30 Edits in 30 Days

[greenmountaineer]

2-6

After

The House Fly

"An animal's eyes have the power to speak a great language."
Martin Buber

The tepid water brought to mind
when we took the red eye to Maui,
and then on my bathtub there appeared
a house fly I swatted one thousand times,
or at least his brothers and sisters,
that should be mice pies this time of year.

It suddenly dropped into the water.
Well, I wouldn't let that fly on my watch,
so I tossed it on a pile rug nearby
and after I dried it, went on the fly
barely drip-dry into the bedroom,
but there in the pile, my house fly died.

I found a dusty doily which
could be a shroud to wrap the fly in,
only to find, my oh my,
in your dusty waste paper basket
one of my poems of undying love
I fashioned into a little casket

and for my little funeral rite
I got from the fridge a Budweiser Lite
to watch the ink bleed under the fly
in a box in a box too long denied
that has as many sighs and lies
as the eyes of this house fly in it.

Before

The House Fly

"An animal's eyes have the power to speak a great language."
Martin Buber

That wretched February blew my mind's
sweet dreams of love and mai tais in Maui
like a typhoon the time I was drowning
my sorrow with beer that tasted lousy
when onto my bathtub flew a house fly
whose one hundred eyes wouldn't be lucid
at that time of year next to a human,
glad to find someone else who was stupid.

So what is so rare as a day in June?
Perfect love and a fly in the winter
that should have flown but fell in the water
after I swatted it with my finger.
Well, I wouldn't let that fly on my watch,
so I tossed it on a shag rug nearby
after I ladled it up from the tub,
but there in the pile, my house fly died.

I don't know why when I jumped from the tub
I didn't toss it into the toilet,
but loaded for bear I barely sprinted
into the bedroom to find a doily
that, serving no purpose, could be a shroud
I wrapped the fly in on her vanity
and lifted from her waste paper basket
my verses about how cold life can be.

And I laughed at how that funeral rite
with a half-baked poem pulled from a basket
cleansed like baptism unlike eulogies
when I folded it into a casket,
content that I found a purpose for it,
no longer wanting to read myself lies
from a piece of sheet I somehow disguised
that had more I's than a house fly in it.

 

[Angeline]

2-7

After

Chelsea Hotel

When we die
let poets guess at our stories,
how the corridors were dead
and whisper quiet, how gray women
bent in their chairs to gossip
on the mezzanine, their voices thin
and birdy. They clattered
on the marble stairs, skeletons
in fluttery rayon. Their claws
gripped at purses like shields.

Those were slow news days
in our empty world. The doors
turned in lazy hushes, a humid breeze
weighed on our skin. We swam
from the front desk to the bar
to the elevators and back
and back and back.

I dreamt of you all summer,
night and day I'd imagine you
plundered on the chenille spreads.
I would have fucked you right there
on the lobby floor bent
over yesterday's papers, keys
rattling slow like chimes. I'd watch
your eyes change and know you
coiled around me. If only
Mrs. Allen in 516 weren't
calling for gin and a few limes

honey you bring it up here fast and I
got somethin for you.



Before

Chelsea Hotel

When we die
they'll tell our stories everywhere,
how the rooms were whispery
quiet and two gray women
gossiping on the mezzanine
made the only muffled sounds,
then descended in lockstep,
skeletons in fluttery rayon they
were creaking, they held purses
like shields.

Those were slow
news days the doors
revolved forever and dead
breezes made us feel as if
underwater. We moved
carefully from the bar
to the front desk.

I would have fucked you
on the floor there, under
the unblinking eyes
of wooden boxes, envelopes
razor straight and keys
rattling slow like chimes.
I'd hump you against
the bound pile of yesterday's
papers, watch your eyes
change and feel you coil
around me. If only the Sun

didn't hang so long
on the horizon, perennially
drunk yet steady as an oak,
unable to lay itself down.
If only Mrs. Allen weren't calling
(from Five) for gin and a few
limes, honey you bring it up
and I got somethin for you.

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-7

After

A Pound of Flesh

3 June 1945
Pisa, Italy

Sunburnt in my traitor cage
the occupying army made,
I cursed the family radio
World War II had listened to.

But in pellucid moments
I liked that pissant cage
where I wrote my Cantos.

