Some older blogspots - older poems including AT CHAPLINS FEET - My car is inspected

 Slept on Red Couch downstairs. Just woke up - one am - I was curled up and Fan was blowing on me, the only way to stay cool. 

Earlier I had zoomed with Ethan and his class. He kept referring to "my wife," who of course is my daughter, Sarah.

I have been missing Mom and made a zoom appt to talk about this with Dr Foxhall in very early morning.

Dr James Foxhall, taken from a pic on my blog, a couple of yrs ago.

Now I'm hunched over my big upstairs desktop as I am not wearing my reading glasses.

Wanted to post a poem of mine called AT CHAPLINS FEET. I remembered the poem while watching a Chaplin film on TCM at Scott's/

Click here.

What you'll find when you click is a Day Trip to The Whitney on May 13, 2016, following by A Visit from The Demings.

Well worth looking at.

AT CHAPLIN'S FEET

A few months
before you dropped
with exhaustion, Dad,
and were diagnosed with
an oh-so-brief
terminal cancer,
we shopped together.

Shopping was nothing new
for us. You loved
beautiful things and
we would stroll through
the mall together:
you, Mom and I,
with baby Sarah in my arms.

One time, the others
had gone, and I found myself
unaccountably
alone with you.
It was daunting and,
at the same time, sacred.
I never could figure out
what kept us apart
all those years,
living in
distant kingdoms:
You roamed the seas,
a marlin with darting eyes,
while I flew overhead
like a gull.

On that day
we came through the
electronics department.
Giant television sets
beamed their game shows
and soap operas while
we thought we were
only passing through.

By chance, a Chaplin movie
flickered from a high screen.
I wanted to watch, but knew
you didn't like Chaplin.
I never understood why, but
decided
to ask if we could stay.

To my surprise,
you said Yes and we stood
side by side, father and daughter
once more, the space between us
rapidly vanishing. I caught your
blue shirt in my eye.

The fast-moving fellow in black
took over the electronics department.
By now, I had totally lost control,
laughly wildly,
gulping down hiccups,
tears of joy spilled down my cheeks.

After we left
I asked if you liked him,
the little man in black?
Could you possibly
have changed your mind?

To my everlasting surprise
you said, Yes, you hadn't
realized, all those years,
just how funny he was,
a comic for all time.
Dad, I said, watching the eyes
behind your glasses,
I always wanted you
to like Chaplin.
My face was lit up
like a hundred birthday candles,
my eyebrows still smiling.

...

...

When I awoke earlier, a behemoth was driving down the street. Oh no, I thought, they're gonna look through the pile of junk the contractors left for Thursday morning garbage pickup.

Someone had stolen Scott's yellow plastic bin. 

I've accomplished my Midnight Task and can return to bed.

...

Drove my car for the first time in months. Was waiting for my PA Registration Paper to arrive, which it finally did.

D R I V I N G !!!

Little Miss Grace comes for a visit / Poem: At Chaplin's Feet

Look, she likes football already.

She has a thing for doors. Nicole said she really likes a rain-soaked screen door.

I was bouncing her on my knee and singing like my dad used to do but couldn't remember any songs. Then Donna said from across the room, Once in love with Amy.

She was squirming and wanted to be set free. Dan managed to two photos w/ me and

Here's Donna, whose Hebrew name is translated "Donna of the Shining Teeth." Her dentist daughter made her a new pair, saving her at least 20K I'd imagine.

We talked about her flooded condo in Hatboro, a true nightmare, covered by insurance.

We also talked about "Furhead."

A couple years ago Donna had a roommate known by all as "Furhead." He was addicted to Hawaiian Punch and had a huge belly and also to heroin. I think heroin makes you mellow, which he was. He never left his room, except when he had a driving job.

One morning he snapped. He came screaming downstairs and tried to strangle Donna. He used all his strength and she was being strangled to death.

Whatever you've read about dying, she told us, seeing your life flash before your eyes is not true. All I could think about was, I can't believe this is the way I'm gonna die.

Finally he came to his senses and let go. She kicked him out then and there, changed the lock, and was constantly on the watch for him.

He returned one time, begging forgiveness, and also saying, "I'm in withdrawal and need help. Will you help me?"

Donna was talking to him through the upstairs window.

No, she said.

Next time we heard from him he was in jail for trying to kill someone else.

Today Donna told us, while sitting on my couch, that Furhead was dead. Found under a bridge in Kensington with his face battered in. Murdered.

Live by the sword, die by.....

