Helene Ann Ryesky at home on Bauman Drive, Ambler PA 19002
Guess I'll have to figure out how to make Davey Ire Pancakes.
POEMS
ONE
FADING FAST
In another lifetime, Helene, we donned our favorite clothes
and interviewed artists, both up and coming, and already
there
for ART MATTERS. All my stories are gathered in a black
trashbag
on the high shelf of my hall closet. You, my dear, darling,
Queen Helene,
have left your home for good - oh, those Davey Ire Pancakes,
you would
make me and Aaron - he did jigsaw puzzles in the dining room
near your
purple African Violets - and the coffee was simply the best
I'd ever had
because YOU, dear darling Queen Helene made it for me.
Mornings, I eat
hot oatmeal with blueberries in those delicate White and
Copenhagen blue
plates, later to eat dessert in Shades of Green saucers,
where you once
served compote - Dear God, that concoction of prunes, pears,
apples while
your daughter Carol was dying, and big-limbed Matt, too, who
married and arrived
with his big slobbering dog, as we wonder
Is there a God, and are certain we don't know.
Thankfully I visited you once at Manatawny, brought by Mr
Uber
Never thinking I would not see your face again - the face
that launched
Dozens of photographs, yes, I fell hard for Chris Ray who
loved and left me
Just as you, too, sweet Queen Helene, are leaving me, too,
in pieces
like your peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white with
crusts you'd trim
Can houses await in the Afterlife? The grey cupboards you
painted
in the kitchen - save me a place, s'ils te plait.
...
TWO
I ROWED LAST NIGHT
They picked me
They chose me
I was someone
They liked me
I followed them
through the lowlands
trotting behind
they balanced a canoe
high over their heads
like pallbearers with coffin
They were regular-sized
big people
adults
my shortness
makes me feel like a child
still does
Stars sparkled above
like a navy quilt back home
in Cleveland
but I was away
for the very first time
away and
on my own
A hush came over us
we saw it in the distance
a glistening river
called the Winooski
heard the lapping of the waters
black waters meeting black sky
Seven big people
inched the canoe into the shallows
I heard the pebbles crunching
my ankles getting wet
I had never been in a canoe
and liked the rocking motion
the lapping of the waves
against the metal boat
I dipped my oar in the water
felt strong and powerful as
my little muscles worked hard
I trailed my hand in the water
so cold it burnt my hand
and in that moment, Ecstasy!
We stopped beyond the waterfall
Barbara pulled out a jug
passed it around
and the wine flowed down my chin
the first wine I drank that was not
for Rosh Hashanah
This was the beginning of my life
life away from Mom and Dad
and four little sisters and a
brother, autistic, who died
by his own hand.
But I am still alive
fifty years later
my freckles faded
hair gone gray
children of my own
all rowing boats
of their own
Lying in bed under my ceiling fan
I am still eighteen
yet to know a man
or slip into a pair of sandals
swooning with joy on the Winooski
under the stars in Plainfield, Vermont,
Goddard College,
with the new taste of freedom
strong as the wine
THREE
I PICK YOUR TRASH, JOHN LEONARD, NOW THAT
YOU’RE GONE
At first they put out
the commode
seat up
to let it sink in.
It sat on the grass
a week,
kids passed by
what would they know of
your rosebushes out front,
or the hospice nurse
green Dodge
parked in the drive
or about you, John Leonard,
ninety-five and shuffling to
your garden out back
in house slippers and morphine.
On garbage night
the invisble hand
brought out some broken rakes
and tumbledown shelves,
your wife’s perfume bottles
lying in a bruised Rubbermaid container
I let them lie
Seeking perfection.
After your hip went last spring
You took me hobbling
Through your backyard.
Where did you learn to garden like that?
Lilyponds with real frogs
birdhouses nailed to the pines
tarps on benches to keep them dry.
Yesterday they put out a rototiller.
I took it at dusk
felt the length of the wood
for splinters or other irregularities
felt the rusty blades with my thumb
tiny twirling blades
then tamped it on the sidewalk
out fell the autumn leaves
from the previous fall
not this one,
for you were no longer
protector of your lawn.