And even in the outdoor loo
my guards of honor noticed
holding their proboscides
how I scribbled on the can

squatting in the Pisan sun,
making jurisprudence, noses,
and perhaps the hangman wait.

Before

A Pound of Flesh

Sunburnt in my traitor cage
the occupying army made
I cursed the family radio
World War II had listened to.

But in pellucid moments
I liked that pissant cage
where they watched me write my Cantos
waiting for my prison fate

and even in the outdoor loo
my guard of honor noticed,
holding his proboscis,
Pestilentia Manufacta

I scribbled on some arsewipe
squatting in the Pisan sun
making jurisprudence, noses
and perhaps the hangman wait.

 

[Angeline]

2-8

After

Origami

I spoke of swans
companionable and constant,
skimming a symmetrical wake
or beating skyward
toward some true course.
I was young then
swimming in a dream
of never leaving.

I thought I knew the point--
the long folds should bend
just so, there must be
a suggestion of wings.
You saw crumpled pages
non-intersecting diagonals,
segmented lines.

I tried to sketch for you--
the appeal of soft submission,
the lightness of a feathery compromise
paddling in pairs. I guess that wasn't
clear cut because you saw only excess.
You snipped it away.

When I unfolded myself
my hands were gone.
There was a hole
where my mouth used to be.
Nothing fit together right
and then the pieces got lost.

Maybe I'm really a paper airplane.



Before

Origami

I spoke of swans
companionable cozy
curled together smooth
skimming side by side,
swimming in a dream
of never leaving.

That was the point
of long folds bent under,
an implication of wings
without flight. You saw
creases, triangulation
a return to the page.

I tried to sketch
the appeal of soft
submission, feathery
compromise paddling
in pairs. That wasn't clear
cut so you sliced off
my excess.

I unfolded myself to you,
but my hands were gone
my feet torn. There was
a hole where my mouth
used to be.

I looked up.
The sky had changed. Maybe
I am really a paper airplane.

 

[Matryoshka]

4-2

After

Spinning Desire

Know when you whisper
sweet love in the moonlight
You vanquish my defenses

Your white, hot desire
brings even my hardest of heart
down to its knees to
beseech a night without end

This dizzying madness
urges me to yearn for impossible
Where somedays, ifs and maybes
become hopes and potential
even in dawn's cold light

Before

Spinning Desire

Know when you whisper
of sweet love in the moonlight
You vanquish my defenses

Your white, hot desire
brings even my hardest of heart
down to its knees to
beseech a night without end

The dizzying madness
Urges me to yearn for forever
even in dawn's cold light
Now maybes, ifs and mights
become hopes and dreams

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-8

After

Cross Words

Like a proper monk in his cell
erect in a straight back chair
he spreads the restaurant placemat
for meaningful times with his quill.

Draping a napkin at dinner time,
he waits for the friendly wait staff
and also drapes the New York Times
Sunday Edition, last one left.

A couple there seems odd to him,
one down looking suspicious,
holding hands across the table,
nine letters meaning propitious.

Oh, she looks so favorable
by the bar for whom her Joe
orders manhattans, two down,
so tidy so meticulous.

Veronica, having finished her meal
who lives in the flat two doors down,
last Sunday stopped to chat a while
but too soon says "I'll see you around"

as rolls are served while he recalls
hastalavista the week before
which happens to fit at twelve across
but nowhere else as he looks down.

Before

Cross Words

Like a monk who enters his cell
To sit down in a straight back chair
He spreads the restaurant placemat
To doodle some with his quill.

Draping a napkin in time,
He waits for the friendly wait staff
And also drapes the local Times,
Sunday edition, last one left.

One down meaning suspicious.
Now couple one is Odd to him,
Holding hands across the table,
Nine letters meaning propitious,
Favorable that fits her so
Next to the bar for whom some Joe
Orders manhattans, two down,
Four letters for meticulous,
Tidy, black across, red pen down,
Like the blonde over there
With heels and lipstick

Couple number two makes contact,
"Henry's hell-bent for the car
And parking meter," he thinks she said,
"Hasta la vista" ten letters down
Who rents the flat at twelve across,
For rolls are served while he recalls
"See you soon" and stares at the walls.

