Ahz mah (So what)

Wearing Black My mother always wore all black. That is, after she got fat, and after she heard on her favorite New York radio talk show that black was “slimming.” And so within her ample dresser were geologic layers of black cotton scoop neck tee shirts and matching black cotton button down cardigans— all Bloomingdale’s best, on sale— always one or two complete outfits with the tags still on, saved for Special Occasions. How she longed to be invisible, like Winnie-the-Pooh dangling mud-covered beneath a blue balloon pretending to be a black rain cloud so the honey bees would not be Suspicious. If only I— her thin and unforgiving daughter— had been more like Christopher Robin poised beneath the tree, exuding patience and fondness, laughing to himself, “Silly old Bear!”  

Gratitude Her gratitude was like the child dancing alone in the aisle of the crowded concert hall— mouth open, eyes wide, arms floating in communion with the maestro’s, oblivious to the presence of anyone or anything but the pull of the soul to move in the direction of Yes sonnet version: Her gratitude was like the child who danced alone amidst the crowded concert hall with mouth and eyes wide open, soul entranced, arms drifting with the maestro’s rise and fall. Unconscious of the stares, she twirled and dipped to match the oboes’ plaintive melody; now flutes arose to join her as she skipped in circles, hopping glorious and free. No priest could ever have the power to bless the way this child was dancing in the aisle; with spirit pirouetting into Yes her heart leapt up and landed with a smile. Alone the maestro sensed but could not know— behind his back, the true star stole the show.

The Fruitless Pear Tree in New England, Mid-November I don’t know how to write a poem, but I do know something about red. I am a master of red, an aficionado of red, an exuberant maven of red: blood orange, claret, burnt sienna, rust, all with a bit of a green undertone if you look closely. You were looking closely yesterday, probably wondering how I do it, how I stand so dignified even though I’m shivering in the wind, even though it’s getting late, even though everyone around me is giving up and letting go. But I’m not letting go; I won’t. You stoop to pick up a single vermilion leaf at my feet, and look up at me, desiring more. But my answer is No, why should I? I know what comes of letting go. The browns, the greys, the taste of death.

I stopped blogging a few months ago because I started writing poetry instead, something totally new for me. I am loving the way a whole other part of the mind seems to light up within this form of writing. This first poem seems like a fitting way to begin sharing. It was in response to a prompt to write an extended simile in which only the title gives the narrative context. Taking a Poetry Writing Class for the First Time at 62 She’s trying, like the skinny girl playing trombone in the high school marching band. Really she’s a flute player, second chair, decent enough; but honestly, who hears the flutes in a marching band? Cheeks flushed, arms weary from holding the brace in one hand and the slide in the other, she struggles to keep pace with the quick-stepping bass drums and trumpets and saxophones. But finally, gloriously, she can hear herself, and who cares if she’s off key? One Saturday afternoon, while the punctilious band director is distracted by the pretty majorette’s mother, t...

On vacation, in my own home. Calling it a retreat, because that sounds more spiritually meaningful (although shopping online for a vacuum cleaner and cleaning up the deck and rearranging bedroom furniture and filing papers might not seem particularly spiritual). This morning, savoring a cup of loose leaf fair trade organic green tea from China and a small piece of banana bread with chocolate chips that I baked myself, I hear my reverie interrupted by a sneering inner voice: Suburban white lady. The world is on fire and you are sipping fancy tea. People in nearby Brockton – no, even here in Stoughton – don’t have enough food for their children, and you are sipping fancy tea and staring out the window at the leaves and squirrels. Millions of people in this country and beyond are in high anxiety this week over the fate of our democracy and their very lives, and you are savoring a cup of fair trade tea and a small piece of banana bread. This is a familiar voice. It pretty much hangs out j...