I rolled it
On the sidewalk
Your roses blooming behind me,
Hefted it over my head
Victorious at last
Then stabbed it bloodless
In the palm of my hand.
FOUR
STRAYING
You found me at the party
watching television in
one of the back bedrooms
a Bette Davis I hadn’t seen.
Come with me, instead, you said,
we’ll look for the moon and gather up the stars,
so I smoothed out the bed
and we left the party behind.
Where are you when we need you,
you jibed at the cloud-wrapped moon
the party lights growing dim
but I didn’t mind
Our feet touched grass
and we waded into blackness
your hand holding mine.
Looking at those extraordinary
moon-shadowed cheekbones
those onyx eyes I long to kiss
wondering when it will all begin
each perfect segment
unfolding in time like the
clouds parading across the cool night sky
the kiss comes first
tasting of the fragrant strawberry vine
while the faraway stars
dip to earth and encircle our hands.
Near the white fence
that keep the horses in
you cradle me to the grassy ground
I do not mind
You kick off your shoes
which like us lie lazy on their sides
I kiss your fingers, press them to my cheek
then lay my head on your bare chest
and ask your name.
Too soon the white light of dawn
skims across the fence.
We must have slept on the cool moist grass
for our bodies are dented with the
quiet marks made by grass.
The horses have retreated.
You say my name
and tell me you must go.
You are off to California this very day
you, your guitar, and the silkscreen shirts
you’re going to sell.
You pull on your shoes,
I bend to lace them.
Oh, that is who you are
that is your face again I see it now
the onyx eyes so lovely
so set to go
Can’t you stay? an hour? a day?
I’ll miss you so,
Don’t go.
Sometime after
I don’t know when
A month, a year, no matter
I hear the news
the chilling news
your business has failed
and naked you have tied weights to your feet
and drowned yourself in the high creek.
Don’t go.
I meant to say before you left
Let’s set a date and meet back here
on the blue-black grass some midnight
the stars in their corners
the horses unleashed
and we will find each other
in the dark
and will not stray this time
from our place in the grass.
FIVE
CLEVELAND MY HOME
we were thrilled by the bounty
of our new house: how we loved things!
we built it ourselves, visited it when
it was on a plain of mud and walked
planks to get inside
the girls and i running round –
this is my room, no mine!
why does the basement smell funny, dad?
that’s where the workmen pee.
the house was huge: we learned the
words powder room and library
pink naugahyde and jalousies
we played in the grassy fields
along green road
i carefully stashed my glasses near a
rock while we played baseball
but howard cohen couldn’t find them
mary truby did, two months later,
i kissed her!
but i’d already gotten a better and
stronger pair:
blue, like polished marbles.
as a nearly friendless teenager
i chose books over boys and the
mindless girls who chased them
my one and only date – david silver –
had thick questioning eyebrows and
backed into a curb
dying at ohio state in a vehicular accident
but i had discovered downtown
downtown cleveland
my new home
how i belonged
don’t talk to me about new york
this was the place with
the legless beggar selling
pencils from her cart
her face like the laughing lady
at the amusement park
a dollar for you from this
awkward little rich girl
in bobby socks and full skirt
monogrammed blouse from daddy’s
warehouse – RZG in lavish font -
“and what’s your other one called"
cracked Rocco in homeroom
if the beggar was the showstopper other
attractions filled my longing heart
wide avenues and noises:
sirens, taxicabs, delivery trucks
smells from the nut vendors, salted
cashews, roasted peanuts, malteds from
the basement stand at Higbee’s department
store, go through the revolving door and see if
tv star Dorothy Fuldheim goes round with you
downtown cleveland, how i dream of you forty, no,
fifty years later
such people on the sidewalk when you’re only
seventeen, letting you pass in choreographed
motions, Black people with wide eyes and hats
and that lovely dark skin that got them in so much
trouble, i wanted them to know i saluted them,
as i crossed at the green light, finding my way,
not to the auction block or underground railway
but through the turnstile of
the main library on Superior Avenue
do you have "A Night in the Luxembourg?"
by Remi de Gourmante?
a small leather-bound volume was placed
into my waiting hands, an Everyman’s imprint by
Random House
can you see me sitting alone with my cats-eye
glasses beneath a huge window?
the turned-down corners of the yellow pages are falling in
my lap like teardrops
in the silent reading room of my life.ONE
FADING FAST
In another lifetime, Helene, we donned our favorite clothes
and interviewed artists, both up and coming, and already
there
for ART MATTERS. All my stories are gathered in a black
trashbag
on the high shelf of my hall closet. You, my dear, darling,
Queen Helene,
have left your home for good - oh, those Davey Ire Pancakes,
you would
make me and Aaron - he did jigsaw puzzles in the dining room
near your
purple African Violets - and the coffee was simply the best
I'd ever had
because YOU, dear darling Queen Helene made it for me.