 

[Angeline]

2-9

After

Berry Special

Strawberry
you juicy tart sweet,
sweet as can be
with your thousand
star eyes your calyx
spring green your rose
skin

all pure poetry.

I let the chocolate melt,
drip slip slide oh sugary
sips and your flesh yields
a delicious kiss

soft and flowery.


Before

Strawberry Girl

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-9

After

The Sin Eater

Gwyneth was his goat from Leviticus
whenever she bleached Father’s sheets
who wanted no peace at that stage of grief.

"Why hast Thou forsaken me?"
he would scream each night in his sleep,
more to a dead wife than God who had died
or a daughter who baked bara brith,
reminding him and old friends his spirit
never would rest without ale and bread
she says each week at assisted with living,
the name of which she always forgets,
to a man in black with a purple stole
who gives her a little wafer to eat.

She thinks it's a round piece of bara brith
they bake at assisted with living,
the name of which she always forgets,
after she's aired her dirty little linen
to a man in black with a purple stole

as in the time she pissed on the brith
during a night of Guinness in the kitchen.

Before

The Last of the Modern Day Sin-eaters

Gwyneth was his goat from Leviticus
whenever she bleached Father’s accidents
whose battle with death at that stage of grief
did not want a truce for anything
while Mother spilled tea again in the kitchen,
regretting each day by the River Dee
and dreamed how pretty she once must have been.

Looking for something to eat for dinner,
Mother took bara brith from the freezer,
ignoring initials carved in the crust
of her husband for neighborhood old men
who swore that his spirit never would rest
when Gwilym’s body was laid in the ground
unless they drank ale with some of his bread.

She remembers those last days with Father
and the one son in North America
who comes to visit every third Christmas
at the Lady Forester Nursing Home
where this very day she met a new nurse
whose eyebrows frowned when Gwyneth requested
a small keg of ale and bag of flour.

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-9

After

The Sin Eater

Gwyneth was his goat from Leviticus
whenever she bleached Father’s sheets
who wanted no peace at that stage of grief.

"Why hast Thou forsaken me?"
he would scream each night in his sleep,
more to a dead wife than God who had died
or a daughter who baked bara brith,
reminding him and old friends his spirit
never would rest without ale and bread
she says each week at assisted with living,
the name of which she always forgets,
to a man in black with a purple stole
who gives her a little wafer to eat.

She thinks it's a round piece of bara brith
they bake at assisted with living,
the name of which she always forgets,
after she's aired her dirty little linen
to a man in black with a purple stole

as in the time she pissed on the brith
during a night of Guinness in the kitchen.

Before

The Last of the Modern Day Sin-eaters

Gwyneth was his goat from Leviticus
whenever she bleached Father’s accidents
whose battle with death at that stage of grief
did not want a truce for anything
while Mother spilled tea again in the kitchen,
regretting each day by the River Dee
and dreamed how pretty she once must have been.

Looking for something to eat for dinner,
Mother took bara brith from the freezer,
ignoring initials carved in the crust
of her husband for neighborhood old men
who swore that his spirit never would rest
when Gwilym’s body was laid in the ground
unless they drank ale with some of his bread.

She remembers those last days with Father
and the one son in North America
who comes to visit every third Christmas
at the Lady Forester Nursing Home
where this very day she met a new nurse
whose eyebrows frowned when Gwyneth requested
a small keg of ale and bag of flour.

Note: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sin-eater

 

[Angeline]

2-10

After

The State of My Muse

Usually she just floats
on a cloud and her hair streams
back behind her shiny gold
cape like a wind machine
is doing all the work. But no
she's magic, she has soulful eyes
whatever color she wants.
Today they're green as a deep
lost forest and luminous
powerful.

Her fingers can shoot words like comets.

She wears a satori sari, royal blue
with trails of purple sparkle
just because she can.
She's iridescent incandescent
with karmic dharma power.
Look at her twisting all tilt-
a-whirl at a full moon, dipping
and simmering.

Look at her go!

When she touches down
I can hear music bubbling
from inside her pure joy
like champagne. She's giddy
with ideas though shadowed
by memory. When she falls
into the dark she frightens me.

Sometimes she explodes over me

---------Supernova!

then I can see my mother's eyes
when she smiled, taste honeysuckle
licked off a bitten flower
on some near-forgotten summer morning
when the Sun played a breeze
on my bare arms.



