THE CURVY RAMBLE

-


The curvy ramble
With its fallen infantry of leaves
Lit by the epitaph of the sun
Does not lead me forward.

Every step,
Orchestrated by
the final gasp of
A snapping twig,
Escorts me back...

To my mom,
Waltzing with her 
Carpet sweeper partner
Singing with Sinatra
Who crooned directly to her  
From the cathedral radio of her 
Bobby Soxer heart
Still dreaming of kisses to come
Despite the sadness 
That raged through her veins
Like an uncontainable prairie wildfire.

To my dad,
Slapped silly by Skin Bracer
And the slow death hours of a
Salesman
Sneaking Chuckles
Like the boy he secretly wished
He could be again
Behind the citadel of an afternoon newspaper
As he sank into the mother arms of his chair
Whose cushion had
Memorialized his head 
Like the hand and shoe imprints at
Graumman’s Chinese Theater.

The moments that come to me
Are like that battlefield of leaves 
That lie along with the ramble
By the thousands
when they were still 
Fresh recruits 
so green 
And hopeful
And cherished by the wind
Whose secrets
I can resurrect at will
Or when I feel
The unbearable sadness
Of my mom
Or when I wish
Like my dad
That I could be that boy again.

Comments

Post a Comment

Popular posts from this blog

MY OWN PERSONAL MERMAID. BELIEVE IN HER.

-
Image
It was a sad time in New York City, especially on Park Avenue where I lived then. My given name was Magritte, for daddy’s favorite artist Rene Magritte, who thought that embracing mystery was “as indispensable as snow on Christmas.” But everyone, as far back as I can remember, always called me “Mags.” I was 8, an only child, who was impressively precocious for her age. My favorite authors were Kafka, the feminist writer Naomi Wolff and Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. When I was seven, I wrote a love letter to Stephen Hawking. He wrote back saying, “Jesus, I just can’t figure you out.” I had a room that was handmade to make me feel that magic was at all times of the night and day, a dependable, ever-ready option thanks, in part to the twinkling stars, comet trails, and cream-colored clouds that streaked across the infinite, midnight blue sky of my ceiling  that was painted by my mom when she was young, healthy, and still able to do things like wave to daddy’s video camera with daffy rubber-f
Read more

What Must Babies Think?

-
What must babies think, As they wonder why their Push pram rocket ship Which on most days thrusts them Into the universe of the fiery sky ball and chatter filled park Sits mothballed in the corner Staring at the wall like White-haired bench people Who always seem so Sad and forgotten? What must dogs think The Wal Mart greeters of the Animal world Who use the sign language Of the excitable nose and tail To communicate their borderline insane love for anything that moves When they trot out first thing In the morning like they’re in competition at Westminster Only to discover A show of silent concrete? What must jets think Who usually cannibalize people Until their bellies are full When the only in-flight meal Is a flight crew Two pilots And 900 steerage ghosts Who sit Without hope or destiny In the kind of Quiet That follows anyone Who has ever walked Away from a grave? What must birds think The cocky pigeons The Blue-header vireo Or the Y
Read more

When Ours Parents Are Gone

-
I have not spoken to my dad in over forty years. Years ago I turned my back on him and walked away and that was that. No, we didn’t have a fight. He died when I was 25 and that walk away came right on the beat at the conclusion of the service in the cemetery after we lowered him with sway and love deep into the womb of the ground, like a treasure chest, ceremonially buried in that family secret place that only we would ever know the location of. When you bury a parent, time suddenly becomes unfathomable, unreliable, it suddenly faints away like a delicate socialite into the landing strip of a waiting divan, from the searing heat of loss, Our parent’s final breath pushes us into a dimension of exquisite separation and inextinguishable pain, where everything still feels just within our reach but in truth is now as far away as the weeping moon. The cemetery only knows formality. The weathered stones, which, like the canvas of our souls, have epitaphs and life stories carved deeply into th
Read more