The piano would not fit through the door of the shingled house with the western view. The black and ivory keys I caressed each day could not bend through breezeway & kitchen to wait until my hands grew large enough for lessons. Only my father’s accordion entered this house to gather dust in its black case in the cellar. Standing on the back seat of our grey Buick I’d play the front seat like a keyboard and belt out “Singing in the rain. I’m singing in the rain.” Walking home from Washington School, I’d dance in musicals of my own making. Sometimes in summer Dad would get out his accordion to play “Bonaparte’s Retreat” and “The Beer Barrel Polka”. Something happened in junior high. The whole family became cacti. The music stopped. I was grounded more than I roamed free. I went to the Brooklyn Fox but said I was going bowling. We were the only white kids in a black audience swaying to Sam the Sham, The Four Tops, The Shirelles. The joint was jumping and I’d go again tomorrow. But the concert went on and on and I missed my curfew. It was the only time my father ever hit me - a face slap for lying. But damn that music was great.
Category: POETRY
collected poems
-
THE PIANO
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ARTISTS
we’re not artists in all places, times. no one’s whole life rhymes. at moments we may draw, write, pray. at others, watch, love, raise children, join the fray of being. let’s love ourselves await the time when Spirit calls then pick up pen or violin and begin.
-
WILD HORSES
Las Vegas. How glorious!
It’s a hot diggity dog free-for-all.
No planning, no zoning –
dump it all out there
on dry-as-a-bone high desert,
a pawnshop, carwash
heaven.
Million dollar-gated communities rest flush against junked car yards with razor wire fences,
graffitied underpasses and washed out
arroyos with undocumented poverty up the
wazoo.
In the middle of which someone has dropped
a statue of liberty, a sphinx and a pyramid
stitched together by a roller coaster -
“Oh, say can you see!"
People flock here to drop millions.
“They’ve shipped the wild horses north.” The park ranger told me.
“They couldn’t survive here.”Photograph by James Brown.
-
where the trout swim
Loving you prepared me for Walmart
where greeters are friendly but the merchandise
is made by strangers in dark, distant rooms.
Losing you prepared me for Reductions in Force
Being told “You’ve worked hard. This isn’t personal.
It’s about stock price.”
Watching you leave broke me like an egg
Nothing I knew was true – zip – zero – nada.
I must start again from the beginning.
Starting over prepared me for God,
who waited at the still bottom of a life
emptied of passion, distraction and theory.
Not the stand up sit down God of my childhood
But the God who put a rainbow over the barn
And showed me where the trout swim.
-
GREY
Grey’s the hair color you can’t buy. I tried. I urged my hairdresser to change my entire head. “Not possible”, he said “although new grandmothers often ask.” It’s good perhaps some things remain beyond our grasp Time’s provenance to bestow If we’re so blessed. My grey hair like my mom’s lifts from my brow on just one side. I’ve left it pale since the February day she died.
-
SHALIMAR
My mother's scent was hers alone familiar from the start just like my own. Shalimar and lipstick salt air and steam irons beige powder dusting her dressing table, scattered sweaters, a turquoise negligee. Once, invited to the Waldorf for a DuPont dinner, she spent a fortune on a formal dress. Arrived in lace and pick satin to face women clad in cocktail clothes. Edna, ever the Indiana girl. How many Manhattans did it take to kill those feelings? After her death, I asked Sister Jose Hobday “Will I ever smell that scent again - touch her soft white hair?” So much of me left with her I am my mother’s child. Peaceful in all worlds, Sister Hobday laid her hand on mine and smiled.
-
MORNING PRAYER
Be with me, God As I am Merely mortal, graceless, small. Hold me, Lord In your hand Watch me as you watch o’er all.
-
BOB’S ADVERB
Who named the adverb bastard child?
Is this because it fails to stand alone,
leans always on another
for meaning
so much like us
at our worst (and best)
we shun them?
In the time when fans spoke quietly
before the days of scream and riot,
we stood with Dylan after a concert
behind the Mosque in Newark.
We talked, shared wine, laughter.
He and Suze invited us to party in the city.
We declined, I had a curfew.
The next year in that same spot,
a mob ran past us. A fan returned
hand in air, shouting “I’ve got his hair!”