Before

Poet Chick

Poet Chick floats in clouds,
hair streams over cape,
gold lame and her big soul eyes
glitter full of world, words.
Her hands are cupped for writing.

Power of vision, satori power,
cosmic karmic comic sight,
able to twist tall phrases
with a single thought, faster
than a speeding simile,
strong resolve, x-ray empathy.

Poet Chick flies to Earth,
sonnets flipping, flopping
through her veins. She’s a cauldron
of bubbling metric soup,
a melting pot of remembrance,
imagination salted with remorse,
yearning peppered with expectation.

Words fall from her fingers,
scales from her eyes, and yes,
maybe yours.

You remember the look
in your mother's eyes
when she smiled, the taste
of fresh-plucked honeysuckle
sipped from a bitten flower,
or your chin yellow
with the cast of buttercup
on a near forgotten summer morning
when Sun played with the breeze
on your bare arms.

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-10

After

Quan Found his Daddy in Frisco.

The nuns never told me who Daddy was
but they told me God it was who made me
if not the devil inside their office
at midnight after they taught me to read.

Later with nothing but holes in my pockets
to play with I hitched to the Tenderloin
where I found Daddy in '93
half way into a Mission Street alley,
his mouth making love to a brown paper bag.

I called out his name, his rank, his number
and stared at him like the katydid did
I saw on Willow Street, eyes on the aphid
Sergeant Magee, a slow moving bug,
as I pretended to sip from his bag
and he pretended I was his son
when I split his nose for a tutelary spirit
whose name was Nam Ha` down on her knees.

Before

Quan Found his Daddy in Frisco.

I'm sure that he got his poontang and rice
hot from Nam Ha` every Saturday night
while he told his USA white knight lies,
how bright the steel of the Golden Gate was,
bright the dawn, and safe the homes in his city.

The nuns never told me who Daddy was,
but they told me God it was who made me
and told me about Our Lord Jesus Christ
while I, burning midnight oil in their office,
taught myself clandestine history.

Later with nothing but holes in my pockets
to play with I hitched to the Tenderloin
and found my Daddy in '93
half the way into his brown paper bag:
"Quan? Shit! I wanted it named after me."

I stared at him like the katydid did
I saw on Willow Street, eyes on an aphid,
John a slow moving bug on a limb,
in a manner of speaking, of course; I
pretending to sip his bag, he pretending

I was his son when I split his nose
for my patrimony, a measly five bucks
from his wallet I gave a tutelary
spirit, selling her love, a drop-dead beauty,
haunting me with a drop-dead Nam Ha`.

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-11

After

Rocco's Love Poem

"Best damn ice on the planet
at Lorenzo's Restaurant"
I say to Finny on my cell
who's already got us a table there
down on Arthur Avenue.

Herschel's on time, a CPA,
just like his mother told him to be
home from the park before eight,
nine pm in the summertime
hoops and dreams back in '83,
Herschel and me five foot five,
Finny sprouting five foot nine.

What with girls and algebra,
or better yet Nancy in history,
handball on Sunday in Riverside,
and the little our parents told us,
we didn't think of the the fiddles that played
before the Kiev pogrom pain,
tin whistles, or the mandolins

but wondered about them all the same,
like the one I hear tonight
in Lorenzo's Restaurant
of my grandfather's empty fishing boat
when I turn to my friends and say
"I love you, Yeah. I love you, Guys."

"Jesus, Mary, and Josephat!"
best damn Hersh on the planet says,
who puts my neck in a headlock
while Finny, I swear he's six foot five,
tickles my pasta filled belly such
I laugh so hard that I cry.

Before

Love Poem I

"Hey, Paisan, Luigi's the best
italian ice on the planet,"
I say to Shaughnessy over a draft
down on Arthur Avenue.

Herschel's here too, a CPA,
just like his mother told him to be
home from the park before eight,
nine pm in the summertime

hopes and dreams back in '83,
and bean pole bodies shooting hoop,
Herschel and me at five foot five,
Shaughnessy sprouting five foot nine

and puppy love for Abigail.
"Shame Abbie ain't like you, you Wop,
or a freckled Mick like me"
Shaughnessy said and his ears turned red.

