Roberta’s husband had a stroke and has an aneurysm in his brain that's gotta be seen to. Means a trip to Shands over in Gainsville. Her thyroid’s acting up again. Sondra broke her back turns out. She fell and went to the ER because she knew she’d done something bad to her knee, but the broken back was a surprise. Now the poor woman is in a back brace and a leg cast. Art hasn’t had a binge in a year, but he’s got pain pills now for his back, and who knows where he’ll go with them. He’s done that before, you know. Gone from pills to beer to whiskey.
Business is down ‘cause of the spill. Not that you’d notice right off. You have to know what this place is like in a normal July to ‘preciate how empty the beach is. This is one tourist season when locals aren’t complaining ‘bout the damn traffic. It’s a sneaky thing. Even Debbie and Matt’s plumbing jobs are off. Places ain’t getting rented so there’s a lot less calls from property managers.
One thing though-we’ve had rain. So even if it’s 109 out there ‘cording to the heat index, the yards ain’t turned brown yet. Still green which is something I enjoy. Between the heat and the fleas, the neighborhood dogs are miserable. For dogs, I mean. Can’t get a dog down too bad unless you’re one of those cruel fuckers.
So, what are you gonna do? There’s good stuff, too, that’s for damn sure. Lindy and Mike’s baby was born over 8 lbs. and he’s eating like he wants to double that by the time he’s a month old. Hard on Lindy, though. Breast feeding. Carl’s working on a clean-up crew. Don’t know how they do it. On the beach in those boiler suits in this mess a heat. They say the oil stinks, too. Don’t know ‘cause I’ve stayed the hell away from it. BP station on Front Beach is gonna close, I’ll betchu. Ain’t a soul crying for them. Well. There’s local people owning the place that’ll have to get ‘nother line of business. Good luck to ‘em.
So, I got the word on heart failure. So? Doesn’t mean I’ll keel over tomorrow. Least I’m not out in that sun. House is cool and I got General Hospital, (James Franco’s been on it, you know) Dr. Oz, Ellen and when I need to, I get out. Maybe not like I used to, but what the hell anyway. Ain’t none of us is getting any younger. Dog and cat are doing good. God bless ‘em.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Saturday, July 10, 2010
On a Drawing by Athos Menaboni
The female sparrow hawk, fierce,
glorious, hovers above her mate.
Menaboni sketches her with beak open.
I imagine her call, “killy, killy, killy.”
The male’s wings fold down;
his claws wrap around
the branch of Georgia pine;
his head twists around and up
to fix her with black, marvelous eyes.
His russet back is rounded but not meek.
She is set to hunt, is ready to fly wide and long.
He has just flown in. His belly almost full,
he’s at rest, reflective, quiet.
Perhaps she’ll settle close to her partner
or he’ll leave his perch to join her in fearsome flight.
The hawks will decide in their next quick moments,
but the artist has made his choice, and so does not care.
Nonnie Augustine
July 8, 2010
Sunday, July 04, 2010
The Little White House
FDR had a summer home in Warm Springs, Georgia. As one might expect, there are servant’s quarters, a guesthouse, luscious mountain scenery, a fine verandah, and sentry posts that were manned by Marines. Three Marines watched over Franklin Delano Roosevelt and his guests. That’s all. Huh.
The main house has six small rooms, darkly paneled, and humbly furnished. The only piece I coveted was an excellent cook’s table because of its sensible size. The icebox was on a little porch and the pantry displayed mismatched china and silverware. The two-roomed guesthouse is in the same rustic style with more of the gloomy dark pine paneling. The cook had a room over the garage, and so did a married couple who traveled with President Roosevelt.
He had his fatal stroke while posing for a portrait in the “Little White House.” The painter, Elizabeth Shoumatoff, her easel, FDR, and Lucy Page Mercer, who was visiting that day, must have been crowded in that small sitting room. (Eleanor wasn’t there, but then she seldom visited the house in Warm Springs.)
After my tour of the museum and house, I went to the gift shop, of course. I bought two soup mugs for my brother Peter and I. They are printed with acronyms for programs that got started during the New Deal: CCC, FCC, FDIC, FERA, FTC, NLB, NRA (National Recovery Administration, not the rifle NRA) REA, SEC, SSB, TVA, and WPA. Whew! My new mugs have the full titles of the programs listed, too, and let me tell you, it’s an impressive list. Maybe you’d like to read about them. Just Google and they’ll be there. I’ve always thought well of FDR, but after visiting his summerhouse in rural Georgia, I love him.
The main house has six small rooms, darkly paneled, and humbly furnished. The only piece I coveted was an excellent cook’s table because of its sensible size. The icebox was on a little porch and the pantry displayed mismatched china and silverware. The two-roomed guesthouse is in the same rustic style with more of the gloomy dark pine paneling. The cook had a room over the garage, and so did a married couple who traveled with President Roosevelt.
He had his fatal stroke while posing for a portrait in the “Little White House.” The painter, Elizabeth Shoumatoff, her easel, FDR, and Lucy Page Mercer, who was visiting that day, must have been crowded in that small sitting room. (Eleanor wasn’t there, but then she seldom visited the house in Warm Springs.)
After my tour of the museum and house, I went to the gift shop, of course. I bought two soup mugs for my brother Peter and I. They are printed with acronyms for programs that got started during the New Deal: CCC, FCC, FDIC, FERA, FTC, NLB, NRA (National Recovery Administration, not the rifle NRA) REA, SEC, SSB, TVA, and WPA. Whew! My new mugs have the full titles of the programs listed, too, and let me tell you, it’s an impressive list. Maybe you’d like to read about them. Just Google and they’ll be there. I’ve always thought well of FDR, but after visiting his summerhouse in rural Georgia, I love him.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Cars
My Dad’s Studebaker. That was the first car I remember. We’d moved to the New Jersey suburbs from Staten Island so Mom had to learn to drive. She did pretty well, too. (We had to go on the lessons when they couldn’t find someone to watch us.) The Studebaker was green and not very big. We were a family of five then.
When my youngest brother showed up we got a Chevy station wagon. Two-tone blue and white. It seems to me it was only a little while before our next door neighbors got a much fancier station wagon with a removable third seat in the back instead of the plain space we had. I was old enough by then to understand our wagon had been eclipsed.
About the same time we moved to a bigger house, because we needed another bedroom (because I was a girl and the other three kids were boys) and a second bathroom, if at all possible, Dad came home with a tan Chevy Impala. Sleek. And then, amazingly, he bought a Kharmen Ghia! Mom and Dad needed two cars by then, because even though Dad car-pooled to the city, Mom had a hard time on Dad’s day to drive because there was a lot going on by then. We were a busy family, although not nearly as busy as families of six tend to be now. Jeez Louise!