So ended gentleness. It’s clear why
Dylan sometimes plays -
his back to the audience.
Adverbs in my mind describe how
translucent Dylan’s skin
bright Suze’s smile
tiny their Volkswagen
high that fan held her cruel hand. -
CHORES
When the Winken Blinken days were gone,
defiance became my middle name.
Dad and I met only over floor tile and paint –
chores well done.We’d visit the lumber yard, select
pine to fashion Adirondack chairs
to grace the deck, unaffected
by wind and rain.Rising early, the bay quiet, we’d share coffee
from a pot that sat – stacked silver orbs –
on the counter – and discuss our day’s
plans, make notes.I’m an ecstatic sander – a lover of latex.
All my life – one gallon at a time
I paint my way back
to my father’s heart. -
FOXCROSS FARM
When I think of the farm,
it’s the stone bridge and country
road curving by the low barn.
It’s Tony’s tomatoes, white peacocks.When I think of the farm, I see pine
trees, green pastures, the
bramble roses by the creek
sheep standing in the field.When I think of the farm,
I watch women spinning wool
the whir of wheels descant to
soft voices and gentle laughter.When I think of the farm, I see
Airedales, Romney sheep,
a rabbit and Rhode Island Reds,
a well-fed Peaceable Kingdom.I do not think of the ground
we walked last night when
one of their flock went missing
fearing death had stalked a lamb.When I think of the farm,
I don’t see Anthony striding the fields
Julie peering into corner and cranny
in tense, sweaty anxiety.Death’s but a hair’s breadth
away each day. It makes
sweet our brief walk through time
I don’t think of that. -
WHAT CATS KNOW
The neighbor’s Siamese
all smoke, beige fur, padded feet
appears in the abandoned yard
next door to torment my puppy.
She cleans herself and watches.
How does she know not to wander
into the busy street out front
or Interstate behind
to be flattened by van or semi?What makes her sit instead
and groom, blue-eyed Charybdis,
hind leg lifted amid weed-shrouded lilacs
while vehicles varoom past and
exhaust wafts through the air
stained with scent of fries and
big Macs from across town?Dogs know none of this.
-
BEACH
Glasses on an open book
its pages ruffled by the wind.
Spring air (as winter melts away)
against a naked patch of skin.
The warmth of sunlight on my back.
The sight of seagulls as they fly.
The scent of sand beneath a towel.
The curl of waves under the arc of sky.
Salt water when it’s clear and cool.
Toweling hair after a swim.
The beauty of the beach when fall is near.
How skin when drying, gathers itself in.
These images and more return to me
when salt and sand and sea’s nearby.
Sweet days lived long before I knew
how life like summertime could fly. -
LIKE ME
Like me.
That’s the drug – a draft of this nectar
can own me into the next life for an accolade
you barely recall.Like me.
Quiet my fears with the smile and nod
I awaited endlessly at war zone dinner tables, parentless
performances and lonely surgeries.Like me
and it’s ok not to have been born a son,
to be funny, a tree climber and never a prom queen
to get migraines.Like me
and I could weep, run,
dance, spread my arms to this fast warming world
in joy, terror and love. -
FIDDLEHEADS
Each May I walked the ground along Bull Run
seeking fiddleheads.
Returning home with my bag of ferns,
I’d blow the papery layer off,
then steam them. Their perfume filled the house
with a scent I dream of still.
I’d arrange the stems and
whorled tops on a painted plate
and drizzle them with hollandaise.
Sitting on the porch with fiddleheads and wine,
I’d watch the sun set and
celebrate surviving another Vermont winter.
The feast made it impossible to believe
the world less than
perfect.Each May I return to that riverside
to walk and pick and steam again
those green ferns in my mind
savor days feasting on found food
before wine and wanting tangled life.It was a small New England town
I taught English to farm kids.
Summers I sold crafts to tourists from a one-room school
with Gretchen Crookshank, 80, all gossip, elegance
and jangling bracelets and the nervous
mother-son pair from Center Street, whose handmade
hats looked machine-made.
I studied knitting with a Norwegian neighbor and
spinning at the Hoffman’s farm.