Famine, progroms, and Anzio
boats that once didn't smell like fish
meant so very little then,
what with girls and algebra,

stickball on Sunday in the streets,
and yet we heard the fiddle play
before the diaspora pain,
Pagliacci and mandolins,

and tin whistle tunes in our brains,
grace before oatmeal for breakfast,
seder, and sneaking Guinea red
into Lorenzo's Restaurant

where once I turned to them and said
"I love you, yeah. I love you guys."

"Jesus, Mary, and Josephat!"
best damn Jew on the planet said,
who put my neck in a headlock
while Shaughnessy, that crazy Mick,
tickled my pasta filled belly such
I laughed so hard that I cried.

 

[Angeline]

3-1 (I will not be defeated by a cold!)

After

Darling Billy

When the world was shrinking you said

Memories are everything.

If you really try you can almost
make a person from a memory
a whole family or just a daddy.

You can choose to remember roses
peeking through a trellis, the earthy pong
of fresh-turned gardens, the old chair
shared during a thunderstorm, root beer
and Rolling Rock, a workbench
or a broken skate.

All of it as close as your imagination.

You can remember ice cream,
not the pied piper song
of that lumbering truck come
a summer twilight but some
thing more prosaic a simple
dixie cup with a wooden spoon--

chocolate for a dying man
who needs to make everything
a memory.

We are companionable
quiet save for your labored swallows
and the scraping spoon. La Bohème
is on the cassette and La Divina
sings like an angel.

I was thinking that chocolate is sweet
and dark at once and comforting
like days that can just rain
and you don't need to remember
anything.

Later when shadows begin
to take the room I'll sing to you
in my cracked voice the song
that can only ever be yours.

Can you bake a cherry pie Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can you bake a cherry pie, darling Billy?

The tires sound like crying
on the highway driving home

Before

Darling Billy

He says memories
are everything.

If you try hard enough
you can almost make
a person from a memory,

a daddy
or a whole family.

You can bring him ice cream.

Chocolate is best for dying men
who need to make everything
a memory--

life and cool sweetness,

a daughter
or a whole family
who feed you ice cream.

Chocolate is sweet like life
and dark like loss and even
comforting like forgetfulness,

but it’s ok not to forget
the way the spoon
scraped against the bowl,

the click of labored
swallows,

the nurse’s voice
mingled with la boheme

He’s not supposed to have that.

The freckles that once rioted,
alit the face, and punctuated anger
now are memories barely there,
fading under his pale skin.

Later
in the dark hushed room
her woman’s voice
will sing to him
the child’s song she knew
and sang once then
she whispers now again

Can you bake a cherry pie Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can you bake a cherry pie, darling Billy?

the sound of tires crying
on the highway
driving home

 

[pensivepoet]

After

Darling Billy

When the world was shrinking you said

Memories are everything.

If you really try you can almost
make a person from a memory
a whole family or just a daddy.

You can choose to remember roses
peeking through a trellis, the earthy pong
of fresh-turned gardens, the old chair
shared during a thunderstorm, root beer
and Rolling Rock, a workbench
or a broken skate.

All of it as close as your imagination.

You can remember ice cream,
not the pied piper song
of that lumbering truck come
a summer twilight but some
thing more prosaic a simple
dixie cup with a wooden spoon--

chocolate for a dying man
who needs to make everything
a memory.

We are companionable
quiet save for your labored swallows
and the scraping spoon. La Bohème
is on the cassette and La Divina
sings like an angel.

I was thinking that chocolate is sweet
and dark at once and comforting
like days that can just rain
and you don't need to remember
anything.

Later when shadows begin
to take the room I'll sing to you
in my cracked voice the song
that can only ever be yours.

Can you bake a cherry pie Billy boy, Billy boy?
Can you bake a cherry pie, darling Billy?

The tires sound like crying
on the highway driving home

Before

Darling Billy

He says memories
are everything.

If you try hard enough
you can almost make
a person from a memory,

a daddy
or a whole family.

You can bring him ice cream.

Chocolate is best for dying men
who need to make everything
a memory--

life and cool sweetness,

a daughter
or a whole family
who feed you ice cream.

Chocolate is sweet like life
and dark like loss and even
comforting like forgetfulness,

but it’s ok not to forget
the way the spoon
scraped against the bowl,

the click of labored
swallows,

the nurse’s voice
mingled with la boheme

He’s not supposed to have that.

