(google image)
Nobody likes an angry woman
she’s unbecoming in the worst way
a primal scream can’t cure
an uncontrollable rage
it frightens me
how deep it is
rooted in me
like an ancient tree
I want it to go away
but somehow, I don’t
It lets me know I am still
alive
and that you matter so much,
and that you will never go away
It’s April.
Time of spring, Easter, resurrection, rejoicing or . . . not.
I’m not finding it very cheery thus far.
Perhaps it’s due to the gloomy weather we’ve been having in the low country.
At the risk of waxing too melancholy, I will invoke the spirit of writers past who conveyed it in ways quite sublime, albeit tragic/sad.
A Well-Worn Story (Dorothy Parker)
In April, in April,
My one love came along,
And I ran the slope of my high hill
To follow a thread of song.
His eyes were hard as porphyry
With looking on cruel lands;
His voice went slipping over me
Like terrible silver hands.
Together we trod the secret lane
And walked the muttering town.
I wore my heart like a wet, red stain
On the breast of a velvet gown.
In April, in April,
My love went whistling by,
And I stumbled here to my high hill
Along the way of a lie.
Now what should I do in this place
But sit and count the chimes,
And splash cold water on my face
And spoil a page with rhymes?
The Waste Land (T.S. Eliot) (an excerpt)
(google image)
Don’t ask
don’t tell
A good widow
stays in the shadows
doesn’t mind the stares
I wear my wedding ring,
a source of confusion to some
I will wear it as long as I need to
So many questions
The lady at the nail salon
wanted to know
all the gorey details of the car accident
while trying to upsell me
on an acrylic manicure.
“I’m trying to save,” I said.
“I only have one income now.”
She said, “You’re lucky to be alive.”
I laughed and said, “I guess.”
I didn’t go back there again.
A good widow knows her place
A bad one has a scarlet letter
carved into her heart
She tries not to upset your
sensibilities
She tries to remember her place
Don’t burn her at the stake
Here are some views of my new work environs in the Financial District.
Murray Street – food shops and such
Tulips on the Glass – Brookfield Place
Models on the Glass – outside Brookfield Place
Behind building (excuse my thumb, upper left corner)
My favorite view (non-glass)
What though the radiance
which was once so bright
Be now for ever taken from my sight,
Though nothing can bring back the hour
Of splendour in the grass,
of glory in the flower,
We will grieve not, rather find
Strength in what remains behind;
In the primal sympathy
Which having been must ever be;
In the soothing thoughts that spring
Out of human suffering;
In the faith that looks through death,
In years that bring the philosophic mind.
–William Wordsworth
My best wishes to all for a glorious Memorial Day weekend!
The mattress was gone and all her belongings except for a Town and Country magazine laying across the metal rungs of the bed frame. Mom and Florence* had been roommates since Mom moved into the Actors Home in September 2014. I met one of Florence’s daughters and her son. Her daughter said she had had a stroke which had affected her speech and motor ability. She was a thin African-American with close-cropped salt and pepper hair; when she spoke, her voice wavered, but she had very expressive eyes.
Mom said she died two Saturdays ago, the last time I visited, when we watched The Hustler on TCM. It was also the day Mom told me she had been proposed to.
“We were watching The Day the Earth Stood Still and All About Eve. I was laughing at something, but I didn’t know she was dead,” Mom said. “I feel bad. I miss her.”
She went on, “I saw her mouth open and she looked like she was having trouble breathing. I didn’t know she had died.”
“She was young,” I said.
“Yes, she was.”
“Her daughter told me she had a stroke,” I said.
“Oh, I didn’t know that. She had arthritis, like me,” Mom said.
Mom said, “The two guys came to my room and we talked and had a good time, Florence too.”
“Was one of the guys the one who proposed to you?” I said.
“Yes,” she said, giggling like a love-stricken teenager.
It sounded like quite the party.
“Do the guys live here?” I said.
“No, they work here.”
“Oh, are they cleaners or nurses?”
“I don’t think so. They help us out here.”
“So they’re aides?” I said.
“They might be.”
“Maybe it was a blessing,” Mom said.
“Yes, maybe,” I said.
“We were watching The Day the Earth Stood Still and All About Eve. It was a good night.”
“I know, Mom. I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” Mom said. “She was with me all the time.”
“I know.”
“Then they did something at the window with the thing. They couldn’t get the window open. And she was dead.”
“Did they tell you that night?”
“Yes, the nurse came in and told me,” she said.
“That must have been hard.”
“Yes.”
“Do you want to go for a spin?” I said.
“Yes, let’s go.”
In memory of Florence:
*Pseudonym.
Here is my response to RonovanWrites‘ haiku challenge #74 – wolf and cake.
Thank you for the challenge, Ronovan!
Let them eat cake, says
shadow wolf in clown’s clothing
people lap it up
(google images)
Lanky lady with Siberian Husky eyes
glides down Third Avenue with another lady
who could be her twin,
but I didn’t see the eyes
Both in flowing natural fiber dresses,
hair knotted in the back.
they sparkle
without flash–
old hippies, perhaps
feet not quite touching the pavement
rather skimming off it with their
comfortable shoes
natural beauties
apart from the non-corporate,
or at least I surmise
Siberian eye lady turns around sharply
as if sensing danger
then turns back to Lady 2
they speak softly
not English
can’t tell
what language
but I don’t think
I’d understand
photo: E. Herd
The accordionist seems displaced
in Grand Central Station
on the platform
of the number 7 train
you’d expect to see him
in the back corner of a bar
World War II
bombs dropping, but
he soldiers on,
whisky-sticky floor
glasses tinkling
sad brown eyes
open case
I throw in a dollar as he plays
“La Vie en Rose”
it’s Friday—TGIF!
he looks the same
as every other day
he smiles weakly (as if it hurts), and nods
the dollar flutters into his case
a paper bird
finding its place
Suburban Hobo 