Barbara, the bus driver, struggled to get her rabbits
to mate – tales of candlelight and music in the barn
defied myths of rabbit reproduction.
I made spending money as a night librarian.
I had kind friends.
My husband loved me.Each May I return to that riverside
to select ferns
and steam them once again
to think on the turns
that took me far from fiddleheads
and the small town that held them.A town I left to wander
from school to ski resort to Fortune 500 corporation –
another marriage and a family
South to Jersey then further still to
Carolina mountains where high along the Blue Ridge
we built a home with our own hands
board by slow board – designing as we went our nest
which, when it fell, almost toppled me as well.
But I had a son to raise and
clothes that needed washing
dinners to cook, a dog to walk
I learned that women hold the world together.
I moved back to the rumble of Interstates and 18 wheelers
where a red-tailed hawk glimpsed early
could hold me the entire day.Each May I look northward
dream of fiddleheads
along Bull Run
remember pale iris in the yard,
where nightly trains
run whistling by. -
UNCLE
He walks the woods no more
this land whose every hill he knows
geodes by the stream
the trail where turkeys file at dusk.
Right hand upon his dog,
he sits beside the window to watch
the squirrels she used to chase
cache nuts against the coming dark.
A doe, two fawns at clearing’s edge
browse by the lick set out last fall.
Their colors blend with leaves and brush
that hide morels awaiting spring.
His wife is ill. Her malaise named
but without cure. His hips, once limber,
grate now sharply bone on bone.
He lets the dog out, sees her roam.
When he whistles,
she trots slowly home.Cynthia M. Sheward
-
LAST DANCE
At a summer wedding we dance under a cobalt sky,
a thing my husband rarely does. I feel beautiful
in a cotton dress with flowers I’d stitched across the yoke.
Weddings let us gaze into the holy
from ground we struggle to hold
despite moonlight and candle glow.We’d lived separately for months.
We knew when vows were said
the work of marriage would begin
with its crowded airports and unforgiving deadlines.
Cats would die, pipes freeze and
sex be one more demand in days overfilled.Fights might escalate – blame ignite their home,
Chores lay undone as communication fails.
Someone else’s caring might seem water on dry ground.
We’ve no secrets from ourselves.
Poor choices root in hearts like kudzu.
Cracked, the egg of marriage resists mending.But this night their honeymoon is still ahead,
cocooned by family and friends, their life sparkles with possibility.
“You’ll always be my star,” Jim whispers as we waltz.
He walks me down the driveway to my car.
He holds the door for me and says
“I want a divorce. I’m going to marry Kathy.” -
CIGARETTES
Thirty years but
if one’s lit nearby
the scent draws me
like a child to brownies.Worse to quit
than bread or chocolate
beer on a hot day
wine as I cook.They told me “Place old butts
in a jar, take a deep whiff
if you weaken” – that jar
smelled of every man I’ve loved.Two things carried me
my son and desire
for the freedom to
not need anything.Still, if someone
snuffs a candle
or strikes a match
just so… -
SMALL ABANDONMENTS AND LEAVE TAKINGS
I thought elephants danced in the car
as my aunt clasped me, age two with pneumonia
and mom drove to hospital – I screamed when they
left so the doctors forbade future visits.
I was alone with nurses and needles
for two long white weeks.Pat left me tied, age five, to a phone pole.
She didn’t do it. Gerard and his buddies did
but my sister, my protector, walked away
left me bound ‘til dinnertime alone
next to the street, a kindergartener
in suspenders and red Keds.In 9th grade, Sandi broke up with Tom.
He asked me out – the blond boy of my dreams!
Sandi coached me for a week on
dancing, clothes and French kissing.
Then, outside Grunnings, his friends laughed,
teased me – the date was a joke. Didn’t I get it?Jamie had a sister – institutionalized.
I had no brother. We were siblings for each other.
I felt safer with him than anyplace I know.
He married young, grandson by 52. A mole grew.
Jamie, who could corral whole rooms with laughter,
called one afternoon to say he did not feel
like he was dying. But he did.Glenn “with two n’s, like Glenn Miller”
had wave blue eyes I swam in.
Knew me better than I knew myself.