The gods were smiling on my next-oldest brother and I, because we each had a senior year in high school when we got to drive the Ghia to school. This gave me many cool points that I’d been sorely lacking because I was a ballet dancer and no one at Ramsey High cared about that. Peter was okay even without the Ghia, but it didn’t hurt. There were other family cars after that, but they weren’t important to me because I was in college and then on my own.
It was six years before I had to have a car. I moved from New York City to Albuquerque, you see, and of course, a car was a necessary part of life.
So, my family was addicted to oil, from the get-go I guess. Well, no guessing about it-we were. I’m sorry, pelicans and turtles and everyone else, but that’s how it was. I live on the Florida panhandle. In this town pretty much everyone has a car. When you see adults walking or riding bikes, it’s a sure shot they’ve lost their license for driving drunk. Not a damn thing to do with saving the environment. It’s a mess, isn’t it?
When my youngest brother showed up we got a Chevy station wagon. Two-tone blue and white. It seems to me it was only a little while before our next door neighbors got a much fancier station wagon with a removable third seat in the back instead of the plain space we had. I was old enough by then to understand our wagon had been eclipsed.
About the same time we moved to a bigger house, because we needed another bedroom (because I was a girl and the other three kids were boys) and a second bathroom, if at all possible, Dad came home with a tan Chevy Impala. Sleek. And then, amazingly, he bought a Kharmen Ghia! Mom and Dad needed two cars by then, because even though Dad car-pooled to the city, Mom had a hard time on Dad’s day to drive because there was a lot going on by then. We were a busy family, although not nearly as busy as families of six tend to be now. Jeez Louise!
The gods were smiling on my next-oldest brother and I, because we each had a senior year in high school when we got to drive the Ghia to school. This gave me many cool points that I’d been sorely lacking because I was a ballet dancer and no one at Ramsey High cared about that. Peter was okay even without the Ghia, but it didn’t hurt. There were other family cars after that, but they weren’t important to me because I was in college and then on my own.
It was six years before I had to have a car. I moved from New York City to Albuquerque, you see, and of course, a car was a necessary part of life.
So, my family was addicted to oil, from the get-go I guess. Well, no guessing about it-we were. I’m sorry, pelicans and turtles and everyone else, but that’s how it was. I live on the Florida panhandle. In this town pretty much everyone has a car. When you see adults walking or riding bikes, it’s a sure shot they’ve lost their license for driving drunk. Not a damn thing to do with saving the environment. It’s a mess, isn’t it?
Saturday, June 05, 2010
"Sore must be the storm"
Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
Emily Dickinson
The corners of my mouth have turned down, there’s a slow burn in my throat, my shoulders have crept up and I wish I had a giant foot to stamp. All this has been going on since yesterday morning when I saw a photo of a pelican, sitting still, soaked in oil.
I felt better for some time in the late afternoon, when, returning from getting-the-mail-walking-my-dog, I found a Fed Ex box on my front porch. I’m glad I’m still thrilled by the sight of a package sent by someone I like. I hope I feel this way about presents as long as I last. Turns out I got fine gifts. He sent me a paper collage of wonderland, I think, beautifully framed and ready to hang. Taped to it was a Templar Cross, just the right size, on a silver chain. There was a magnifying glass in a black leather case, too, because thousands of bits of paper, most of them tiny, are in the picture.
I had a happy hour or so, then, as I do way too often, I checked my home page on the Net. One of the news feeds about the Gulf of Mexico, and its death, began with another picture. In it a pelican was trying to fly with ragged, heavy wings. The poor bird looked terrified. There was a link for more pictures by the photographer, Charlie Riedel.
How dare they? Or we? Do I have to hate myself, too, for a part in this monstrous insult? I can tell you with certainty, that never in my life have I wanted to move safely stashed oil from one place to another, more useful, place. I had a thin understanding that people were doing this thing, but I suppose I trusted that they knew what they were about. Horrible as the Alaskan spill was, a drunk captained that tanker. Exxon had a huge Human Resources lapse with that one.
So. My paper collage, its exquisite goodness, the cross, and the glass helped to soften the hard lumps in my throat and chest, but frustrated anger is brutal and its been holding on to me tightly. I don’t feel up to dealing with these physical symptoms of rage today. I have things to do, but I can't get going. Yoga would help, and I’m sure yoga practice won’t hurt the planet. Well, I do it with a DVD and that takes electricity, energy, all that. What doesn't?
I’ll stay home today. At least I won’t drive.
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune without the words,
And never stops at all,
And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.
Emily Dickinson
The corners of my mouth have turned down, there’s a slow burn in my throat, my shoulders have crept up and I wish I had a giant foot to stamp. All this has been going on since yesterday morning when I saw a photo of a pelican, sitting still, soaked in oil.
I felt better for some time in the late afternoon, when, returning from getting-the-mail-walking-my-dog, I found a Fed Ex box on my front porch. I’m glad I’m still thrilled by the sight of a package sent by someone I like. I hope I feel this way about presents as long as I last. Turns out I got fine gifts. He sent me a paper collage of wonderland, I think, beautifully framed and ready to hang. Taped to it was a Templar Cross, just the right size, on a silver chain. There was a magnifying glass in a black leather case, too, because thousands of bits of paper, most of them tiny, are in the picture.
I had a happy hour or so, then, as I do way too often, I checked my home page on the Net. One of the news feeds about the Gulf of Mexico, and its death, began with another picture. In it a pelican was trying to fly with ragged, heavy wings. The poor bird looked terrified. There was a link for more pictures by the photographer, Charlie Riedel.
How dare they? Or we? Do I have to hate myself, too, for a part in this monstrous insult? I can tell you with certainty, that never in my life have I wanted to move safely stashed oil from one place to another, more useful, place. I had a thin understanding that people were doing this thing, but I suppose I trusted that they knew what they were about. Horrible as the Alaskan spill was, a drunk captained that tanker. Exxon had a huge Human Resources lapse with that one.
So. My paper collage, its exquisite goodness, the cross, and the glass helped to soften the hard lumps in my throat and chest, but frustrated anger is brutal and its been holding on to me tightly. I don’t feel up to dealing with these physical symptoms of rage today. I have things to do, but I can't get going. Yoga would help, and I’m sure yoga practice won’t hurt the planet. Well, I do it with a DVD and that takes electricity, energy, all that. What doesn't?
I’ll stay home today. At least I won’t drive.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
The Friendly Waitress
On my two-top young lovers gaze
at each other and talk, plan, share
her linguini, his prime rib. He butters
her bread and she murmurs, purrs.
Businessmen on per diems
pay for crass stares at my legs,
chest, hips with twenty percent tips.
Our king, the chef, rules his steamy
realm with steely eyes, paces his rum.
Later he’ll grow moist, maudlin, desperate.
The sous chef flirts, quips, chops and slices.
From behind the pastries, the old Greek
grumbles at the girls who pick up
meringues, tarts, and layer cakes.