Mornings, I eat
hot oatmeal with blueberries in those delicate White and
Copenhagen blue
plates, later to eat dessert in Shades of Green saucers,
where you once
served compote - Dear God, that concoction of prunes, pears,
apples while
your daughter Carol was dying, and big-limbed Matt, too, who
married and arrived
with his big slobbering dog, as we wonder
Is there a God, and are certain we don't know.
Thankfully I visited you once at Manatawny, brought by Mr
Uber
Never thinking I would not see your face again - the face
that launched
Dozens of photographs, yes, I fell hard for Chris Ray who
loved and left me
Just as you, too, sweet Queen Helene, are leaving me, too,
in pieces
like your peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white with
crusts you'd trim
Can houses await in the Afterlife? The grey cupboards you
painted
in the kitchen - save me a place, s'ils te plait.
...
TWO
I ROWED LAST NIGHT
They picked me
They chose me
I was someone
They liked me
I followed them
through the lowlands
trotting behind
they balanced a canoe
high over their heads
like pallbearers with coffin
They were regular-sized
big people
adults
my shortness
makes me feel like a child
still does
Stars sparkled above
like a navy quilt back home
in Cleveland
but I was away
for the very first time
away and
on my own
A hush came over us
we saw it in the distance
a glistening river
called the Winooski
heard the lapping of the waters
black waters meeting black sky
Seven big people
inched the canoe into the shallows
I heard the pebbles crunching
my ankles getting wet
I had never been in a canoe
and liked the rocking motion
the lapping of the waves
against the metal boat
I dipped my oar in the water
felt strong and powerful as
my little muscles worked hard
I trailed my hand in the water
so cold it burnt my hand
and in that moment, Ecstasy!
We stopped beyond the waterfall
Barbara pulled out a jug
passed it around
and the wine flowed down my chin
the first wine I drank that was not
for Rosh Hashanah
This was the beginning of my life
life away from Mom and Dad
and four little sisters and a
brother, autistic, who died
by his own hand.
But I am still alive
fifty years later
my freckles faded
hair gone gray
children of my own
all rowing boats
of their own
Lying in bed under my ceiling fan
I am still eighteen
yet to know a man
or slip into a pair of sandals
swooning with joy on the Winooski
under the stars in Plainfield, Vermont,
Goddard College,
with the new taste of freedom
strong as the wine
THREE
I PICK YOUR TRASH, JOHN LEONARD, NOW THAT
YOU’RE GONE
At first they put out
the commode
seat up
to let it sink in.
It sat on the grass
a week,
kids passed by
what would they know of
your rosebushes out front,
or the hospice nurse
green Dodge
parked in the drive
or about you, John Leonard,
ninety-five and shuffling to
your garden out back
in house slippers and morphine.
On garbage night
the invisble hand
brought out some broken rakes
and tumbledown shelves,
your wife’s perfume bottles
lying in a bruised Rubbermaid container
I let them lie
Seeking perfection.
After your hip went last spring
You took me hobbling
Through your backyard.
Where did you learn to garden like that?
Lilyponds with real frogs
birdhouses nailed to the pines
tarps on benches to keep them dry.
Yesterday they put out a rototiller.
I took it at dusk
felt the length of the wood
for splinters or other irregularities
felt the rusty blades with my thumb
tiny twirling blades
then tamped it on the sidewalk
out fell the autumn leaves
from the previous fall
not this one,
for you were no longer
protector of your lawn.
I rolled it
On the sidewalk
Your roses blooming behind me,
Hefted it over my head
Victorious at last
Then stabbed it bloodless
In the palm of my hand.