The freckles that once riote

Wow. I had forgotten those flat wooden spoons. Yum
Excellent after. Loved the root beer, rolling rock,

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-12

After

Stream of Consciousness

Note to self, lunch tomorrow, Susan, Jane, 11:30, no dessert, A&P, hurry, hurry, meat or fish? Trader Joe's coffee beans, BJ's Wholesale fruits on sale, buy two, get one free, funny name that BJ's is, home by three, soccer practice, Heather's done 5:00 o'clock, 5:15 she may have said, doesn't matter, chicken fingers, pot roast Harry, Heather needs permission slip, note for Kathy, sick today, class trip to the Met tomorrow, diorama France, I think, cavemen artists in a cave, note to self, buy some paint, Heather's room, don't slight Kathy,

"Ooh Baby Baby

you feel so big"

have to turn the dryer on, pink, I think, they both like pink,
Harry needs to lose some weight, time for news at eleven

Before

Maggie's Stream of Consciousness

"Ooh Baby Baby" Harry said
"Yeah Baby Baby, I'm gonna come"
just like supper was when Harry said
he'd come in about five minutes
Make a mental note to self:
permission slip for Heather's teacher
field trip to the city
exhibit from the Louvre
Upper Paleolithic, I think
No wait! Neanderthal
from Lascaux
a pig, a big one
painted on the wall
No wait! Bull
that's it, a bull
in some prehistoric cave
Make a mental note to self:
a new coat of paint for the bedroom
Heather's too come to think of it
time to move the agenda along
"Ooh Baby Baby, you feel so big"
just enough time for a smoke
turn the washer back on to spin
buy some paint
red, I think
Harry needs to lose some weight
"Time for News at Eleven?"

 

[Angeline]

3-2

After

Chagall's Bride

She anoints an inky sky
yet appears off balance.
You don't know whether
she's flying or falling.

Her gown seems spun
by a hundred spiders,
spinnerets patiently spooling
the thinnest silk.

Even her ears look alien
as if hung with fireflies.
She is equal parts vivid
and transparent caught
between worlds in a brilliant
but distant limbo.

She floats among spirits--
disinterested fiddlers, painters,
goats and roosters, flotsam
of the schtetl detached
and dreamy above those Calibans
below who wonder and stumble.

I imagine her peering down
at the Shabbat candles,
blessing the uncertain night
and singing Shir Ha'Maalot,
The Song of Ascents.


Before

Chagall's Bride

I sail into midnight
in a gown of cobwebs,
in firefly earrings.
I skim barefoot past spirits,
float above zombie louts,
those Calibans below
who wonder and stumble.

I am alone trailing memory
in a dusty blue wake,
singing thin hymns to the night.
It swallows them whole.

Tears skate my cheeks like mercury.
They burn and fall in silver beads,
each a starry story, particles
of promise that dot the sky.
Follow them and you may find
the sabbath where I've blessed bread twice,
pulling air to me,
pulling HaShem to me.

My whispers curse the darkness
and shatter yarzheit candles.
Crows glide up from the earth
and speak from empty eyes.
Perhaps they see angels.
I do not.

I am occupied. I scatter
the barren ground with prayer
cast in radiant dust and so
the Perseids are active tonight.

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-13

After

Mona's Song

One year ago, assisted with her living,
Mona sang "We'll Meet Again."
Tonight it might as well have been
a wind chime tintinnabulum,
for Mona can't recall a word
as Gina asks her Daddy why
she has to sing a lullaby.

"It helps your Nana fall asleep."

As latex hands wear patience thin,
I whisper, "Mamma," cheek to cheek,
"These songs we treasured won't be lost
Te amo, Mama, tu capishe?
The World War Benny Goodman swing
and even country lovelorn twang
that was so Bronx Italian wrong."

Where Gina hears a bird that chirps,
the voice I hear is Vera Lynn
when 1-2-3 the airborne gloves
turn bedsores up.

It's Mona's song.

Before

Mona's Song

A year ago, assisted with her living,
We'll Meet Again she sang with me.
Tonight it might as well have been a wind chime
tintinnabulum;
she can't recall a single word
as Gina asks her Daddy why
she has to sing for her. He says "The rhyme
will help make Nonna sleep,"
but after rock-a-by
the baby falls, she twitters like a bird.