The dishwashers talk broken-English
trash as they scrape plates-
not the paper-pale junkie.
His silence is frantic.
I hoist my tray with six covered dishes.
Never mind my bad back, no time.
At the big table a toddler’s made
an applesauce mess. His cool,
spotless mother requires my help.
Two more years and I’ll be a nurse.
With a gracious smile, I’ll dispense
pain pills a half-hour late
at each other and talk, plan, share
her linguini, his prime rib. He butters
her bread and she murmurs, purrs.
Businessmen on per diems
pay for crass stares at my legs,
chest, hips with twenty percent tips.
Our king, the chef, rules his steamy
realm with steely eyes, paces his rum.
Later he’ll grow moist, maudlin, desperate.
The sous chef flirts, quips, chops and slices.
From behind the pastries, the old Greek
grumbles at the girls who pick up
meringues, tarts, and layer cakes.
The dishwashers talk broken-English
trash as they scrape plates-
not the paper-pale junkie.
His silence is frantic.
I hoist my tray with six covered dishes.
Never mind my bad back, no time.
At the big table a toddler’s made
an applesauce mess. His cool,
spotless mother requires my help.
Two more years and I’ll be a nurse.
With a gracious smile, I’ll dispense
pain pills a half-hour late
Monday, May 24, 2010
Barataria Bay
Barataria Bay
It’s a surprise that hearing from a particular man has had such an effect on me. Nothing like this has happened during these quiet years and I don’t think I ever wondered if it would. Oh, I must have. I haven’t been dead after all. How like me to pretend, even here, that I haven’t minded about being alone. I’ve ridden awesome, foaming, reckless waves of minding. Soon enough, I’ve found my feet again. There’s been no time to flail. Until now.
There are black pelicans in the Louisiana wetlands. They don’t like to be handled, so their rescuers tie their beaks closed as they try to clean them. But I wish these wild birds could attack with their long, efficient beaks, so perfectly evolved to do what they want to do. The oil has taken, will continue to take, their birdhood. They hobble and die on the beaches of Barataria Bay . There is no stopping it now. No, I don’t think so. Don’t even want to listen to the men and women at the microphones. Today I have heavy arms and sluggish legs. Tomorrow will be worse.
It’s a surprise that hearing from a particular man has had such an effect on me. Nothing like this has happened during these quiet years and I don’t think I ever wondered if it would. Oh, I must have. I haven’t been dead after all. How like me to pretend, even here, that I haven’t minded about being alone. I’ve ridden awesome, foaming, reckless waves of minding. Soon enough, I’ve found my feet again. There’s been no time to flail. Until now.
There are black pelicans in the Louisiana wetlands. They don’t like to be handled, so their rescuers tie their beaks closed as they try to clean them. But I wish these wild birds could attack with their long, efficient beaks, so perfectly evolved to do what they want to do. The oil has taken, will continue to take, their birdhood. They hobble and die on the beaches of Barataria Bay . There is no stopping it now. No, I don’t think so. Don’t even want to listen to the men and women at the microphones. Today I have heavy arms and sluggish legs. Tomorrow will be worse.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Punched in the Heart
Punched in the Heart
Whoosh! Right there in the Target parking lot. Unlocked my car trunk and saw a plastic basket filled with clothes and a bag with toothpaste, lotion… stuff my dad used at the nursing home. My brother put them there over two months ago, on the day Dad died.
I haven’t opened my trunk in that long. Something, huh? My brother took over grocery shopping, because of my angina, and, well, I’ve barely needed my car, let alone had a reason to load it up. But yesterday I checked to see if my yoga mat was where I left it the last time I took classes, a couple of years ago. Because it’s about time I did something, you know? I have the time now, don’t I? Doesn’t matter when I leave the house. So, yoga. Why not?
And there was Dad’s stuff. Really, really his stuff. A favorite pair of brown sweatpants, an olive-green vest that one of us kids gave him. Warm, and rugged-looking, you know? That’s the kind of thing Dad liked to wear, even though he hadn’t hiked in the mountains for twenty years. Maybe thirty.
It’s true that knees get weak when you’re hit like that. Mine did. That damn nursing home. I didn’t want him to die there! He was supposed to depart from home, like Mom did.
The stuff is still in the trunk. My brother will get it.
I took the yoga class this morning. Wasn’t sure I’d go through with it until I actually left the house. I was late, but I took it. Dad would be pleased. Hell, I’m pleased. That’s all right, then, I guess.
Whoosh! Right there in the Target parking lot. Unlocked my car trunk and saw a plastic basket filled with clothes and a bag with toothpaste, lotion… stuff my dad used at the nursing home. My brother put them there over two months ago, on the day Dad died.
I haven’t opened my trunk in that long. Something, huh? My brother took over grocery shopping, because of my angina, and, well, I’ve barely needed my car, let alone had a reason to load it up. But yesterday I checked to see if my yoga mat was where I left it the last time I took classes, a couple of years ago. Because it’s about time I did something, you know? I have the time now, don’t I? Doesn’t matter when I leave the house. So, yoga. Why not?
And there was Dad’s stuff. Really, really his stuff. A favorite pair of brown sweatpants, an olive-green vest that one of us kids gave him. Warm, and rugged-looking, you know? That’s the kind of thing Dad liked to wear, even though he hadn’t hiked in the mountains for twenty years. Maybe thirty.
It’s true that knees get weak when you’re hit like that. Mine did. That damn nursing home. I didn’t want him to die there! He was supposed to depart from home, like Mom did.
The stuff is still in the trunk. My brother will get it.
I took the yoga class this morning. Wasn’t sure I’d go through with it until I actually left the house. I was late, but I took it. Dad would be pleased. Hell, I’m pleased. That’s all right, then, I guess.
Sunday, May 02, 2010
A Novel Begins...
A Novel Begins
By Nonnie Augustine
She was washing the dishes in the sink, (you’re not going to start with a pronoun, are you? Give her a name, for God’s sake!)
Kate was washing dishes in the sink, (where the hell else is she going to wash dishes? In a creek?)
Kate was washing dishes (was washing-great! Now you’ve got a boring verb and a gerund.)
Kate washed dishes (so? How exciting can you get?)
Kate washed dishes and Zach (trendy name, there, but, okay) did his homework at the kitchen table (we know Kate’s in the kitchen, don’t we? And where else would a kid, big kid, little kid? do their homework but at a table? Oh, okay, he could be doing it at a computer. So, I guess you’re going with “poor” since the mom doesn’t have a dishwasher and he doesn’t have a computer. Or he’s young. Okay, but jazz it up fast, for Pete’s sake!)
Kate washed dishes while Zach did his second grade homework (sentence finally works, but where’s the jazz?)
Suddenly, (oh, God! An adverb, and the dreaded “suddenly” yet!)
The peace in the room was broken (no way are you going to use passive voice.)