I'd imagine that 75 percent of people who die know in advance what they're gonna die of, the others are surprised, like being murdered, hit by a car, trying to catch a baseball and falling to death from the bleachers.

Donna was starving when she came over so I quick finished up my Fiesta Potato Salad made with red bliss, cooked carrots and green beans, onions, and a mayo-mustard sauce with crushed garlic. Hellmann's, always.

While my sisters Donna and Ellen were here I started talking about all the poetry readings I've gone to.

This is absolutely something they have no interest in. But Grace had taken down one of the poetry books I bot at a reading so I decided to discourse on it.

I began talking and after three seconds no one was listening.

But during that monolog, I was having the time of my life and really wanted an audience to talk to.

Whenever I go to a poetry reading and like the poet's book, I buy it and have em inscribe it to me. I have a dozen such books, most of em not very good. Hmmm, I wonder where Steven Riel's book is. Can't remember if it's good or not. Edwin Romand is still writing and is very good. A former priest whose best friend was convicted. He left the priesthood after that, married and had a son Liam.

Let's find him.

Hello Ed!
Tonite after dinner, I locked myself in my Poetry Room, set the timer for an hour, and sorted thru my hundreds of pages of poetry. It was good to see so many that I'd forgotten about, like a backyard full of hopping birds, each lovely in its own way.

Just as I found "Titanic," so did I find "At Chaplin's Feet," reviewed by none other than Chris Bursk, whose "Swervings of Atoms" I bot at a reading tho it's nowhere to be found.

I'll close with a reading of At Chaplin's Feet, but not before I say hello to my dear friend Roberto, who will write a couple of grafs for the next Compass about his therapist who he likes very much.

While we were on the phone, we thot of another topic for the Compass: How to save money in these trying times.

If YOU, dear reader, have any ideas, please lemme know.

Scott and I went to B&N thother nite. He bot a film noir called Street with No Name, while I sat in a captain's chair and read the newest book by Michael Moore. I saved money by not buying it but requesting it online at my library. Six other people are before me.

AT CHAPLIN'S FEET

A few months
before you dropped
with exhaustion, Dad,
and were diagnosed with
an oh-so-brief
terminal cancer,
we shopped together.

Shopping was nothing new
for us. You loved
beautiful things and
we would stroll through
the mall together:
you, Mom and I,
with baby Sarah in my arms.

One time, the others
had gone, and I found myself
unaccountably
alone with you.
It was daunting and,
at the same time, sacred.
I never could figure out
what kept us apart
all those years,
living in
distant kingdoms:
You roamed the seas,
a marlin with darting eyes,
while I flew overhead
like a gull.

On that day
we came through the
electronics department.
Giant television sets
beamed their game shows
and soap operas while
we thought we were
only passing through.

By chance, a Chaplin movie
flickered from a high screen.
I wanted to watch, but knew
you didn't like Chaplin.
I never understood why, but
decided
to ask if we could stay.

To my surprise,
you said Yes and we stood
side by side, father and daughter
once more, the space between us
rapidly vanishing. I caught your
blue shirt in my eye.

The fast-moving fellow in black
took over the electronics department.
By now, I had totally lost control,
laughly wildly,
gulping down hiccups,
tears of joy spilled down my cheeks.

After we left
I asked if you liked him,
the little man in black?
Could you possibly
have changed your mind?

To my everlasting surprise
you said, Yes, you hadn't
realized, all those years,
just how funny he was,
a comic for all time.
Dad, I said, watching the eyes
behind your glasses,
I always wanted you
to like Chaplin.
My face was lit up
like a hundred birthday candles,
my eyebrows still smiling.

Part Two - The Whitney Museum - Poem: At the Whitney

The new Whitney. A feeling of spaciousness and light.

Eight floors. Called my mom when I got home and told her a bit about the trip. An art lover, she'd gone to the old Whitney. Told her I might see her today, after the film at the Huntingdon Valley Library - Joy. My friend Judy D in Colorado told me it was terrible. That she wanted to walk out.

Most times you don't.

Would YOU see this film?

First stop, THE RESTAURANT on the eight floor.

 Food preparers behind glass door.

 Hello Harriet. She's also from our Reading Group.

Excellent chicken salad with kale and a nut medley all stuck together. Carrot strips.

Fran's egg salad on Udi bread.

Four women at the next table asked what I was eating. They'd come from Long Island.

 A new installation will be ready today. Looked really exciting, as I peeked inside.

 At the end of every floor are outdoor decks. I photographed traffic below.

 Edward Hopper painted his wife when she was 78. Does she look like 78?

Self-portrait of Edward Hopper. 

I'd say he's one of the most famous American artists.

