At first the question made my heart pound so furiously that I couldn't get an answer out. Later on, I was adamant about saying I had had two sons and explaining right up front that one was dead. Nowadays, I choose my answer depending on who is asking. I don't want people with young children or planning to have children to hear my sad story. No one should have to go where I've been unwittingly. I believe my blurting out my story in response to a simple, friendly question gives out way too much information. Leaving Paul out makes me feel guilty, but way less guilty than making people asking innocent questions feel bad. Wrong? Right? Who knows? The Dreaded Question It happens again like so many times before. I'm at my sister's house, talking to her neighbor someone I've just met and she asks me the dreaded question one that I'm avoiding by talking about what a great day this has been in Portland and isn't my sister's garden just beautiful and what do you do for a … [Read more...]
No, I didn’t need a fresh house!
Many people said we needed to move after Paul killed himself in our house -- too many bad memories, you need a "fresh" house, they said. What they didn't understand was there were memories both good and bad in our house and memories both good and bad everywhere else. I couldn't even escape at the gym -- the place I go to most often as an escape. Riding It Out I sat on the saddle Spinning the wheels Of the stationery bike I leaned over the handlebars Elbows bent, head down Peddling in time to U2. Ride it out, the instructor said Ride it out for 30 seconds. The police said Thirty seconds is How long it took for Paul to die after He cut his throat. Thirty painless seconds. I don't believe it. How could it be painless? Could it be less painless Than the pain of his illness? Thirty seconds and no more pain. Was he awake? Was he thinking? Was he listening to the music in his head? Was he riding it out? … [Read more...]
Working out
I've worked out for years, played tennis, jogged, practiced Yoga -- all the stuff. But working out became a matter of life and death after Paul died. Fortunately, just before he died I joined a new gym where I didn't know anyone. I was able to come and go as I pleased, do my workout, get some relief from the pain, and leave. And, that routine became my savior. Instead of slowing down as I got older, I find myself working out more than ever. I still need the physical outlet that turned into a way to balance my emotions and help me deal with my grief. I wrote this next poem very early on. Making It Hard The bright room is almost full. All four walls of mirrors reflect women and men In baggy shorts and sleek black tights. The music is so loud The woman in front of me stuffs ear plugs in her ears. Lisa G says, work from the core, Your workout relates to your real life. I want to get on with it. I don't come here at 6 a.m. to listen to a lecture. The neon sign on the wall … [Read more...]
A matter of perspective
My mother died three years after Paul. She was 94 years old, and she was ready. In fact, she'd been wishing to die, threatening to die for the 27 years she lived after my father died. There was no comparison in how I felt after she died to how I felt and still feel about Paul's death. This next poem says it all. It was published in the "Survivors After Suicide" newsletter, a program of the Los Angeles-based Didi Hirsch Community Mental Health Center. One of the goals of Didi Hirsch is to erase the stigma of mental illness and suicide. Plus they started one of the nation's first suicide prevention hot lines. If only we had known about it before Paul died. The Bully Paul is a bully. Always waiting to take over my poems. I'm writing about my mother who starved herself last year, hanging on for weeks in a morphine-induced coma, using up every bit of energy I had until she finally died. And here he comes pushing her aside to get to the front of the line. He brags so the … [Read more...]
Magical thinking
Joan Didion wrote about magical thinking the most eloquently, but I think we all do it. We don't want to believe that our loved one is really gone, so we play games with our mind to believe he or she will return somehow, someday. I leave the hall light on to light Paul's way back or think anonymous phone calls could really be him checking in. Here we are at his last Thanksgiving. We're now in the midst of planning our 9th without him. September 23, 2002 The phone rings once startling me awake from a deep sleep. I jump out of bed to answer it knocking the Waterford perfume bottle from my dresser, and there is no one on the line. Only 5 a.m. but I am up for the third anniversary of Paul's death, a day I dread every year. All I can think is Paul called to check in, to let us know he is still around: I go out on the porch and watch the orange half moon set behind the trees. … [Read more...]
I knew nothing
I thought I understood what was going on in Paul's head during his manic breaks. But, really I knew nothing -- and neither did his doctors. The more I read about this terrible mental disease, the more I realize how little is really known about it -- even now. Even so, I tried to describe it in this poem. Mania Intoxicated, euphoric. exhilarated, with visions of power without bounds, Paul is like Superman. He climbs, he circles, he races, floats above reality. Then he sees demons lurking in alleyways, imaginary Mafiosi poisoning his drinks and cigarettes and the world's water supply. He is left to wander, pace, click, re-click door latches as he goes in and out. He babbles unintelligibly, imperceptibly. The voices he hears echo like violins ever louder, faster, discordant until a cacophony of drumbeats and a tintinnabulation of scraping symbols pound his brain. There is no escape, no way out. He looks for an exit where only one exists. (For a more … [Read more...]