While both the aides put on their latex gloves,
I whisper, "Mamma," cheek to cheek, "Capishe?
Those songs we treasured never will be lost,
the World War Two that swung,
and even country lovelorn twang"
that was so Bronx Italian wrong.

Where Gina hears some bird that chirps, the noise
I hear is Vera Lynn
when 1-2-3 the glove worn aides
turn bedsores up.

It's Mona's song.

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-14

After

War Games

Little Boy, my grandfather's father
thought the war was a picnic basket
on Sunday, as did his parents,

so they took the train to Manassas
to spread their beer, bread, and sausage
until they heard Johnny Reb's cry

and took the train back to Baltimore
where my grandfather's father buried
his box of toy tin soldiers,

discovered later by spit polished boys
who left the mud on to make them
bad guys at war with their GI Joes
they took with their worms to go fishing.

Before

War Games

My grandfather’s father, Yank drummer boy,
Thought that the war was a picnic basket
until he heard the Johnny Reb’s war cry
and took when they let him the B&O
back home to bury his one tin soldier
discovered later by spit polished boys
leaving the dirt and tarnish to make it
the bad guy who fought with their GI Joes.

And I remember some Beaver Cleaver
who once played Sousa on his toy bugle
Draped in a ‘69 star spangled flag
after a one bag carry on red eye
flight to a Dover Delaware hangar
to wait for the final sleeping car home.

 

[greenmountaineer]

2-15

After

Her Letter

“Quel’heure est-il?,” he says to Fifi
while knifing another twist for his scotch
as Fifi on cue barks once at the clock.

Inserting an index finger in ice,
Peter stirring imagines cocoons
and larvae that pupate until the full moon
unfolds the butterfly.

"Open wide.”

His hi-fi needle brain scratches tonight
melodious love sick tunes,
Pachelbel's Canon, Claire de Lune,

while Peter, sick, sucking on rind,
sits down, down, down in his wingback chair.

Before

The Letter

“Quel’heure est-il?,”
He said to Fifi,
Knifing another
Twist for his scotch
As Fifi on cue
Barked once at the clock.

Inserting an index
Finger in ice,
Peter stirring
Imagines cocoons
And larvae that pupate
Until the full moon
Unfolds the butterfly.

“Open wide.”

“Yes, she did
But not I…….”

His hi-fi needle brain
Scratches tonight mel-
Odious love sick tunes

While Peter, sick,
Sucking on rind,
Sits down,
Down, down
With her letter left there.

 

[greenmountaineer]

3-1

War Games

Little Boy, my grandfather's father
thought the war was a picnic basket
on Sunday because his parents said so.

So they took the train to Manassas
to spread their cider, bread, and sausage
until they heard the the rebel yell
of the 35th Virginia Cavalry

and took the train back to Washington
where my grandfather's father buried
his box of toy tin soldiers,

discovered later by spit polished boys
who left the mud on to make them swell
bad guys at war with their GI Joes
they took with their worms to go fishing.


Before

War Games

My grandfather's father, Yank drummer boy,
thought that the war was a picnic basket
until he heard the Johnny Reb's war cry
and took when they let him the B&O
back home to bury his one tin soldier
discovered later by spit polished boys
leaving the dirt and tarnish to make it
the bad guy who fought with their GI Joes.

And I remember some Beaver Cleaver
who once played Sousa on his toy bugle
draped with a '69 star spangled flag
after a one bag carry on red eye
flight to a Dover Delaware hangar
to wait for the final sleeping car home.

 

[Trixareforkids]

1-1

After

Reach Exceeds Grasp

No handle, no grip
Can't grasp or clasp
Can't lay a hand
Or put my finger on
How you touch me
Lightest caress
Hardest thrust
You are animal
Vegetable
Mineral
Feeding and sustaining
Needs and craving
I cannot name
Only savor
One lick one
Bite at a time
You rend me
Bit by bit
Toes to throat
And I
Torn asunder
Am left gurgling
Burbling
Cursing a prayer
Of redemption
Salvation
Ascension
Soaring
Expanding
Until I collapse in
Upon myself
Pulling you deep
Within my darkness
You and I
Body and mind
Disappearing
Leaving only
The space between
That appears as nothing
But draws me in
Reaching
For that
Which I cannot grasp