A loud knock broke the peace in the room (one knock? Who knocks once?)
Loud knocking broke the peace in the room (no, don’t like peace in the room. It’s awkward and we’re writing about people here, not rooms.)
Loud knocking startled them both (both?)
Loud knoking startled them. (mispelled knocking.)
Loud knocking startled them and Kate (put Kate, and now's the time for a pronoun, in a new sentence-vary the sentence length and besides you’ve lost the peace thing. Are you going to use a whole new sentence to get it in? I don’t think you need to do that.)
Loud knocking shattered their peace. (think I like that better-maybe not.)
She dried her hands, patted her son’s shoulder, and slowly unlocked the door. (Okay. But they’re in a city, aren’t they? Why not put a bunch of locks on the door? Give it some setting, why don’t you?)
She dried her hands, patted her son’s shoulder, and slowly unlocked the door’s three locks (unlocked the locks?)
She dried her hands, patted her son’s shoulder, and slowly (watch your adverbs. You know you love them-they’ll be all over the place and puleeze stop re-writing the whole sentence. You’re just doing that to fill your “goal” time and you know it!)
undid the door’s three locks (of course the locks are on the door. Jeez!)
undid three locks (better.)
Two (you’ve got to decide what city, finally)
Miami (good. Know a lot about Florida. Miami? Not so much.)
police officers stood at the door (how about some tone, here? Wouldn’t Kate call them cops? Going to use third-limited, right? Or go with third omniscient? Oh, right. A novel. Change voices later maybe, for narrative.)
cops (plain clothes? Uniforms?)
uniformed cops (good-gets you out of explaining how she knew plain clothes guys were police)
stood at the door.(weak verb, and where else would they be?)
confronted her (thank God, a paragraph! Turn this damn thing off. It’s early, but go cook dinner. Revise later. Or delete. Not yet. Don’t delete it yet!)
By Nonnie Augustine
She was washing the dishes in the sink, (you’re not going to start with a pronoun, are you? Give her a name, for God’s sake!)
Kate was washing dishes in the sink, (where the hell else is she going to wash dishes? In a creek?)
Kate was washing dishes (was washing-great! Now you’ve got a boring verb and a gerund.)
Kate washed dishes (so? How exciting can you get?)
Kate washed dishes and Zach (trendy name, there, but, okay) did his homework at the kitchen table (we know Kate’s in the kitchen, don’t we? And where else would a kid, big kid, little kid? do their homework but at a table? Oh, okay, he could be doing it at a computer. So, I guess you’re going with “poor” since the mom doesn’t have a dishwasher and he doesn’t have a computer. Or he’s young. Okay, but jazz it up fast, for Pete’s sake!)
Kate washed dishes while Zach did his second grade homework (sentence finally works, but where’s the jazz?)
Suddenly, (oh, God! An adverb, and the dreaded “suddenly” yet!)
The peace in the room was broken (no way are you going to use passive voice.)
A loud knock broke the peace in the room (one knock? Who knocks once?)
Loud knocking broke the peace in the room (no, don’t like peace in the room. It’s awkward and we’re writing about people here, not rooms.)
Loud knocking startled them both (both?)
Loud knoking startled them. (mispelled knocking.)
Loud knocking startled them and Kate (put Kate, and now's the time for a pronoun, in a new sentence-vary the sentence length and besides you’ve lost the peace thing. Are you going to use a whole new sentence to get it in? I don’t think you need to do that.)
Loud knocking shattered their peace. (think I like that better-maybe not.)
She dried her hands, patted her son’s shoulder, and slowly unlocked the door. (Okay. But they’re in a city, aren’t they? Why not put a bunch of locks on the door? Give it some setting, why don’t you?)
She dried her hands, patted her son’s shoulder, and slowly unlocked the door’s three locks (unlocked the locks?)
She dried her hands, patted her son’s shoulder, and slowly (watch your adverbs. You know you love them-they’ll be all over the place and puleeze stop re-writing the whole sentence. You’re just doing that to fill your “goal” time and you know it!)
undid the door’s three locks (of course the locks are on the door. Jeez!)
undid three locks (better.)
Two (you’ve got to decide what city, finally)
Miami (good. Know a lot about Florida. Miami? Not so much.)
police officers stood at the door (how about some tone, here? Wouldn’t Kate call them cops? Going to use third-limited, right? Or go with third omniscient? Oh, right. A novel. Change voices later maybe, for narrative.)
cops (plain clothes? Uniforms?)
uniformed cops (good-gets you out of explaining how she knew plain clothes guys were police)
stood at the door.(weak verb, and where else would they be?)
confronted her (thank God, a paragraph! Turn this damn thing off. It’s early, but go cook dinner. Revise later. Or delete. Not yet. Don’t delete it yet!)
Thursday, April 08, 2010
After this last death,
After this last death,
I dreamt I lost at musical chairs, was forced to stand.
Strangers shoved me toward the outside door.
Fear stirred anger, overwhelmed grief.
Fierce, I yelled, “Don’t push me!”
Noise, smells, rushing.
Would out be better than in?
I turned the doorknob.
Cool, dark, quiet. Rustles.
Arms folded under my tight chest, I leaned
against the trunk of a tulip magnolia.
Nubs and edges of the massive tree scratched
so I stepped away, dropped my arms, opened my palms.
Breezes teased the insides of my elbows.
Dead family murmured, circled my wrists,
pulled me down the path. I was surprised by ease.
I dreamt I lost at musical chairs, was forced to stand.
Strangers shoved me toward the outside door.
Fear stirred anger, overwhelmed grief.
Fierce, I yelled, “Don’t push me!”
Noise, smells, rushing.
Would out be better than in?
I turned the doorknob.
Cool, dark, quiet. Rustles.
Arms folded under my tight chest, I leaned
against the trunk of a tulip magnolia.
Nubs and edges of the massive tree scratched
so I stepped away, dropped my arms, opened my palms.
Breezes teased the insides of my elbows.
Dead family murmured, circled my wrists,
pulled me down the path. I was surprised by ease.
Saturday, March 06, 2010
Bob and Doris
Bob and Doris
I cut Dad’s hair today.
He coached me.
This is still new for him-
needing help.
He was Special Ops during the War.
Solved the rape and murder
of a French woman. The guilty U.S.
soldiers shamed their uniforms.
Dad damn near killed a drunk in his own squad
whose stupidity nearly doomed them all,
but cooler heads prevailed, stopped the fight.
The war over, his fluent German meant
a year in an enemy town.
Billeted in a castle,
he helped them rebuild
and rid themselves of Nazis.
Mom didn’t know him when he rang
her doorbell two years after he shipped out.
She held her toddler, Robert Jr.,
and said “Yes, can I help you?”
when she opened the door.
Dad was heavier, older, weary-
not the smooth-cheeked,
scrawny tennis player she’d married.
That young man died in Europe.
They had three more babies.