Another view of Paul
He sat like a Buddha when he played music, did his homework, and talked on the phone. And, he always looked so calm. So, today's poem is my attempt to capture that part of him. I now have little Buddha statues all over my house. Not because I'm a Buddhist, but because they remind me of Paul. Buddha The dead we can imagine to be anything at all. Ann Patchett, Bel Canto He sits cross-legged in a tree deep in concentration, the way he would sit on the floor of his room learning against the bed doing homework, composing music, talking on the phone. His closed-mouth grin shows he is pleased to be where he is. No longer a skinny rail, his cheeks filled out, his skin clear, his eyes bright. His tree has everything soft jazz sounds flowing from all directions, deep vees and pillows for sitting and reclining, the scent of incense and flowers, branches of books by Miller, Tolstoy, and Dostoevsky the music of Davis, Gould, Bach and Lennon, and virtual communication to … [Read more...]
Number three!
Paul was a jazz pianist and composer. Here's one that tries to capture his beat. And, oh how I miss hearing him play. My Jazzman My jazzman beat it out on the mighty eighty-eights played those riffs tapped his feet bent his head down to the keys felt those sounds on his fingertips. Yeah, he was a hot man on those eighty-eights. But, all too soon his bag grew dark. He went down deep down. My jazzman played the blues lost that spark closed the lid. And, yeah, you got it right. He quit the scene. laid himself down in that bone yard for the big sleep, for that really big sleep. … [Read more...]
Countdown Day 2
Perhaps I have enough poems about Paul to fill up the days until September 23. Here's another poem for Paul written years ago, but still very relevant today. A Stone Called Son I sleep with a stone. It's gray and small enough To fit in the palm of my hand. One side is smooth, the other Has the word, son, cut into it. And when I put the stone In the crook of my index finger I can read the word with my thumb. I like to place it between my breasts And feel its coolness on my chest. It quiets the pain in my heart And slows down my heartbeats So I can rest. Sometimes I hold it all night And find it in my fist when I wake When I'm not sleeping it sits next to my bed On a tiny silk pillow imprinted on one side With the word, heal. Well, it takes time. A healing pillow and a stone called son Can't do all the work. April 28, 2003 … [Read more...]
Remembering Paul
September is the month Paul died. In just 23 days it will be nine years. So, here's a poem in his memory. Cat Stevens Then and Now As I walked up the stairs I heard Cat Stevens singing The familiar words of his song, Morning has Broken, And there I was back in 1973 In our old gray Chrysler station wagon With the wood trim and fake red leather seats And Paul was sitting in the back Belting out the words with him. He was only two then Still clutching his green stuffed turtle for dear life As we drove along. His fat cheeks were rosy red, his blonde hair Cut like an upside down cereal bowl around his face. Then I return to this day and my table at the Westside Pavilion Mall where the lunch crowd Is beginning to gather not knowing or caring how I grieve For the chubby little boy sitting in his car seat When so little made him happy. … [Read more...]
My brother died on June 23, 2008
The sibs -- Sheila, Madeline, and Kenny -- August 2007 -- Ken's 70th birthday The Sibs -- Madeline, Sheila, and Kenny -- June 2006 We buried my brother on Wednesday, June 25, 2008. It was 90 degrees out at the cemetery, and we sat there with sweat rolling down under our arms and wet between the legs while we eulogized him and then covered him with one shovel full after another of dirt. It still hasn't sunk in that he's gone. I look around his house and don't see him there. When someone sits at his chair in the breakfast room I want to say get up, that's his chair. This was a man who will be missed and very much. He was a wonderful, unassuming guy who was so smart and so cultured like his wife, Barb, said, a modern Renaissance man. Actually, the service was very short the Rabbi's eulogy that was quite good considering that he got the main facts from us just yesterday. Sure a few details were wrong but they really didn't matter in the scheme of things. Then he called Ben to … [Read more...]
38 years
Yesterday was our 38th anniversary. I wrote a poem called 38 Years a few years ago, the anniversary of when we first fell in love. But the poem still applies. I actually took part of that poem and used it to compose a poem on Intimacy for Paul B's new series of photography that he plans to self publish. They are wonderful black and white nudes of a man and a woman looking like they are intimate, but not explicitly so. But, he felt my poem was too explicit for the frontispiece of the book. That reaction was a surprise to me; however, I went along with the gag and wrote one that doesn't have any sexy words in it just a getting to know you kind of piece. Here it is. Intimacy She moves toward him her lithe body her long legs float across the floor. Her arms outstretched wrap around his neck. And they stop, stare get to know the color of each other's eyes. He turns away slightly then returns then turns away again as if he cannot stand this closeness this … [Read more...]
Invisible?
