Tuesday, July 12, 2016

Helene and I chat - Poem: Dream about Dad

Here's Helene Ryesky when she and Aaron lived in their house in Maple Glen, PA.  An artist, she had painted her kitchen grey.

At the time I wasn't crazy about it. Today, however, I need one panel of my bright pink kitchen painted. It shall be grey. 

More than an artist, Helene was such a clever woman. You'd sit at the kitchen table and if you were short, there was a little step stool awaiting you under the table.

Also a box of Kleenex.

Called her bc I used her slotted spoon and bowl when

I made this frozen mushroom ravioli - Rising Moon Organics.
While it's good, the topping tastes like Lipton Noodle Soup from days of yore.

Helene goggled her name and found loads of photos of her by Ruth Deming. I thought she was gonna yell at me, so I quickly said, Isn't it GREAT!

She agreed but as a retired photographer told me I should take TWO PHOTOS of people.

We agreed that Obama's speech today in Dallas was magnificent. But we didn't know in what hall he had spoken. I couldn't find it anywhere online.

Symphony Hall. 

Scott now leaves for the train at 7:15 pm. They changed the time. We napped deeply to Criminal Minds and the PBS News Hour.

When he came over to say good nite, he saw the Maverick cigarettes on my table with 4 cigs in it.

Said Scott: I noticed these in the parking lot of Keystone Screw yesterday and thought, I'll bet Ruth's gonna take em.

Image result for helene ryesky    What did you have for dinner, I asked Helene.

Some type of soup, she said, and tilapia. The fish was too salty, so I didn't eat it.

Maybe they're trying to kill you!

No, she said. They just don't care.

Why did I wash off the front windowsill earlier today?

It was filthy and I couldn't stand looking at it.

See the philodendron in the middle. My friend Winnie gave it to me. I picked off all the dead and dying leaves and wondered, When is Winnie gonna pass?

She's in hospice at her sister's house in Glenside. Called her the other day. Her legs are very bad. Weak. Post-polio. She can barely stand. She's gotta be taken c/o like a baby. And is not seeing guests.

"Sorry, Madame," the footman would say when I'd drive up, "Miss Winnie sends her regrets."

Helene was interested in the Jewish Bible, probly bc Obama and others were reading from various bibles.

 Told her I had my dad's bible from WW 2.  She told me to bring it when I next come over.

Illustrations by one of his daughters.

I'd like to compose a new poem right now but I have no ideas of what to write about. It's now 8:57 pm. Gimme a couple moments and I'll come back with a finished poem.

On yer mark, get set... go offline. Brew some strong coffee from Iris.

Okay, fini.  It's 9:11.

After thinking about it, I decided not to use last names in this poem.


As I slowly woke up
in Scott's bed, I
suddenly remembered
My Father.

With eyes open I re-
membered the true excitement
I'd feel when I was with him.

He made life exciting. Everything
to him was wonderful - the original
Zen master - love and acceptance
flowed through him like a
glass of water.

His company Majestic was his
fiefdom. He told me everything -
the body odor of his secretary
Lois Stendor, the black folk he
hired, Beryl P and Paige
S. Jr, a slumlord's son.

He wanted to be a rabbi.
He was, in his own
way. Never have I been as
excited with any man - or
even come close - than I was
with the man I can never again
call Dad. 

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