Two jobs for Dad. Weekends
he wore a gun again.
Patrolled NYC docks for Jimmy Sullivan
who moved him from dock to lonely dock when Dad
caught thieves. Dangerous nights in the oily salt air lasted through the decade shocked by death.
A gentle Dad let
me trim his wispy hair today.
Released from my ministrations,
leaning on two metal canes,
he headed for my Mom,
who was in bed,
as she always is now.
Dad grinned like a boy-
all spruced-up.
Sparkling blue eyes said “look at me.”
Weak brown eyes saw her handsome husband,
and with a smile as fresh as twenty,
she said “You look fine.”
And I sat down to write a poem.
Nonnie Augustine October 23, 2005
Mom died on May 5, 2006
Dad died on March 3, 2010
I cut Dad’s hair today.
He coached me.
This is still new for him-
needing help.
He was Special Ops during the War.
Solved the rape and murder
of a French woman. The guilty U.S.
soldiers shamed their uniforms.
Dad damn near killed a drunk in his own squad
whose stupidity nearly doomed them all,
but cooler heads prevailed, stopped the fight.
The war over, his fluent German meant
a year in an enemy town.
Billeted in a castle,
he helped them rebuild
and rid themselves of Nazis.
Mom didn’t know him when he rang
her doorbell two years after he shipped out.
She held her toddler, Robert Jr.,
and said “Yes, can I help you?”
when she opened the door.
Dad was heavier, older, weary-
not the smooth-cheeked,
scrawny tennis player she’d married.
That young man died in Europe.
They had three more babies.
Two jobs for Dad. Weekends
he wore a gun again.
Patrolled NYC docks for Jimmy Sullivan
who moved him from dock to lonely dock when Dad
caught thieves. Dangerous nights in the oily salt air lasted through the decade shocked by death.
A gentle Dad let
me trim his wispy hair today.
Released from my ministrations,
leaning on two metal canes,
he headed for my Mom,
who was in bed,
as she always is now.
Dad grinned like a boy-
all spruced-up.
Sparkling blue eyes said “look at me.”
Weak brown eyes saw her handsome husband,
and with a smile as fresh as twenty,
she said “You look fine.”
And I sat down to write a poem.
Nonnie Augustine October 23, 2005
Mom died on May 5, 2006
Dad died on March 3, 2010
Tuesday, March 02, 2010
THE FRIENDLY WAITRESS
On my two-top young lovers gaze
at each other and talk, plan, share
her linguini, his prime rib. He butters
her bread and she murmurs, purrs.
Businessmen on per diems
pay for crass stares at my legs,
chest, hips with twenty percent tips.
Our king, the chef, rules his steamy
realm with steely eyes, paces his rum.
Later he'll grow moist, maudlin, desperate.
The sous chef flirts, quips, chops and slices.
From behind the pastries, the old Greek
grumbles at the girls who pick up
meringues, tarts, and layer cakes.
The dishwashers talk broken-English
trash as they scrape plates-
not the paper-pale junkie.
His silence is frantic.
I hoist my tray with six covered dishes.
Never mind my bad back, no time.
At the big table a toddler's made
an apple-sauce mess. His cool,
spotless, mother requires my help.
Two more years and I'll be a nurse.
With a gracious smile, I'll dispense
pain pills a half-hour late.
Monday, January 25, 2010
View from a Train, from a Table
VIEW FROM A TRAIN, FROM A TABLE
January 14th
On the train, moving through Trenton
at twilight, I see the bleak back of the city.
The houses we pass are dark, waiting.
The office buildings are emptying of
workers and shirkers,
or have emptied, and darkened,
have the night to themselves.
Everyone is on the move--
sheltered in cars or buses,
or on foot, rushing toward warmth.
I’m snug, and somewhat smug,
as I move toward New York with a seat
to myself, wearing my best black coat.
January 15
Even my cousin’s steam-heated apartment
is chilly as we drink strong coffee
at the table by the window.
We eat English muffins spread with tart lemon curd
and her warmth sustains me.
On this six degree morning we see an arctic Hudson.
There will be no ferry to New Jersey today;
they are ice-locked and idle.
The sun is just for fun, and might
as well have the day off
for all the heat it provides.
Without the crisp blue sky,
the scene would be
of an unbearably
gray, cold palette.
My fragile optimism
would fail me
if there were
no sun today.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Amy Gets Help
Amy Gets Help
Gently placing the gingerbread man with the others, Amy pictured Langston’s long face peering through the icy windowpane, waiting for her to arrive with the promised basket of baked treats. As she turned away from the fragrant cookies to hang up her apron, she heard a tiny voice call to her.
“Amy, keep us. Keep us, please. Don’t let him eat us!”
“Oh, no! They’re talking again!” Amy pulled a ladder-backed chair away from the old table, slumped onto it, and buried her face in her hands. After a few moments of quiet, she raised her head, and after a few more, she opened her eyes. Nothing moved. Amy stood up, took her bonnet from its hook, tied the ribbons under her chin, wrapped her cape around her, and while trying not to look at it, picked up the basket. Her fiancé and his guests were expecting her. If she walked quickly, she could still be on time. The Potts house was only over on Fillmore Street.
Just as she went down the last step of her back porch, a squirrel dropped out of the oak tree alongside her path.
“Langston Potts cooks us in stews, you know,” the squirrel chattered. “He devours every single thing he can. He’s a greedy, needy man.”
Amy missed her footing and sprawled on the hard December ground. She was struggling to sit when one of the gingerbread men escaped from the dropped basket and ran away with the squirrel. Her neighbor’s barking dog flashed by her, then, apparently satisfied that the runaway cookie and his new friend were truly gone, trotted back to the young woman.
“My dear, it’s clear that you can’t marry that man,” Collie said. “He’s mean and he’s lazy and you’re surely going crazy.”
“Am I? Is that why everyone and everything is talking to me?” I don’t think I can bear another minute of it.”
Collie arranged herself beautifully on the brown grass, and beautifully rolled her eyes. “Oh, really! Can there be any doubt? Do cookies, squirrels, dogs, and yes, I know about the Blue Jay early today, talk to perfectly normal women?”
Amy scootched closer to Collie and put her arm around the dog’s neck. “No, they don’t, but I must say I’m rather glad you all do, now that I’m a bit more used to it. But you see, I have to marry him. That’s all there is to it. I’m all alone now that Mother’s gone, my money won’t last long at all, soon I’ll be old myself and all shriveled up, and even if all he wants is a nurse and a cook like the Blue Jay said, and he’ll boss me around all day and all night, what else am I going to do?”
The marmalade cat across the street joined them while Amy was talking, and curled up in the tearful woman’s lap. The ground was cold, but neither Collie nor Amy seemed to mind. Marmalade never sat directly on dry winter grass if he could help it.
