Thank you my dear Mom

Out Beyond Ideas

Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing,
there is a field. I'll meet you there.

When the soul lies down in that grass,
the world is too full to talk about.
Ideas, language, even the phrase "each other" doesn't make any sense.

mevlana jelaluddin rumi - 13th century

Dahlia in the garden

Time to buy a car

We lost one another
that tooth and I
one bitterly cold Sunday morning on Burnside st.
Among glass chunks and bits from the Wild Turkey and Coors light family
my old empty friend left my side

My sister my hip has taken a break!
It's work all these years,
impeccable and kind
by way of searing and polite
dictation has let me know that my
days as an ugly gazelle
are over.

So this morning, if I'm asked
to dance I'll beg that small steps and
little hops be enough
and they will be
because trying to explain pain
is like telling a goat
how to build an iceberg
and thinking about pain
is even less special.

Smells Like Sunday by Joan Elliott

Smells Like Sunday

When I was a child, my father would pile us in the car on Sunday mornings to go for a ride. Most of the time we would end up in Dingman’s Ferry which is a small town set on the Delaware River in northern Pennsylvania. The smell of my father’s cigar permeated the car making me slightly nauseous during the hour and a half trip. We would cross over the toll bridge and on the right side of the road was the Riverview Tavern. My father and Uncle Karl had owned the tavern in the 30’s and Uncle Karl kept it going during World War II when my father was in the army. When he came home and he and my mother decided to stay married, my mother convinced him to sell the place since she didn’t want me to grow up as a tavern owner’s daughter.

But I think his heart was still there so we’d drive up there so we’d drive up there on Sundays. He had sold to a German couple Rudy and Ida who despite Pennsylvania’s blue laws would open up the bar for us. The smell of stale beer and cigarettes transports me back to the tavern on a Sunday morning. We sat on the bar stools and Uncle Rudy made up hamburgers and French fries on the grill. My dad would have a beer and my mother would have a ginger ale. Sometimes Uncle Rudy would open the dance hall behind the bar and I would go back there among the Rheingold signs, the wagon wheel chandeliers, the antlers and mounted deer heads and that stale tavern smell and imagine myself grown up and dancing with some handsome man in uniform.

Strong Bridge

One evening, I went walking.
I remember that it was a night filled with mist and blooms of light from hundreds of city lanterns.
Walking along a strong bridge, dipped in fog, blurred images passed my eyes as fractured language swirled through the river's damp in a sorrowful song..
"By and by I shall meet you by and by my dear,
where gusts of silver-hued river spiral down, down, down,
By and By I shall meet you, bye and bye..."
Then the faces of the little girls danced before me,
just as it was many years before.
"Catch me!, Catch me!"
we're birds flying,
dancing
and as our feet touch down
we only softly graze the swords that
lay in crosses.
"By and by I shall meet you bye and bye little one,
where clouded waves thunder
the mist rises from the foam
and bony fingers from the Cypress
field the solemn touch,
By and by I shall meet you by and by."
And then there was a little form,
perched comfortably on the railing,
a pot-bellied barn owl purred to me,
"Hey there girl, don't you know
that those men there,
will breeeaaaakkkkk
yeeerrrrrrrr
boooooooooooones!!!!!"
Blink
Damn it.
and from below,
"By and by I will meet you by and by my dear,
at the tree felled by the rainstorm
where we crossed
with shaky hearts
we held hands, do you remember?
by and by I shall meet you by and by.."
As my feet slumbered on
I bent forward and
with dull force
picked and gathered the
bruised petals from the soaked concrete.
I grow weary that there are new ways to grieve.