Is married now to someone else.
He called to make amends –
apologize for choices he knew better than.
Said he loves me still – he always will.I saw the color fall from mom’s face.
“She’s going!” I said.
Pat and I grasped her hands.
“Our Father, who art in Heaven
Hallowed be Thy name.”
This is it. So gentle.
Then gone. Her final gift to us.
Death, fearless, light as air. -
JRM
When you arrived in my life
with saturated colors
I was not looking to meet
to move, to love
but there you were
from just around the corner.
I knew Bev’s name
remembered the Park Theatre
how we danced and laughed
played at Francisco Field
you in your baseball uniform
me watching little league on
spring days.I met a man
whose bruises matched mine
in surprising ways
whose kindness ran as deep
as his silence and need for
quiet and alone time
who loved animals
working
taking picturesI met my match.
-
WOMEN
Whatever time and the world throws at women, we continue to strive, each in our own way, for what is good and true. We finish nursing, set our child on our hip and walk back into the fray. We grab the hands of the disabled. We change the diapers of the incontinent. We wipe spittle from the mouths of our grandparents. We hide slaves in our cellars and feed hobos at our back doors. We create sanctuary cities. We resist the rending of our families. We plant gardens in inner cities. We ladle soup in food kitchens. We are of every color, height and weight. Our worth is not in how we look but in who we are. We are the flesh that holds the world together.
We are taken for granted in the same way as air. Without us, there would be no “we”. Men fear and adore us. They shame and worship us.
Politicians come and go. Wars are fought. Unions rise and are beaten down. But slowly, ever so slowly, we insist on progress – emancipation, the vote, minimum wage hikes – still no equal pay, still working to retain what’s been won.
Each day we hoist our children to our hips and set out again.
Women – the vibrant, beating heart of the world.
-
DUSTING
It’s us we dust
not some distant rabbit fluff or forgotten flake of stranger.
Our very mitochondria’s cast off about the sofa, table, chair
our entire lair’s alive with microscopic leavings.
It’s our breadcrumb trail back to time remembered or forgot.
Small bits of days from childhood – nights of
watching tiny satellites pass overhead-
the miracle of travel where once only stars and comets
flew – who knew the things to follow – cell phones, laptops
GPS – we know more now by knowing less
but break still in the old, weak spots.Cells too remain from proms missed and attended
dried orchids hung on curtains
hearts broken and by time mended.
Teenage love songs, Buddy Holly, Elvis
George and Ringo, John and Paul –
the words, key changes, new hair styles
we loved them all.Flecks too remain from tying sneakers for my son
and knitting Kate a turquoise sweater,
praying daily for my marriage to get better.
Those small children now have babies of their own
and I’m a grandmom with grey hair, cell phone, creped skin.
The scales of aging waltz without and within
toward a place past time and dust.Published in Evening Street Review, Autumn 2012.
-
STILL
STILL
Five a.m.
The old house is still
but for the hum of the interstate.
My ancient Scottie drowses on the bed.
The puppy rests on pillows at its head.
Elsa sleeps, blanket in hand,
upstairs in her four poster.
Her parents down the hall sleep on foam.
The Airedale and poodle, little dog and big
rest at their feet.My coffee cup warms my palms.
The grandfather clock’s about to chime.
Today has yet to be.
Its promises unmet – dreams undreamed.
The quiet exhalation of trees
makes sweet the air
before the day begins to breathe. -
KNOWING THE LIGHT
The way the light falls into my bathroom
each morning in summer
is known to me
deeply
like my name.
I know it better than how to
grow old
retire or
navigate social security.
Its soft presence
from the east, gently,
predictably
lifts me into the day.
It’s only absent in storm
but then still present in a
diffuse way.
Light, more faith than fifty creeds,
daily holds me
in its glow.
Moving is not just a
new baker, grocer, dry cleaner,
a change in the way home,
new paths
to reach old friends,
it’s a shift in how
the world looks when I wake
as I splash
water on my face,
how I see myself
as I prepare
to meet the world.
It’s a change in all I know.
The way the light falls into my bathroom
each morning in summer
is known to me
deeply
like my name.Published in Evening Street Review, Autumn 2012.
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