Sunday, September 28, 2014

Ceiling Mural

Well, the saga of the lanai goes on. I have painted my first ceiling mural and the whole boring story is here:

Sky Mural (clicky) for a hot lanai



Friday, September 26, 2014

Like Snowflakes (poem)

In front of television, she does a crossword,
I read Updike. My mother says, “I had the craziest
thought today.” Her once-dark eyes
are tea-colored fish swimming behind bifocals.

“What?” I lower my chin, so as to see
over my own glasses, unused to daily
chat after years of solitude--but I love her
little face, her tiny hands, the child I never had.

“Well, what if I had you ten years later than I did?
What if there had been no war, your father hadn’t died,
and we had waited -- would that baby still be you?”
Her eyebrows knot, deep in thought.

“You’re 63 years old. If I had waited, you'd be 53,
more years ahead of you. Perhaps another husband…”
I burst out laughing. “Mama, it wouldn’t have been me.
Each egg, each sperm is different. Like snowflakes.”

“Good,” she says. Satisfied.

“I‘d only want a child if it was you.”


Friday, September 19, 2014

Old Photos Redux

Still truckin' through the old pictures file...and happened on this one of my first wedding (there have been two). July 1, 1963 Just amusing myself and a few of my regular readers, in my dotage.



Left to right: Elsie Hammond (mother-in-law), Diana Panero (maid of honor), moi, Tom Hammond (groom, actor, poet), Ken Reisdorff (best man, owner of the Broom Street bar), Dr. Hammond (detroit physician and father-in-law), and the Reverend Van de Workean of the Community Church of NY, (Unitarian) on East 35th St.

Our reception was in the backroom of the Corner Bistro in the West Village, owned by the maid of honor's husband to be. Sawdust on the floor and all. Ahhh, the bygone Saloon Society of my youth....(I don't think the good doctor and his wife were all that amused.)

Sunday, September 14, 2014

The Truth is A Lie (poem)

There should not be shame
in wanting to be a better person than you
believe yourself to be. But when the yearning
to be better is so intense that it distorts reality,
this borders on psychosis. And there is
shame aplenty in feeling crazy in the world
if you think the world is sane.

The world is not sane.

I see, after years of writing confessions,
poetry, memoir, and all that fiction
bearing up my soul, probing heart’s deepest
secrets…that I am incapable
of telling the truth. The truth is
a kaleidoscope of ever-changing moving vans,
bottles of cheap merlot and cold sheets. The truth
cannot set you free, because it is as obtuse as me.

The truth is a lie.