Scott was just here helping me SCAN a document saying I was the author of Eating Rice Pudding with Simon, which will be published in TRUTH SERUM PRESS of Australia. Not surprisingly I couldn't remember the poem, but was able to locate it, not by echo-location - who does dat anyway? - but by the Search-Me Button. Poem will be published at bottom of this note.
AUNT MARTHA
She grasps the rails of
the wicker rocking chair
eyes closed
listening to the rain
Nothing better than
sitting out on the
covered front porch
letting this world
and the world beyond
sift through her like
the flour she uses
to bake fine cakes
for her beloved
David. To the
sound of a car
or two whooshing
by, her characters
come to her, one by
one, like animals
on the Ark. She
smiles as they
nod hello, thanking
her for the gift
of creation.
The white mail truck
drives by. Mailman
Leo steps out. "Too
many here to stuff
into the mailbox,"
he says, dropping
off a foot-high
stack of envelopes
some of which
drop to the wet
grassy ground.
"Oh no!" she remembers
"it's my birthday."
And so it is.
Happy Birthday,
Miss Martha, Aunt
Martha, Mom, Gram,
Daughter, Husband and
All those thoughtful
friends!
Forgotten? Never.
Beloved? Always.
Thanks from your
forever friend,
R Z D
***
EATING RICE PUDDING WITH SIMON
I pick my
prettiest bowl
a gift
from Helene before
she went
to the old ladies'
home and
spoon in the
Rice
Pudding from
Altamonte's
Market.
The aroma
of cinnamon
and
vanilla and perhaps
of heavy
cream tantalizes
me, as it
does Simon.
We sit at
the kitchen table
exchanging
loving looks and
"Ain't
this delicious!" he
liked
speaking in poor grammar
with his
genius IQ
A
curmudgeon is what he was,
wiser and
sillier than any man
I’ve ever
met, coming downstairs
late at night
to watch television
and leave
cheese and cracker
crumbs
for me to vacuum
the next
morning
We'd eat
Rice Pudding at the
Eagle
Diner, Bonnet Lane,
and way
over at Lancer's on
Street
Road
Who says
you can't eat Rice
Pudding
with a dead man? He
comes
around when he feels
like it
and I welcome him
with a
kiss.
***
Although I'm not the most honest person in the world, erring to get my work published, I do obey the dictum, This must not have been published anywhere else. I did keep my word about the Rice Pudding poem.
Am going on FB now. Wish me luck as the stormy weather is slowing things down. At the mention of stormy weather, my mother would burst into song from her place at the kitchen table.
MISS BISSELL AND I CIRCUMNAVIGATE THE HOUSE
I think of Miss Bissell as a fine lady in furs
ever so accommodating as we waltz around the house
lovingly, we smoosh across the Persian rug I bought
in rainy Paree and put through baggage at Orly, why, a
French orphan could have stowed away inside
The living room houses fistfuls of crumpled-up papers
that shall be tossed into the recycling bin in the
kitchen. Did you know they make park benches out
of these or is it lasers for missiles?
Upstairs we go! Did Miss Bissell give a sigh of
fatigue or was that I? Past the double-doored closet
in the hall we go. Their things are in there. Their
books, textbooks, paperbacks, and notebooks with rings.
Only look forward, she comforts me, as we move into my
writing room, where awake until four last night, I submitted as the sun cleared its throat and began its daily ascent.
Never mind, Dear, she whispers, if they don't like it, someone else will.
Emptying her chamber pot of dust and dental floss, I return
her to her cradle, where she winks at me and say Good Day!
CONCERT IN THE RAIN
Sad it would be to see if
the gazebo and the huge
park were drowning in
the rain
But Barefoot Bobby and
the Breakers were oblivious
as were the usual fans
who gather in the
stadium in the park
"Yellow matter custard
dripping from a dead dog's
eye," they sang in harmony,
my late brother David's
favorite song
The Barefoot Bobbies were
jumping up and down on
their Magical Mystery stage
that kept them dry and
shouting
Y'all okay out there? This
is the best concert we've
ever given
All the way from Doylestown,
PA. I too jumped and danced from my
canopy under the tree, my pink
toenails shining from the rain.
Two blond girls - their children -
jumped through hula hoops, balanced
them on their arms, their legs, a
brown pigtailed girl from the
audience ran up to join them
Music unites us all. What are you
afraid of I kept asking myself.
Of getting wet? Is this any
different than showering
in the green bathroom?
My car plowed through the
rain on the backstreets
You're fine, you're fine,
I said as I steered my
arc home.
Then called Mom and wished
her well. Eye surgery in
the other, the blurry eye.
Courageous? Optimistic?
Solid as a lemon square.
That's Mom. "I'll see
you around dinner-time
tomorrow night" with
her new five-thousand
dollar pair of eyes.
Barefoot Bobby and the Breakers
LOVE OF MAIL TRUCKS
Sunday morning
quiet as a raindrop
drying on the holly bush
A sound splits the atoms
of the air. The universal
mail truck.
A soothing white
mashed potato background
flashes of red and blue
like party balloons
Filled with things.
Ah, things, how we love them.
Look! The mail truck is
pulling up at your door.
The mail girl, clad in
sexy blue shorts and a
cap pulled over her eyes
has brought you your
fondest desire.
Quick! Tell us what it is.
And I will tell you mine.
**
Scott's childhood friend Paul Bongart, a mail carrier, liked this poem on FB.
***
Half an hour until the PBS News is on. That means half an hour to write a poem about Joan, the cousin of Nancy across the street.
Be right back with the poem, unless I drop dead of a sudden heart attack. Fifty percent of heart attacks you drop dead immediately!
***
JOAN THE VALKYRIE
She comes to visit her
cousin Nan
once a year. I wish it
were more.
I saw her unmistakable
pose on the
front porch. No one's
gonna mess with her.
Legs apart to steady her
88-year-old self.
she’s sensibly dressed in
shorts with pockets
A cellphone sits in her
palm,
showing her newest darling
Remi the German Shepherd
she rescued.
Why would anyone shoot a
dog in the hip?
The bullet's still there
but under Joan's
kind and loving care, she
thrives, barks,
licks, and eats her fill.
Disneyworld was Joan's bailiwick until
age banished her. Wrinkles
fleece her
face like fine yarn. Like
me, she likes
her naps. She comes over
and I show her
around. Mobiles hang from
my ceiling.
Paintings on my walls. A wicker
basket holds
my shoes on the Persian rug
I bought in rainy Paree.
She stares at the shoes.
"You know," she
says, fiddling for
the right words.
“You’re…different!”
I know, I said, and I
don't care.
She thumbed the photos for
me on
her cellphone. There’s her
beloved son Bruce
who works at The Hartford.
She'll leave tomorrow and
return to
the mobile park where
she'll unite with
Remi. Used to be an orange
grove, with
golden oranges swinging on
the vine.
Eat one for me, Joan, I
say, and nuzzle your
pup on his hairy
see-through ears.
How can two women, so
different, 17 years apart
be so alike! Have I
mentioned she talks
to everyone? Helps
everyone she meets
on her life's journey?
What awaits her
on her Frontier flight
home? Who will meet
Joan the Astonishing? Her
child-like wonder
teaches all who encounter
her.
She lives in the moment. Cherish
her.
She knows what she wants.
And, by golly, no one’s
gonna stop her.
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