Tuesday, June 2, 2020

Poems I found just now while waiting for the Mailman


On my new MONARCH BUTTERFLY cards, I wrote my friend Helene Ryesky. Thanks to Scott for bringing the cards over. 

I made delicious bean soup this morning made with Goya pinto beans from the Willow Grove Giant.

Submitted "Where is Robbie Whalen" to Literary Yard. 

Am chomping Snyder's Dipping Sticks now. 

Could I survive living on a desert island with just pretzels? I believe I could.

Just glimpsed the Xena-look alike cat of my son Dan's. She blithely entered the driveway next to the Kiernan's corner house. 

Am trying to finish Rectify - is that the name? - before I write the first chapter of my new novel.


VOLUNTEERING WITH THE ELDERLY

Parkinson's Disease
Alzheimer's
Dementia
They arrive early in the morning
Dropped off by their loved ones
Sam, my favorite, comes over to our table
his blonde wife Libby
lets him through the door. He finds
a way to our table, but a sense of
direction he does not have, as once
I saved him from wandering into the
ping-pong room.

Every 20 minutes he asks me where
I live. "Willow Grove," I say,
"just down the road."

Two weeks ago we learned Wally,
the silent man, who would come
alive when we sang Sinatra, had
died. Sam had not forgotten and
kept asking, "Is everyone here
who's supposed to be here?"

I looked around. Elena with the
little beard was there. Anna, with
Parkinson's and hallucinations
was there, her arm stiff as a
block of wood, and Lily, who
thought people were stealing
from, her but could go to the
bathroom herself.

"They're all accounted for Sam,"
I said, deciding to skip
Wally's death.

Sam, a doctor in a former life,
dresses in spiffy clothes,
a warm brown sweater, round eyeglasses
like John Lennon's and saddle shoes,
neatly tied.

We smell the food getting ready
in the kitchen. Sam and I swivel
our heads just so and await the arrival
of meatballs and pasta.

Am I working here in a silent pact
with Fate to make sure my mind
remains free of all the terrible
conditions that await us?

Silence.

<> 

KING OSCAR WILD CAUGHT SARDINES
IN EXTRA VIRGIN OLIVE OIL

Starving, I wolf down many layered sardines
bathed in olive oil.

The King’s picture is on the papery cover
That rattles invitingly to my touch.

King Oscar would protect you from every threat
Imaginable. Hordes of barbarians, with

Spears aloft. Floods on mountain-sides
That seek to squoosh us alive.

Thunderbolts of Zeus that
Would sizzle our skin.

Such a hero is the King.
Broad shoulders with

Epaulets like ship
Masts.

Moustaches that sweep downward
A full beard like a roaring furnace.

He is our man.
The Good King Oscar.



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