Thursday, November 12, 2015

Where have all the leaves gone? Two poems: Jimmy Plays to Win - Stef

Well, sir, within an hour, I will have finished the audio book

Image result for all the pretty horses We're in a tough spot now. Brady is brandishing a gun and after a brutal stint in a Mexican prison he's trying to get his horse back. That there girl in the picture, well, she wouldn't have him. It would've been her ruination.

Since this is the first of a trilogy, we'll probly be hearing about her agayne.

Told Scott I was enjoying "Gifted Hands" by presidential contender Ben Carson. Told Scott how Carson writes, with his co-author, about his terrible temper and how he nearly killed someone with a knife.

It's not true, said Scott. They proved it wasn't true. Couldn't find a single person to corroborate it.

What's a girl to do?

Then I fell asleep to Charlie Rose and when I awoke, there was Carson himself being interviewed. It was a repeat from Oct. 9. The guy twasn't making a lick of sense. I don't think even Charlie knew what to say. He was maintaining that the Supreme Court was wrong about same-sex marriage. And that the law of the land is not same-sex marriage.

I blinked my eyes, got up from the couch and went upstairs to sleep in a real bed, feeling my way in the darkness like a blind person, arms outstretched so I wouldn't bump into my bike. Not a lick of light comes through my drapes.

On my poem To-Do List: so I finished both of em. Years ago my son Dan gave me strict orders never to show anyone a poem I've wrin about them.

Well, I did get something published about Dan and I definitely didn't show him that piece. But I'll give both Stef and Jimmy their poems, printed out on fine paper.

Did I tell you Scott and I watched Whiplash? It stuck with Scott, he said, as we put in another movie.

Image result for whiplash


A month ago I saw him
playing out in the rain
more often than not
he missed
devil may care
a boy of thirteen, fourteen
I rolled down my window
“Do you realize,” I said
the rain rolling onto my
sleeve, “you’re playing
ball on Ball Road?”

He laughed. Told me
his name was Jimmy.
My heart leaps when I
see him, a real boy like
in the old days, when
smart phones with
ring tones were as unknown
as what lies inside the
black holes.

Jimmy’s transported
from Ball Road and
stands in the center of
the Lakers’ stadium
his loose-fitting yellow
jersey sweating, while
Jimmy sinks yet another
up-close in-your-face
shot into the net.

Yes! he yells, slapping the
hands of the other five
and, wiping his eyes,
sees a vision of his
English lit book lying lonely
on his desk back home on
Ball Road.



She’s a blue-eyed girl
a behind-the-counter girl
who recognizes me by
my hand-painted backpack
of red and gold autumn
leaves, that never leave
my back. On her feet
all day, I wish she could
fly away to the Hilton,
there to soak in the pink
Jacuzzi, its jets like tiny
sparrows rubbing their
softness across her as
he sweeps her off her feet.  
She calls in sick, while they
vacation in Oahu, lying on
her tummy, he oils her back –
it smells so sweet – but she
surprises herself by being
homesick, by missing the
Pharmacy, the Produce Aisle,
the white plastic bags. “You’re
the best,” she kisses his cheek
and returns next day to her
beat at the Giant Supermarket.     


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