FOUR
STRAYING
You found me at the party
watching television in
one of the back bedrooms
a Bette Davis I hadn’t seen.
Come with me, instead, you said,
we’ll look for the moon and gather up the stars,
so I smoothed out the bed
and we left the party behind.
Where are you when we need you,
you jibed at the cloud-wrapped moon
the party lights growing dim
but I didn’t mind
Our feet touched grass
and we waded into blackness
your hand holding mine.
Looking at those extraordinary
moon-shadowed cheekbones
those onyx eyes I long to kiss
wondering when it will all begin
each perfect segment
unfolding in time like the
clouds parading across the cool night sky
the kiss comes first
tasting of the fragrant strawberry vine
while the faraway stars
dip to earth and encircle our hands.
Near the white fence
that keep the horses in
you cradle me to the grassy ground
I do not mind
You kick off your shoes
which like us lie lazy on their sides
I kiss your fingers, press them to my cheek
then lay my head on your bare chest
and ask your name.
Too soon the white light of dawn
skims across the fence.
We must have slept on the cool moist grass
for our bodies are dented with the
quiet marks made by grass.
The horses have retreated.
You say my name
and tell me you must go.
You are off to California this very day
you, your guitar, and the silkscreen shirts
you’re going to sell.
You pull on your shoes,
I bend to lace them.
Oh, that is who you are
that is your face again I see it now
the onyx eyes so lovely
so set to go
Can’t you stay? an hour? a day?
I’ll miss you so,
Don’t go.
Sometime after
I don’t know when
A month, a year, no matter
I hear the news
the chilling news
your business has failed
and naked you have tied weights to your feet
and drowned yourself in the high creek.
Don’t go.
I meant to say before you left
Let’s set a date and meet back here
on the blue-black grass some midnight
the stars in their corners
the horses unleashed
and we will find each other
in the dark
and will not stray this time
from our place in the grass.
FIVE
CLEVELAND MY HOME
we were thrilled by the bounty
of our new house: how we loved things!
we built it ourselves, visited it when
it was on a plain of mud and walked
planks to get inside
the girls and i running round –
this is my room, no mine!
why does the basement smell funny, dad?
that’s where the workmen pee.
the house was huge: we learned the
words powder room and library
pink naugahyde and jalousies
we played in the grassy fields
along green road
i carefully stashed my glasses near a
rock while we played baseball
but howard cohen couldn’t find them
mary truby did, two months later,
i kissed her!
but i’d already gotten a better and
stronger pair:
blue, like polished marbles.
as a nearly friendless teenager
i chose books over boys and the
mindless girls who chased them
my one and only date – david silver –
had thick questioning eyebrows and
backed into a curb
dying at ohio state in a vehicular accident
but i had discovered downtown
downtown cleveland
my new home
how i belonged
don’t talk to me about new york
this was the place with
the legless beggar selling
pencils from her cart
her face like the laughing lady
at the amusement park
a dollar for you from this
awkward little rich girl
in bobby socks and full skirt
monogrammed blouse from daddy’s
warehouse – RZG in lavish font -
“and what’s your other one called"
cracked Rocco in homeroom
if the beggar was the showstopper other
attractions filled my longing heart
wide avenues and noises:
sirens, taxicabs, delivery trucks
smells from the nut vendors, salted
cashews, roasted peanuts, malteds from
the basement stand at Higbee’s department
store, go through the revolving door and see if
tv star Dorothy Fuldheim goes round with you
downtown cleveland, how i dream of you forty, no,
fifty years later
such people on the sidewalk when you’re only
seventeen, letting you pass in choreographed
motions, Black people with wide eyes and hats
and that lovely dark skin that got them in so much
trouble, i wanted them to know i saluted them,
as i crossed at the green light, finding my way,
not to the auction block or underground railway
but through the turnstile of
the main library on Superior Avenue
do you have "A Night in the Luxembourg?"
by Remi de Gourmante?
a small leather-bound volume was placed
into my waiting hands, an Everyman’s imprint by
Random House
can you see me sitting alone with my cats-eye
glasses beneath a huge window?
the turned-down corners of the yellow pages are falling in
my lap like teardrops
in the silent reading room of my life.ONE
FADING FAST
In another lifetime, Helene, we donned our favorite clothes
and interviewed artists, both up and coming, and already
there
for ART MATTERS. All my stories are gathered in a black
trashbag
on the high shelf of my hall closet. You, my dear, darling,
Queen Helene,
have left your home for good - oh, those Davey Ire Pancakes,
you would
make me and Aaron - he did jigsaw puzzles in the dining room
near your
purple African Violets - and the coffee was simply the best
I'd ever had
because YOU, dear darling Queen Helene made it for me.
