Poetry at St Philips in New Hope PA / Poem: A Sunday Drive

What a busy day! Snapped this darling little hand in the examining room at my new orthopedic doctor's office - o the trial of being a young senior - where my neck pain was diagnosed as arthritis. Arthur-itis. Yes, that's much more friendly sounding. I'll start physical therapy next week. Wanna be in tip-top shape when I wake up with Sarah's kidney on April 1.

Nadia and I drove down to the church leaving in plenty of time for getting lost. Unbeknownst to us there was a major detour but it didn't tell you how to get back onto the main road. We figgered it out.

This was Nadia's first time at a reading. She was a natural. Met her in my Monday nite poetry class.

That little church, by a frog-croakin' pond really rocks when Liz Bowman walks in. Charismatic, beautiful, loving, allowing everyone time and space to say or read or sing what they want, she's created about the best poetry venue I know of.

There were about 10 people there.

I sat next to Andrew who had a darling gold earring and wrote wonderful poems. If I wasn't so darn tired last nite I would've asked him for some for my upcoming poetry journal.

Here's the way it goes. You have a busy day. Constantly on the move. When you finally sit down - in the church - your body goes leaden w/ exhaustion. Don't get me wrong, I listened to every poet and storyteller that got 'onstage.'

But when it was my turn, baby baby, I was too tired to move. But move I must.

Dragged my leaden body up front, and removed five poems from my blue folder.

Sandy Bender, banjo player, had played his numbers and locked his sleepy banjo in its case.

Ach, I hated to bother him, but you know what? I needed to sing my poems and I needed Sandy to accompany me.

He graciously did. As always. I wait for these events. I only go when I'm not half-dead with sciatica, so it's been awhile.

As always we wowed the audience.

Photos please:

Here's Liz Bowman reading from her journal. We started off the evening by having a moment of silence and prayer for the people in Japan. "Imagine," she said, "an entire nation - Japan - having a moment of prayer. Can you imagine that happening in America?"

Never, we mumbled, tho I do remember when John Lennon died there was a moment of silence. Oooh, I'm getting goose bumps as I write this.

Ah, here's Sandy now. I told him he looks like Mark Twain. (There's a Ken Burns docu on telly right now about Samuel Clemens, who like Emily D, liked to wear white.)

Don't know their names but the man read from his book about his experiences being raised at Girard College. Had a brute of a residential master who used to beat the young kids with a stick. Great stories!

I asked Liz at the start, You wouldn't mind, would you, if I took some unobtrustive photos?

Here's Nadia. Pronounced nay-DEE-uh.


A SUNDAY DRIVE

I see a man in a wheelchair

As I pull in the drive

Sitting on the patio in the sun

Geraniums oblivious

Blanket covering bony knees

kiss his stubbled cheek

Strap him in the front seat

note his newly bald head



I’ve never said I love you and

Wonder if the words will come out

As I back down the drive

He no longer speaks

Is leaving the world bit by bit

Chagrin Falls is too far I tell him

Eight hours from here and I can’t read maps

But Pennsylvania has nice views too

We’ll go to the lake

Water, they say, is healing

Where are his eyes?



What you look for when going to the lake

Is what you look for at the movies

The first moment Elizabeth Taylor takes the stage

Only this time it’s the blue of Lake Galena

Blue like Daniel’s eyes



It’s a blue lake day

Not gray or muddy brown

The sun has cast it thus

We pull in and I cantilever Dad

Into his wheelchair

The only thing that distinguishes him

From a dead man

Is his eyes which alight on me like

a quenching glass of water



I push him along the sidewalk

Easily

Gracefully

Then begin to run

Perhaps the blue heron will be out today

Or the eagle guarding his chicks in his nest

We take the pier

The water shivers below

Gently, like tossing a basketball

Into the net

I push the wheelchair

Over the edge and watch him sink

bald pate the last thing I see

The last memory I have of the man who

Was my father for thirty-four years

who taught his little Ruthie to type

When I was only eight years old

A Jewish Marine who loved his Bernice

And fathered six children that we know of

Walking slowly back to the car

I remember our life together

Quickly

As if I too have drowned with the man

bit by bit

And then buckle him back in

And drive home.