Tuesday, November 1, 2016

Symphony Manor - Halloween - Poem: Rusty Red Wheelbarrow - Poem: Cleveland Indians vs Cubs - Poem: Pretzel Rods

Just in

Image result for septa on strike

SEPTA on strike while negotiations continue.

Worked at Symphony Manor this morning. Make that Monday morning. View the website here.

Common room at the senior living in Feasterville Trevose

This, in fact, is the very room where I run my "Now and Then Group."

Each time I'm there I figure out something new to discuss and keep their minds sparking. Since the World Series is on now, I began the group discussing the series. I passed out lyrics to The National Anthem.

Every single person there - about 8 - knew the words.

B/c everyone is hard of hearing, I speak loudly.

Next week, I told them, we'll begin by singing Hello Dolly.

We also exercise and one woman leads us in meditation.

When we're finished I go with them into the 'mess hall' - I stretched their brains by asking for synonyms for the "dining room" - and eat with them there. I also have a cup of their excellent coffee.

The number one problem with SM is they have a low census. I've mentioned this several times to my boss who assures me they're working on it.

After the group I went to the Giant to buy snacks for Halloween. The candy aisles were empty!

Tons of kids live in my neighborhood. "Tell  me about your costume," I would ask. A threesome were ketchup, mustard and one other condiment. There were also Harry Potters, a little guy who was a police officer (Scott said that's what he used to be), The Mad Hatter, Alice in Wonderland, characters from Star Wars.

I gave out sharpened pencils, no. 2 - my daughter/law's idea - tiny boxes of raisins (Oh! said a mom, you have healthy snacks) and pretzel rods.

Ruthie! Keep away from those g'damn pretzels. They have the best crunch ever!!!  Made by Utz.


At the front of the store
they stand in a rotunda
of plastic, stiff as
members of the militia

Into my cart they go
perfect treats for
Halloween, the Harry
Potters, the short little
police officer with glasses,
the Mad Hatter

My back molars, oh, call
them fangs for Halloween,
descend with lust upon
the rods, the crunch is
terrible, powerful, re-
calling our days in the
caves, when over the
fires that kept out the
lions, we'd happily
tear apart the likes
of tender gazelles or
tougher wildebeest

as the blood dripped
off our chins and the
little ones looked up
in wonder, waiting to
be weaned so they too
could eat pretzel rods. 

When I ran out of pencils and raisins, I closed the door and turned out the light. Then I went to Scott's where we watched the commentary on Sabotage, an early Hitchcock film.

Zzzz. Yes, I was exhausted, which is why I'm up now at nearly 2 am.

Image result for rusty rest wheelbarrow


Yellow pitcher in hand
I'm at the compost heap and
sprinkle the egg shells, orange
rinds, and remains of a too-salty
pretzel I spat out

The rusty ole wheelbarrow
rests under the pine
when suddenly it takes off
and vanishes in
the bright sunlight

Little Rachel, her
pigtails flying, is
pushed by her daddy,
crowds of Amish
cheering hard

Go go go

They lost Mama earlier
that year, their buggy
hit from behind by a
man in a hurry, his
car built for speed

Across the finish line
they go, Rachel's tummy
flip-flopping like a

Her prize: a cornstalk
doll she clutches
to her chest.

"You will help me,"
she says, "bake all
the pies Mama once

Pumpkin would be first,
the flaky crust laden
with lard, the filling
as creamy as marshmallow
clouds sailing by

There and here in
Willow Grove.

Image result for watch world series 2016

From my bedside seat
I rooted for my
old team, The Indians
in Cleveland, "the greatest
location in the nation"

Generations had passed
since I sat behind first base
downing hot dogs with
mustard, a steady breeze
off Lake Erie rustling my
shoulder-length brown hair

Now all I could do was stare.

Wayne Messmer reached the
high notes in the National
Anthem, he in contrast
to the handsome young
men on each team

Our first pitcher was
a shocker, his hair
flowed free to his
shoulders up on that
high mound. If my
grandaughter Grace
asked me, What are
they spitting? I wouldn't
know what to say.
Bubble gum?

These athletes so
young, so tattooed,
so white, so black,
so intense, on the
emerald green turf
of The Windy City
One of the Wonders of
the World

My loyalty flew out
the window as the pitcher,
one Aroldis Chapman
- can you see his chunky baby
million-dollar arms back in Cuba?

His fame secure as he struck
out with the fastest ball
ever recorded - those little
million dollar arms - and my
team consoled itself by knowing
they were coming home

Home to the cheers of my family
- yee-hah! - and the echoes of
the long gone Al Rosen, Larry Doby,
Rocky Colavito, Hank Aguirre, Bobby
Avila (Uncle Dave got his autograph)
Vic Power on second base and
the split your sides laughing at
Number 37, Jimmy Piersall.

I never missed a game back then
listening under the covers - like I
do now - on my transistor radio
as Jimmy Dudley's excitable voice
penetrates my dreams.

No comments:

Post a Comment