“You’d be better off dead than living with that rat,” the cat said. “His whole family is a ratty family. Animal haters, they are. I should hope you know that people who hate us hate you, too. You do know that, don’t you?”
“I suppose I do. Or at least…I suspected. But I wouldn’t be better off dead. Oh, my dears, would I?”
Collie, not one to agree too readily with a cat, crossed her pretty paws and paused a moment before answering.
“I concur with Cat. The man is a snake. Life as his wife is a dreadful idea. Yes, dead would be better. Take our word for it. We know.”
“Oh, you are sillies. I’m perfectly healthy. I’m not going to die between now and Saturday. Why would I? How could I? I’d better get up and go on. I’ll take him my baking. These that are left are quiet at least.” Amy pushed herself up and brushed herself off. “Thank you for trying help. I think you might be right about dying, but never mind. I promised him, you see.”
Amy walked down her path and turned into her street, April Lane. There was only one motor car in town so far, but this car had heard the whole conversation between Amy and the animals, and just as his owner thought, he had a mind of his own. So, he started up with a growly shout, and ran her down.
Just like that, she was dead. She was better dead than married to that rat, Langston Potts, but that’s another story.
Gently placing the gingerbread man with the others, Amy pictured Langston’s long face peering through the icy windowpane, waiting for her to arrive with the promised basket of baked treats. As she turned away from the fragrant cookies to hang up her apron, she heard a tiny voice call to her.
“Amy, keep us. Keep us, please. Don’t let him eat us!”
“Oh, no! They’re talking again!” Amy pulled a ladder-backed chair away from the old table, slumped onto it, and buried her face in her hands. After a few moments of quiet, she raised her head, and after a few more, she opened her eyes. Nothing moved. Amy stood up, took her bonnet from its hook, tied the ribbons under her chin, wrapped her cape around her, and while trying not to look at it, picked up the basket. Her fiancé and his guests were expecting her. If she walked quickly, she could still be on time. The Potts house was only over on Fillmore Street.
Just as she went down the last step of her back porch, a squirrel dropped out of the oak tree alongside her path.
“Langston Potts cooks us in stews, you know,” the squirrel chattered. “He devours every single thing he can. He’s a greedy, needy man.”
Amy missed her footing and sprawled on the hard December ground. She was struggling to sit when one of the gingerbread men escaped from the dropped basket and ran away with the squirrel. Her neighbor’s barking dog flashed by her, then, apparently satisfied that the runaway cookie and his new friend were truly gone, trotted back to the young woman.
“My dear, it’s clear that you can’t marry that man,” Collie said. “He’s mean and he’s lazy and you’re surely going crazy.”
“Am I? Is that why everyone and everything is talking to me?” I don’t think I can bear another minute of it.”
Collie arranged herself beautifully on the brown grass, and beautifully rolled her eyes. “Oh, really! Can there be any doubt? Do cookies, squirrels, dogs, and yes, I know about the Blue Jay early today, talk to perfectly normal women?”
Amy scootched closer to Collie and put her arm around the dog’s neck. “No, they don’t, but I must say I’m rather glad you all do, now that I’m a bit more used to it. But you see, I have to marry him. That’s all there is to it. I’m all alone now that Mother’s gone, my money won’t last long at all, soon I’ll be old myself and all shriveled up, and even if all he wants is a nurse and a cook like the Blue Jay said, and he’ll boss me around all day and all night, what else am I going to do?”
The marmalade cat across the street joined them while Amy was talking, and curled up in the tearful woman’s lap. The ground was cold, but neither Collie nor Amy seemed to mind. Marmalade never sat directly on dry winter grass if he could help it.
“You’d be better off dead than living with that rat,” the cat said. “His whole family is a ratty family. Animal haters, they are. I should hope you know that people who hate us hate you, too. You do know that, don’t you?”
“I suppose I do. Or at least…I suspected. But I wouldn’t be better off dead. Oh, my dears, would I?”
Collie, not one to agree too readily with a cat, crossed her pretty paws and paused a moment before answering.
“I concur with Cat. The man is a snake. Life as his wife is a dreadful idea. Yes, dead would be better. Take our word for it. We know.”
“Oh, you are sillies. I’m perfectly healthy. I’m not going to die between now and Saturday. Why would I? How could I? I’d better get up and go on. I’ll take him my baking. These that are left are quiet at least.” Amy pushed herself up and brushed herself off. “Thank you for trying help. I think you might be right about dying, but never mind. I promised him, you see.”
Amy walked down her path and turned into her street, April Lane. There was only one motor car in town so far, but this car had heard the whole conversation between Amy and the animals, and just as his owner thought, he had a mind of his own. So, he started up with a growly shout, and ran her down.
Just like that, she was dead. She was better dead than married to that rat, Langston Potts, but that’s another story.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Nina
(Think summer.)
Art Coop
Nina, wearing a Mexican-flavored dress with a flounced voile skirt, fanned herself with a brochure about the Art Coop, sucked an ice cube, lolled in the armchair they’d given her when she’d first arrived. She’d been the warm-up act, the only poet, for the night’s open-air performance. Nina thought about removing her wide leather belt but didn’t want to make the effort. She was all but done in by heat, humidity, by August in Florida.
The second musician, who was a kid dressed in a plain black t-shirt and low-slung, baggy jeans, finally started. He sat on a low chair inches from Nina’s sandaled feet. She wasn’t expecting much. His teenaged girlfriend had been an annoying chatterbox since they’d sat down.
After a few nervous, jokey remarks, the boy checked the tuning of his glossy black guitar and played the first of several original, solo instrumentals. Nina closed her eyes and laid her head back against the scratchy fabric of the old chair. All the stuff taking shots at her that night- her drunken AWOL brother, her chest pain, the surprise of a friend’s rude behavior, discovering, mid-read, that she had the wrong version of a poem in her hands-disappeared. Nina swam through a cool sea of guitar notes, afloat and happy with the luxury of listening to extravagant talent on a steamy summer night.
Art Coop
Nina, wearing a Mexican-flavored dress with a flounced voile skirt, fanned herself with a brochure about the Art Coop, sucked an ice cube, lolled in the armchair they’d given her when she’d first arrived. She’d been the warm-up act, the only poet, for the night’s open-air performance. Nina thought about removing her wide leather belt but didn’t want to make the effort. She was all but done in by heat, humidity, by August in Florida.
The second musician, who was a kid dressed in a plain black t-shirt and low-slung, baggy jeans, finally started. He sat on a low chair inches from Nina’s sandaled feet. She wasn’t expecting much. His teenaged girlfriend had been an annoying chatterbox since they’d sat down.
After a few nervous, jokey remarks, the boy checked the tuning of his glossy black guitar and played the first of several original, solo instrumentals. Nina closed her eyes and laid her head back against the scratchy fabric of the old chair. All the stuff taking shots at her that night- her drunken AWOL brother, her chest pain, the surprise of a friend’s rude behavior, discovering, mid-read, that she had the wrong version of a poem in her hands-disappeared. Nina swam through a cool sea of guitar notes, afloat and happy with the luxury of listening to extravagant talent on a steamy summer night.