Before

Reach Exceeds Grasp

No handle, no grip
Can't grasp or clasp
Can't lay a hand or
Put my finger on
How you touch me
Lightest caress
Hardest thrust
You are animal
Vegetable
Mineral
Feeding and sustaining
Needs and craving
I cannot name
Only savor
One lick
One bite
At a time
As you rend me
Bit by bit
Toes to throat
And I
Torn asunder
Am left gurgling
Burbling
Cursing a prayer
Of redemption
Salvation
Ascension
Soaring
Expanding
Until I collapse
In upon myself
Pulling you deep
Within my darkness
You and I
Body and mind
Disappearing
Leaving only
The space between
That appears as nothing
But draws me in
Reaching for that which
I cannot grasp

 

[Trixareforkids]

1-2

After

Never Stop

A call from night lighted room,
Mommy, can I have some butt pats?

A sleepy demand,
Scratch my back.

Assaulted in my computer chair,
Snuggle minute?

Gleeful look while playing on the bed,
Tickle time!

Nightly ritual,
Hugs and kisses time!

When do we stop expecting
Stop asking, for these little loving touches?

I hope she never does.


Before

A call from her room,
Mommy can I have
some butt pats?
A sleepy query,
Scratch my back?
A questing look,
Snuggle minute?

When do we stop
asking for these
little loving touches?

I hope she never does.

 

[Trixareforkids]

1-3

After

You make me want to crack your head open
Lick your brain
So I can taste
The delicious thoughts
You dangle in front of me
Having plucked fantasies
From my bared mind
Twisting and turning them
In such delightful ways
That I can almost hear you
Whispering in my ear
I bow my head in supplication
And pray
That you're not all talk


Before

You make me want to crack your head open
And lick your brain so I can taste the delicious
Thoughts you whisper in my ear.
I once thought you were reading my mind
And speaking my fantasies aloud but now
I know you're more twisted than I and
I bow down in supplication and pray
That you're not all talk

 

[greenmountaineer]

I'll join join you, Trixie. I'm not sure how long it will last. 4-1

War Games

Little Boy, my grandfather's father
thought the war was a picnic basket
on Sunday because his parents packed one
when they took the train to Manassas
and spread their cider, bread, and sausage
until they heard the the rebel yell
of the 35th Virginia Cavalry.

They ran for the train back to Washington
where my grandfather's father buried
his box of toy tin soldiers,
discovered later by spit polished boys
who left on the mud to make them swell
bad guys at war with their GI Joes
they took with their worms to go fishing.

BEFORE

War Games

My grandfather's father, Yank drummer boy,
thought that the war was a picnic basket
until he heard the Johnny Reb's war cry
and took when they let him the B&O
back home to bury his one tin soldier
discovered later by spit polished boys
leaving the dirt and tarnish to make it
the bad guy who fought with their GI Joes.

And I remember some Beaver Cleaver
who once played Sousa on his toy bugle
draped with a '69 star spangled flag
after a one bag carry on red eye
flight to a Dover Delaware hangar
to wait for the final sleeping car home.

 

[greenmountaineer]

4-2

Rolf Swats at Fleas Down at Gerhardt's.

June 1946

Having arrived in el Paraguay
he wanted to stay, por favor,
because of the immigrant law

where certainly a Jew's also a man,
Sicher ist der Jude auch ein Mann,

aber der Floh ist auch ein Tier
but a flea is also an animal,

Rolf likes to say at Gerhardt's Cantina
where he winks at Angelina

who can't understand his words at all
but knows it's not beer that he's asking for
when he orders her near with a bitte.


Before

Rolf Who Begat Salvador

Having arrived in el Paraguay
he wanted to stay, por favor,
because of the immigrant law
that didn't ask why or wherefrom
Vatican City twined such a ratline.

"They even helped find a fey señorita
who lived at least until she delivered
a blue-eyed blond Paraguayan"
Rolf liked to say at Gerhard's cantina

"where certainly a Jew's also a man,
but a flea is also an animal,"*
he winks at the barmaid Angelina

who can't understand a word of German
but knows it's not beer that he's asking for
when he orders his beer with a bitte.


*"Sicher ist der Jude auch ein Mann, aber der Floh ist auch ein Tier"

Nazi slogan