come off your lips in the form of poetry,
and in your eyes I am the sonnet,
I had always hoped to be.
The Hilltop Home for Men collects old men,
like my freckle face grandson collects marbles
in a burlap sack, butterflies in a jar.
There they congregate in tiny rooms waiting
as patiently as hamsters for their turn to
come around at the wheel.
Their days are spent gazing longingly out of
picture windows, staring at a world whizzing by,
one that continues to revolve without them.
On a sunny day you might find them settling
old bones at weathered picnic tables where
they serve up past lovers or stories of war,
reiterating to each other how it was back then.
Rehashing all the could haves and should haves
and that devil of all clichés, If only I could live
my life over again…
Night begins the death watch and sleep eludes
them as they smoke the day’s last cigarette,
groan and strain for compatibility with sunken beds.
Hours are spent staring at walls, bare but for a big
numbered clock, which beats to the tune of their
failing hearts, their rattling worn and rusty pipes,
as partners in time they wait for that final tick-tock.
In the pet store
my granddaughter is squealing,
reaching her tiny hands,
delicately touching soft fur.
Pairs of blue eyes stare
crystalline clear,
brimming with intelligence,
weighing her every move.
My granddaughter is ooh-ing
and aah-ing, unaware…
of Grandma’s eyes
brimming with tears.
As memories awake
of burlap bags
of flickering motion,
gurgling sounds beneath
piles of wet stones.
Of my sisters and I wading in
the creek in front of our house,
stumbling onto their watery graves.
My grandfather’s solution
to every new litter of kittens.
In the photo my mother is beautiful.
Though it is in black and white,
I picture her cheeks to be rosy as pink Chablis.
Her hair cascades thick and wavy
to meet the soft slant of her shoulders,
covered demurely in a dark dress
I imagine, a shade of red.
She is smiling coyly for the camera,
as if she is the keeper of some secret,
about to spring a surprise.
The couch she sits on is smattered with
clusters of tiny white blossoms.
Behind her, the wallpaper is enmeshed
in huge leaves pointing skyward;
between each two leaves is a single flower.
The floor’s linoleum is a characteristic nineteen fifties pattern
of multicolored and sized diagonal stripes.
In the photo my mother is a constant,
in surroundings I can only describe as busy,
and so she has been for most of her life.
The photo was taken after mine and my older sister’s birth,
before those of our siblings.
It was long before school days, dating, marriages,
children, divorces, grandchildren,
and all forms of crises imagined or real
which have transformed her once vibrant brown hair to gray,
strand by strand.
Long before wrinkles claimed her face,
Arthritis wreaked havoc on her joints,
Osteoporosis settled in her bones.
In the photo my mother is beautiful.
She is poor but happy,
innocent and trusting,
hinging on a promise,
glimmering with love.