Wednesday, December 09, 2009
Giving Care
GIVING CARE
Up in the attic yellow elephants, who love to go places, dance tail to trunk on my well-worn suitcases. They wear square hats on their heads and gold rugs on their backs. Exotic flowers and bits of squiggle are printed all ‘round the red cloth background. I’m afraid they feel dreary with the dust and the motes, the awful old smell of boxes and bags of who knows what, that’s been who knows where, and besides, there’s barely any air up there.
Neglected, yes, but it can’t be helped. My life’s in a time when I’m sore needed and I’ve happily heeded, but those cases are sad. I think they’d say the blame’s on me-these years that they’ve been up and I’ve been down in this quite nice house. At least they’re close to one another. One’s right inside the other.
They are meant to go. They can roll, you know. Inside them are pockets, zippers, and netting for keeping my shampoo and small things from slipping. They’d grown used to my clothes, their scents and their folds. They hate the wait. I know they do ‘cause I do too. Yet, I dread the day we can again go play. Before we can leave, I’ll have had to grieve.
We will go again, to Argentina or Spain. I’ll unpack in Venice, within sight of San Marco. We might take a boat to Tierra del Fuego. We’ll go to Scandanavia, Istanbul and Moravia. Take ferries and trains, drive on highways and lanes, and when we stop for breath, I’ll mourn Dad’s death. Near a sea’s cool blue calm, I’ll mourn again for Mom.
Up in the attic yellow elephants, who love to go places, dance tail to trunk on my well-worn suitcases. They wear square hats on their heads and gold rugs on their backs. Exotic flowers and bits of squiggle are printed all ‘round the red cloth background. I’m afraid they feel dreary with the dust and the motes, the awful old smell of boxes and bags of who knows what, that’s been who knows where, and besides, there’s barely any air up there.
Neglected, yes, but it can’t be helped. My life’s in a time when I’m sore needed and I’ve happily heeded, but those cases are sad. I think they’d say the blame’s on me-these years that they’ve been up and I’ve been down in this quite nice house. At least they’re close to one another. One’s right inside the other.
They are meant to go. They can roll, you know. Inside them are pockets, zippers, and netting for keeping my shampoo and small things from slipping. They’d grown used to my clothes, their scents and their folds. They hate the wait. I know they do ‘cause I do too. Yet, I dread the day we can again go play. Before we can leave, I’ll have had to grieve.
We will go again, to Argentina or Spain. I’ll unpack in Venice, within sight of San Marco. We might take a boat to Tierra del Fuego. We’ll go to Scandanavia, Istanbul and Moravia. Take ferries and trains, drive on highways and lanes, and when we stop for breath, I’ll mourn Dad’s death. Near a sea’s cool blue calm, I’ll mourn again for Mom.
Monday, November 23, 2009
In Your Face, Man
What was I thinking? Of course this is what Adam Lambert wants to do. He was born in 1982! Pop music performances have been about flash, shock, bumping and grinding and techno-wizardry since he was a baby.
I watched the American Music Awards last night. Yup. The whole thing. Glambert’s act, and I do mean act, was the finale. It was interesting, and certainly busy, and Adam and the dancers were intense and energetic as hell. But most of them seemed really angry for some reason. Maybe I misunderstood, but since I couldn’t make out the lyrics, I went by the facial expressions, costumes, choreography, noise, stuff like that. Other acts were furious, too, though. Lady GaGa killed a piano. Dunno why.
JayZ and Alicia Keys did that neat New York song. I liked that and I understood that it was meant to connect to the audience and it did. Seemed like everyone had a good time during that one. But later on, when Alicia Keys did her single, her piano got lifted into the air with wires. I think it may have spun, too. Odd, that.
Jennifer Lopez had a prize-fighter thing going on for awhile, then she did a tricky on-stage costume change to a gold mini-dress with wide hips à la 18th century hoop petticoats. Or, maybe it was a Star Trek reference. Poor lady fell on her bottom. Given what the choreographer was going for with that move, I’m not surprised J Lo blew it.
Whitney Houston didn’t try to dance around, but she had this supposedly spontaneous moment of being too overcome with the adulation she was receiving, for finally getting her act together, to continue singing. The pause would have seemed less engineered if all the strings and what-not hadn’t stopped on a dime when she did. They knew just when to start up again, too.
You know who I liked? I liked Green Day. They played their instruments and sang their song. Oh, there were soaring flames going on behind them, but at least they had the front of the stage to themselves.
I haven’t been into country music since the inglorious end of my drinking days, but Keith Urban made me feel better for a few minutes and Kelly Clarkson sang her heart out and, hell, I’ll say it, maintained her dignity.
Anyways, back to Adam Lambert. See, I fell for him when he sang Mad World on American Idol. His voice made me catch my breath and come to a full stop as I was passing through the living room and I didn’t breathe again until he finished the song. He moved me to the extent that I watched AI every week after that and when he didn’t win, I felt almost as bad about America as I did the night Bush got re-elected. I’m not saying that makes much sense, but there you go.
Then, last night? Didn’t like the song, couldn’t hear it in fact, thought the S&M and sex stuff was stupid, wished to hell he’d stand still for a second and just sing, and his eye make-up was all wrong. He glared at the camera at the end of his song and his eyes looked crossed.
So the thing is, is I must be old. Am I old and easily shocked? Not so much. After all, men and women were naked on stage together in Hair in 1967. The Boys in the Band premiered in 1968. Do I sound crotchety? Ah, hell. I suppose I do.
I haven’t lost faith in Adam Lambert. Well I’ve lost some faith, but not all. I think he can do it. No, I know he can because of the performances he gave last spring. Glambert can stir hearts, connect, create moments that are really worth sharing with everyone. Yep, everyone. Does he want to do that? Can’t say, really. I’ve heard, though, that he only wants to be a Pop star. Damn.
Nonnie Augustine
I watched the American Music Awards last night. Yup. The whole thing. Glambert’s act, and I do mean act, was the finale. It was interesting, and certainly busy, and Adam and the dancers were intense and energetic as hell. But most of them seemed really angry for some reason. Maybe I misunderstood, but since I couldn’t make out the lyrics, I went by the facial expressions, costumes, choreography, noise, stuff like that. Other acts were furious, too, though. Lady GaGa killed a piano. Dunno why.
JayZ and Alicia Keys did that neat New York song. I liked that and I understood that it was meant to connect to the audience and it did. Seemed like everyone had a good time during that one. But later on, when Alicia Keys did her single, her piano got lifted into the air with wires. I think it may have spun, too. Odd, that.
