Did I post this REMEMBERING AUNT SELMA POEM?
YELLOW TULIPS FOR AUNT SELMA
Nothing was better, Aunt Selma, than
visiting you and the whole gang on
Sundays. If we were lucky, you'd have a
beef brisket ready to eat, tender, mouth-watering,
bought no doubt from Heinen's where we too used to shop.
How I admired your jet-black hair. Was my aunt a movie star
like beauties in soap operas we would watch, As the World
Turns and Days of Our Lives?
Please, Almighty, don't remind me that those days are gone.
Gone like swaths of snow melting like cream puffs from
the roof tops and sidewalks.
Visitors, so many. Now gone to play among the stars and constellations.
Is Gramma Green there? Mom, with her smiley white sneakers?
Evelyn and Eddie Garber, their brilliant son, Donny, whose shiny
bald pate bounced with moonbeams in the night.
And that husband of yours, Aunt Selma, how we loved our Uncle Marv, a champion reader of both
Ogden Nash and Winston Churchill. Learned as Plato or Sophocles.
And your Linda, ah, Linda, with her quick wit and husband, Jack, who called you Selma, Dear.
How I'd marvel every time I came over, took off my shoes, while wondering what was for dessert.
Today is dessert. From all the people who love you. Who will never forget you.
Will Mark put you in a million-dollar portrait?
One hundred and four.
Does the Cleveland Jewish News have your photo
your crown of black hair, pink cheeks that Mama Eva
must have pinched when you were a little girl.
When the sun sets tonight
it will be the first time
that Aunt Selma is free of the woes
of the world and can claim her place
in Paradise as God welcomes you Home.
THE END
Nothing was better, Aunt Selma, than
visiting you and the whole gang on
Sundays. If we were lucky, you'd have a
beef brisket ready to eat, tender, mouth-watering,
bought no doubt from Heinen's where we too used to shop.
How I admired your jet-black hair. Was my aunt a movie star
like beauties in soap operas we would watch, As the World
Turns and Days of Our Lives?
Please, Almighty, don't remind me that those days are gone.
Gone like swaths of snow melting like cream puffs from
the roof tops and sidewalks.
Visitors, so many. Now gone to play among the stars and constellations.
Is Gramma Green there? Mom, with her smiley white sneakers?
Evelyn and Eddie Garber, their brilliant son, Donny, whose shiny
bald pate bounced with moonbeams in the night.
And that husband of yours, Aunt Selma, how we loved our Uncle Marv, a champion reader of both
Ogden Nash and Winston Churchill. Learned as Plato or Sophocles.
And your Linda, ah, Linda, with her quick wit and husband, Jack, who called you Selma, Dear.
How I'd marvel every time I came over, took off my shoes, while wondering what was for dessert.
Today is dessert. From all the people who love you. Who will never forget you.
Will Mark put you in a million-dollar portrait?
One hundred and four.
Does the Cleveland Jewish News have your photo
your crown of black hair, pink cheeks that Mama Eva
must have pinched when you were a little girl.
When the sun sets tonight
it will be the first time
that Aunt Selma is free of the woes
of the world and can claim her place
in Paradise as God welcomes you Home.
THE END
Was upstairs in bed, with ankle and twinkle toes on ice pack, when I heard the timer ring.
First of all, the ice pack makes your whole body ccccold.
Came downstairs to see how my crockpot dish was doing.
Eh? Loads of rice in there from my freezer. I wanted something soothing for my Pfizer vaccine, which is painful on my left arm. A small bandage is on there, I daren't pull it off.
...
Checked on Scott's maroon tulips in my Reading Room and stuck my proboscis in one of them. Ahhhhh, Marvelous!
There I found my new Atlantic and read quite a bit of it this morning. A review of a new bio of Tom Stoppard, the playwright.
Born in 1937, so he's 83 now.
Judy Diaz the late misses so much. Would have known all about his plays.
Yes, we crave hot foods on these cold winter days. Today it will warm up, said the weatherman on one of the channels when I awoke.
Hey, let's write a new poem, shall we?
READING WHILE SOAKING SPRAINED ANKLE ON SLAB OF ICE
Enough of Tom Stoppard, lemme tackle Jack Reacher by Lee Child and Virgil Flowers, a US Sheriff who must catch the bomber.
Reacher and his lady love, Abby, are in big trouble, as they listen to what's going on downstairs.
Don't wanna get outa bed, says Reacher, as Abby looks with questioning brows at him.
The book's only two thirds done.
Virgil Flowers makes me laugh. John Sandford has a good sense of humor. I like this book and need to laugh.
I sit upright in bed. Paint and smile on my face and force myself to laugh.
Perhaps you heard me down the road?
No comments:
Post a Comment