Mornings, I eat
hot oatmeal with blueberries in those delicate White and
Copenhagen blue
plates, later to eat dessert in Shades of Green saucers,
where you once
served compote - Dear God, that concoction of prunes, pears,
apples while
your daughter Carol was dying, and big-limbed Matt, too, who
married and arrived
with his big slobbering dog, as we wonder
Is there a God, and are certain we don't know.
Thankfully I visited you once at Manatawny, brought by Mr
Uber
Never thinking I would not see your face again - the face
that launched
Dozens of photographs, yes, I fell hard for Chris Ray who
loved and left me
Just as you, too, sweet Queen Helene, are leaving me, too,
in pieces
like your peanut butter and jelly sandwich on white with
crusts you'd trim
Can houses await in the Afterlife? The grey cupboards you
painted
in the kitchen - save me a place, s'ils te plait.
...
TWO
I ROWED LAST NIGHT
They picked me
They chose me
I was someone
They liked me
I followed them
through the lowlands
trotting behind
they balanced a canoe
high over their heads
like pallbearers with coffin
They were regular-sized
big people
adults
my shortness
makes me feel like a child
still does
Stars sparkled above
like a navy quilt back home
in Cleveland
but I was away
for the very first time
away and
on my own
A hush came over us
we saw it in the distance
a glistening river
called the Winooski
heard the lapping of the waters
black waters meeting black sky
Seven big people
inched the canoe into the shallows
I heard the pebbles crunching
my ankles getting wet
I had never been in a canoe
and liked the rocking motion
the lapping of the waves
against the metal boat
I dipped my oar in the water
felt strong and powerful as
my little muscles worked hard
I trailed my hand in the water
so cold it burnt my hand
and in that moment, Ecstasy!
We stopped beyond the waterfall
Barbara pulled out a jug
passed it around
and the wine flowed down my chin
the first wine I drank that was not
for Rosh Hashanah
This was the beginning of my life
life away from Mom and Dad
and four little sisters and a
brother, autistic, who died
by his own hand.
But I am still alive
fifty years later
my freckles faded
hair gone gray
children of my own
all rowing boats
of their own
Lying in bed under my ceiling fan
I am still eighteen
yet to know a man
or slip into a pair of sandals
swooning with joy on the Winooski
under the stars in Plainfield, Vermont,
Goddard College,
with the new taste of freedom
strong as the wine
THREE
I PICK YOUR TRASH, JOHN LEONARD, NOW THAT
YOU’RE GONE
At first they put out
the commode
seat up
to let it sink in.
It sat on the grass
a week,
kids passed by
what would they know of
your rosebushes out front,
or the hospice nurse
green Dodge
parked in the drive
or about you, John Leonard,
ninety-five and shuffling to
your garden out back
in house slippers and morphine.
On garbage night
the invisble hand
brought out some broken rakes
and tumbledown shelves,
your wife’s perfume bottles
lying in a bruised Rubbermaid container
I let them lie
Seeking perfection.
After your hip went last spring
You took me hobbling
Through your backyard.
Where did you learn to garden like that?
Lilyponds with real frogs
birdhouses nailed to the pines
tarps on benches to keep them dry.
Yesterday they put out a rototiller.
I took it at dusk
felt the length of the wood
for splinters or other irregularities
felt the rusty blades with my thumb
tiny twirling blades
then tamped it on the sidewalk
out fell the autumn leaves
from the previous fall
not this one,
for you were no longer
protector of your lawn.
I rolled it
On the sidewalk
Your roses blooming behind me,
Hefted it over my head
Victorious at last
Then stabbed it bloodless
In the palm of my hand.
FOUR
STRAYING
You found me at the party
watching television in
one of the back bedrooms
a Bette Davis I hadn’t seen.