Jennifer Lopez had a prize-fighter thing going on for awhile, then she did a tricky on-stage costume change to a gold mini-dress with wide hips à la 18th century hoop petticoats. Or, maybe it was a Star Trek reference. Poor lady fell on her bottom. Given what the choreographer was going for with that move, I’m not surprised J Lo blew it.
Whitney Houston didn’t try to dance around, but she had this supposedly spontaneous moment of being too overcome with the adulation she was receiving, for finally getting her act together, to continue singing. The pause would have seemed less engineered if all the strings and what-not hadn’t stopped on a dime when she did. They knew just when to start up again, too.
You know who I liked? I liked Green Day. They played their instruments and sang their song. Oh, there were soaring flames going on behind them, but at least they had the front of the stage to themselves.
I haven’t been into country music since the inglorious end of my drinking days, but Keith Urban made me feel better for a few minutes and Kelly Clarkson sang her heart out and, hell, I’ll say it, maintained her dignity.
Anyways, back to Adam Lambert. See, I fell for him when he sang Mad World on American Idol. His voice made me catch my breath and come to a full stop as I was passing through the living room and I didn’t breathe again until he finished the song. He moved me to the extent that I watched AI every week after that and when he didn’t win, I felt almost as bad about America as I did the night Bush got re-elected. I’m not saying that makes much sense, but there you go.
Then, last night? Didn’t like the song, couldn’t hear it in fact, thought the S&M and sex stuff was stupid, wished to hell he’d stand still for a second and just sing, and his eye make-up was all wrong. He glared at the camera at the end of his song and his eyes looked crossed.
So the thing is, is I must be old. Am I old and easily shocked? Not so much. After all, men and women were naked on stage together in Hair in 1967. The Boys in the Band premiered in 1968. Do I sound crotchety? Ah, hell. I suppose I do.
I haven’t lost faith in Adam Lambert. Well I’ve lost some faith, but not all. I think he can do it. No, I know he can because of the performances he gave last spring. Glambert can stir hearts, connect, create moments that are really worth sharing with everyone. Yep, everyone. Does he want to do that? Can’t say, really. I’ve heard, though, that he only wants to be a Pop star. Damn.
Nonnie Augustine
Friday, November 06, 2009
The Dice are Not to Blame
The Dice are Not To Blame
Ted swam far from shore with a bar of lead.
He loved it, you see, until he drowned dead.
Mick had a trick of giving his money
to heartless bosoms that called him honey.
Sharon kept caring for drinkers and dopers
gamblers and cheaters and whiners and mopers.
Benny saw double and never could tell
which one had substance and which was a shell.
Mick, Benny, Sharon, and poor dead Ted
had luck that sucked they frequently said.
I didn’t agree and suggested instead
that they didn’t have to sink; they could listen to me,
and let go of their lead when they swam in the sea.
Nonnie Augustine
Ted swam far from shore with a bar of lead.
He loved it, you see, until he drowned dead.
Mick had a trick of giving his money
to heartless bosoms that called him honey.
Sharon kept caring for drinkers and dopers
gamblers and cheaters and whiners and mopers.
Benny saw double and never could tell
which one had substance and which was a shell.
Mick, Benny, Sharon, and poor dead Ted
had luck that sucked they frequently said.
I didn’t agree and suggested instead
that they didn’t have to sink; they could listen to me,
and let go of their lead when they swam in the sea.
Nonnie Augustine
Friday, August 28, 2009
Monday, August 24, 2009
A New Notion about an Old Story
A New Notion about an Old Story
A dark girl, quite poor, who might have been four,
leaned on a statue of a horse and his man.
(The rider rode him in place, but as if in a race.)
Her dress needed patching, her heart needed smoothing.
She’d tried to sell matches all the cold night,
but none noted her plight ‘til up to her came
a blond boy who was lame.
"Can you sell those, you think, for some food and
warm drink?" asked the boy who was bigger, and
dressed slightly better, but dirty as well. He’d
apples to sell.
"No, not a one. I want to be done."
Tears plopped from her eyes,
left streaks on her cheeks.
"Have an apple, why don't you? I've still these two.”
The boy gave the waif his well-polished
fruit and a back-pat to boot.
"Do you two like that horse? He's my favorite of
course," said a girl, almost grown, also out on her
own. Her eye was blacked but she'd a warm coat and
hat. "I come here at night, when my Dad's fists
fight. Whiskey's his curse and he's home getting
worse." She pulled the tot to her lap with a plop,
and claimed the lad's hand. One's smile warmed
another's, till all three loved each other.
The horse, soot-streaked marble, was truly a marvel.
His coat livened to touch. His head tossed
with his snort. The rider, a soldier, stretched,
laughed, and fetched the big girl and little.
He soothed them to settle in front of his saddle.
Then he scooped up the boy
(who whooped high with joy) and put him
behind him and they all fit just fine.
The horse stamped his feet, whinnied,
and leaped as far as the stars.
By and by they arrived at the dawn of a day
in a place deep in memory, where, so happily,
they stayed on with others who’d
been far lost, woozy from poverty,
and froze from frost. Graced, none found hurt,
meanness, nor dirt, were with grown-ups
who cared and children who shared.
Nonnie Augustine
5/10/09
A dark girl, quite poor, who might have been four,
leaned on a statue of a horse and his man.
(The rider rode him in place, but as if in a race.)
Her dress needed patching, her heart needed smoothing.
She’d tried to sell matches all the cold night,
but none noted her plight ‘til up to her came
a blond boy who was lame.
"Can you sell those, you think, for some food and
warm drink?" asked the boy who was bigger, and
dressed slightly better, but dirty as well. He’d
apples to sell.
"No, not a one. I want to be done."
Tears plopped from her eyes,
left streaks on her cheeks.
"Have an apple, why don't you? I've still these two.”
The boy gave the waif his well-polished
fruit and a back-pat to boot.
"Do you two like that horse? He's my favorite of
course," said a girl, almost grown, also out on her
own. Her eye was blacked but she'd a warm coat and
hat. "I come here at night, when my Dad's fists
fight. Whiskey's his curse and he's home getting
worse." She pulled the tot to her lap with a plop,
and claimed the lad's hand. One's smile warmed
another's, till all three loved each other.
The horse, soot-streaked marble, was truly a marvel.
His coat livened to touch. His head tossed
with his snort. The rider, a soldier, stretched,
laughed, and fetched the big girl and little.
He soothed them to settle in front of his saddle.
Then he scooped up the boy
(who whooped high with joy) and put him
behind him and they all fit just fine.
The horse stamped his feet, whinnied,
and leaped as far as the stars.
By and by they arrived at the dawn of a day
in a place deep in memory, where, so happily,
they stayed on with others who’d
been far lost, woozy from poverty,
and froze from frost. Graced, none found hurt,
meanness, nor dirt, were with grown-ups
who cared and children who shared.
Nonnie Augustine
5/10/09
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