With the help of the Internet, this huge realistic painting is '61 Pontiac by Robert Bechtle, born in 1932. He's 83 already. Stay healthy, Bob. Exercise and eat healthy foods, like my morning breakfast.

An everything omelet - two eggs, mushroom, onions, zucchini, and spinach on top.

Ate on the front steps where the birds were chattering away. As we know, they were speaking to one another.

 Her name is Duncan but her first name wasn't Isadora, but who else could it be? She's dancing atop the Acropolis. Everything can be found on the Internet.

 How graceful! Dyou think I could buy a dress like that at Impact Thrift?

Fran told me to take this photo of Boxers by George Bellows for my daughter Sarah, who won a Golden Gloves boxing award when she was 28. She "liked" it on Facebook.

Photographs were splendid. Wanted to photograph each one. 

 Paul Robeson, bass singer, played the lead in Emperor Jones by Eugene O'Neill.

Charlie Chaplin in pensive pose.

 Ballet skirt photo looked dimensional.

Ink jet photo of Philip Johnson's iconic Glass House. You can barely make out the house in New Canaan, CT, bc of viewers mirrored in the glass frame.

 Jasper Johns above

Diane Arbus photo of woman in hat with a veil.

Arbus lived from 1923- 1971. Took her own life as she suffered from depression, as did her mother.

 Click to enlarge.... these kids are having fun!

 Photos are taken by American greats such as Gary Winogrand, Robert Frank, and Richard Avedon.

 Dig those hats!

 Ben is one of the security guards. He's from Chad in Central Africa.

I asked him what people do wrong that he must look out for.

They touch the paintings, he said.

I commiserated with him about his aching legs. He bathes them when he goes home.

Another Arbus of a secretary. Look at all the neat shapes, back of her chair, her sunglasses. Where art thou now?

Gotta write a short story for tomro's writing group. Maybe I'll write about her.

 Rich powerful BROWNS show us the power of songwriter Oscar Hammerstein.

 Diane Simon, docent, joined us, and we wandered around with her as she discussed fine points of various paintings.

 Two views of Larry Rivers' mom/law Berdie.

Loved this guy's orange paints and top.

Where dyou suppose he shops?

 Finally made it to the Outdoor Sculpture Garden.

Here's Seth who's visiting from Albuquerque. He met his daughter who just graduated from some place in Boston I think.

They saw the pigeons in the early morning perform in a light show. Watch video here.

 BABY by Diane Arbus.

 Never knew Frank Stella did dis!!!! Black Star, 2014.  Stella is 80 yrs old.

Looking down at the High Line. Here's my post from The High Line. Her correct name is Kendra. I thought I might see her.

 Above woman had great hair.

 Fran had a story about his T-shirt. It's a Picasso nude.

This guy is preparing a show that opens today. He put up his hand to stop me, but I got the picture!

This was the only elevator that had a design on it.

"It's art," said the relaxed driver. He shook my hand when I got off.

Yesterday was a beautiful day for the trip.

Today is raining.

 Nice shirt! Checkerboard squares make nice contrast with the halo on his head.

We didn't have time to visit the gift shop. You can go online to order things. I wanted to postcards but couldn't figger out how to order them.

AT THE WHITNEY

Walk walk walk at Whitney
Tramp over eight floors,
legs whimpering.
Stop! Photos:
a young Charles Chaplin
what do his eyes conceal?

A ballerina atop the Acropolis
James Dean in cowboy hat aslant
before his departure

Paul Robeson in Emperor Jones
ebony face, gold epaulets
stalked by Hoover, paperwork
scrolling like white draperies
in a dark room by Steve McQueen
terrifying in its ridiculousness
that ruled a frightened nation.

Stop: outdoor sculpture garden
towering above the High Line
with its white birches
Frank Stella's
huge black starburst-
pincushion radiating
music - mayhap Telstar?

Ben, black elevator oper-
ator, seated like a hee-yup
wagon driver, relaxed, no
hurry, gliding his "basket"
downward. shakes my hand.

Large woman in billowy white dress
backpack bulging with what inside?
Larry Rivers' mother-in-law, naked
in her bedroom, not one, but two
- Berdie's (her name) - prodigious
bowing breasts, blue veins
everywhere, like back roads

At home my legs throb like
assaults of lightning
as every work, every person
I met today takes up residence
in my interior. We learned
from docent Diane Simon in
Chas. Alston's The Great Migration
that like us, the four figures,
especially Maw, put on a face
for others, a quiet dignity
while inside they/we rage
at life's injustice.

This
The Whitney.