Come with me, instead, you said,
we’ll look for the moon and gather up the stars,
so I smoothed out the bed
and we left the party behind.
Where are you when we need you,
you jibed at the cloud-wrapped moon
the party lights growing dim
but I didn’t mind
Our feet touched grass
and we waded into blackness
your hand holding mine.
Looking at those extraordinary
moon-shadowed cheekbones
those onyx eyes I long to kiss
wondering when it will all begin
each perfect segment
unfolding in time like the
clouds parading across the cool night sky
the kiss comes first
tasting of the fragrant strawberry vine
while the faraway stars
dip to earth and encircle our hands.
Near the white fence
that keep the horses in
you cradle me to the grassy ground
I do not mind
You kick off your shoes
which like us lie lazy on their sides
I kiss your fingers, press them to my cheek
then lay my head on your bare chest
and ask your name.
Too soon the white light of dawn
skims across the fence.
We must have slept on the cool moist grass
for our bodies are dented with the
quiet marks made by grass.
The horses have retreated.
You say my name
and tell me you must go.
You are off to California this very day
you, your guitar, and the silkscreen shirts
you’re going to sell.
You pull on your shoes,
I bend to lace them.
Oh, that is who you are
that is your face again I see it now
the onyx eyes so lovely
so set to go
Can’t you stay? an hour? a day?
I’ll miss you so,
Don’t go.
Sometime after
I don’t know when
A month, a year, no matter
I hear the news
the chilling news
your business has failed
and naked you have tied weights to your feet
and drowned yourself in the high creek.
Don’t go.
I meant to say before you left
Let’s set a date and meet back here
on the blue-black grass some midnight
the stars in their corners
the horses unleashed
and we will find each other
in the dark
and will not stray this time
from our place in the grass.
FIVE
CLEVELAND MY HOME
we were thrilled by the bounty
of our new house: how we loved things!
we built it ourselves, visited it when
it was on a plain of mud and walked
planks to get inside
the girls and i running round –
this is my room, no mine!
why does the basement smell funny, dad?
that’s where the workmen pee.
the house was huge: we learned the
words powder room and library
pink naugahyde and jalousies
we played in the grassy fields
along green road
i carefully stashed my glasses near a
rock while we played baseball
but howard cohen couldn’t find them
mary truby did, two months later,
i kissed her!
but i’d already gotten a better and
stronger pair:
blue, like polished marbles.
as a nearly friendless teenager
i chose books over boys and the
mindless girls who chased them
my one and only date – david silver –
had thick questioning eyebrows and
backed into a curb
dying at ohio state in a vehicular accident
but i had discovered downtown
downtown cleveland
my new home
how i belonged
don’t talk to me about new york
this was the place with
the legless beggar selling
pencils from her cart
her face like the laughing lady
at the amusement park
a dollar for you from this
awkward little rich girl
in bobby socks and full skirt
monogrammed blouse from daddy’s
warehouse – RZG in lavish font -
“and what’s your other one called"
cracked Rocco in homeroom
if the beggar was the showstopper other
attractions filled my longing heart
wide avenues and noises:
sirens, taxicabs, delivery trucks
smells from the nut vendors, salted
cashews, roasted peanuts, malteds from
the basement stand at Higbee’s department
store, go through the revolving door and see if
tv star Dorothy Fuldheim goes round with you
downtown cleveland, how i dream of you forty, no,
fifty years later
such people on the sidewalk when you’re only
seventeen, letting you pass in choreographed
motions, Black people with wide eyes and hats
and that lovely dark skin that got them in so much
trouble, i wanted them to know i saluted them,
as i crossed at the green light, finding my way,
not to the auction block or underground railway
but through the turnstile of
the main library on Superior Avenue
do you have "A Night in the Luxembourg?"
by Remi de Gourmante?
a small leather-bound volume was placed
into my waiting hands, an Everyman’s imprint by
Random House
can you see me sitting alone with my cats-eye
glasses beneath a huge window?
the turned-down corners of the yellow pages are falling in
my lap like teardrops
in the silent reading room of my life.
...
Steven Yuen riding over the plains.
Wait! Wait! Take me along with you!
He writes for GQ.
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