It's been a while since I've posted a poem. Here's one I wrote a while ago. But don't get the wrong idea. My guy still looks at me with such love, I could melt. Invisible They look through me, the brawny young guys flexing their biceps as they reach for the shoulder press. Their eyes fix on the girl in sleek black tights with boobs bursting out of her bra. Strong and slim and self confident she struts past, tilting her head back to take a swig of water. They run past me, the sweaty runners in tank tops, Adidas shorts and hairy calf muscles that form a perfect Vee They see the far away figure on roller blades with flowing blonde hair showing more tan than thong. Fit and firm she moves closer, smiles wide and raises her hand to give them a high five. Look at me. I'm firm and slim. Underneath my baggy tee and sweats I feel 28. Though my hair is almost white and my face has lines impossible to erase. Give me a glance, why don't you, a glimmer of … [Read more...]
New York memories
I'd love more days like the one free day I had in New York. I loved being all by myself, walking block after block, looking in the windows on Madison, Fifth, and Lexington avenues, seeing what the museums had to offer, sitting down to lunch at a table for one, meandering along the clothing aisles at Bloomingdale's, and not having to answer to anybody. That is my idea about how to spend a day. Not that I'd want to do it everyday. It's just that I'd like the freedom to do it whenever I wanted. But, that freedom is not yet on the horizon. In another year perhaps, but not yet. Yet, everything about New York reminded me of Paul. Every place we went, there he was. We'd talk about a 5-story walk-up, and there I'd be watching the piano we gave him being moved step by step up to his fourth floor apartment. We ate dinner at Tabla, and there Bob was having an argument with him across the street. We took the circle line tour, and there I was walking the length of the island and across the … [Read more...]
Writing projects
I'm still waiting to hear from Kore Press. In the meantime I submitted 26 pages of poetry to the 2008 New Women's Voices chapbook competition, and I'm getting five poems ready to submit to a poetry anthology written by women over 60. This one is looking for recent work giving full and honest voice to women's lives. So I'll try out a piece I'm working on here. Is is a full and honest voice? Well, that's for you to decide. Invisible They look through me, the brawny young guys flexing their biceps as they reach for the shoulder press. Their eyes fix on the girl in sleek black tights with boobs bursting out of her bra. Strong and slim and self confident she struts past, tilting her head back to take a swig of water. They look past me, the sweaty runners in tank tops, Adidas shorts and hairy calf muscles that form a perfect Vee They see the far away figure on roller blades with flowing blonde hair showing more tan than thong. Fit and firm she moves closer, smiles … [Read more...]
Friends in stone
My darling niece, Dara, sent me this piece after reading my last post. It needs sharing: TWO FRIENDS WERE WALKING THROUGH THE DESERT DURING SOME POINT OF THE JOURNEY, THEY HAD AN ARGUMENT; AND ONE FRIEND SLAPPED THE OTHER ONE IN THE FACE THE ONE WHO GOT SLAPPED WAS HURT, BUT WITHOUT SAYING ANYTHING, WROTE IN THE SAND TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SLAPPED ME IN THE FACE THEY KEPT ON WALKING, UNTIL THEY FOUND AN OASIS, WHERE THEY DECIDED TO TAKE A BATH THE ONE WHO HAD BEEN SLAPPED GOT STUCK IN THE MIRE! AND STARTED DROWNING, BUT THE FRIEND SAVED HIM. AFTER HE RECOVERED FROM THE NEAR DROWNING, HE WROTE ON A STONE: 'TODAY MY BEST FRIEND SAVED MY LIFE' THE FRIEND WHO HAD SLAPPED AND SAVED HIS BEST FRIEND ASKED HIM, 'AFTER I HURT YOU, YOU WROTE IN THE SAND AND NOW, YOU WRITE ON A STONE, WHY?' THE FRIEND REPLIED 'WHEN SOMEONE HURTS US WE SHOULD WRITE IT DOWN IN SAND, WHERE WINDS OF FORGIVENESS CAN ERASE IT AWAY. BUT, WHEN SOMEONE DOES SOMETHING … [Read more...]
A day of writer’s woes
Yesterday could be called a writer's day of hell. I was so optimistic when it started raring to get going on my to do list, and by the time it was over I felt like I never wanted to write another word again. I started out by sending four emails to people I thought could help me find an agent for my memoir three former teachers and a friend who's published quite a bit. I heard from two of teachers almost immediately. One said she couldn't recommend an agent because the five she's sent her new memoir to have all turned it down. An ominous sign I must say. The second responder who has always been so helpful in the past has gone so far up the food chain in the business of books that he couldn't recommend without a conflict of interest. The other two haven't responded yet. Then I decided to get some poems ready for a chapbook submission. I chose Pudding House recommended by my cousin, Larry. What was intriguing about this group is they accept submissions all the time and usually … [Read more...]
Happy Thanksgiving — and two more poems
This is the anniversary of the death of John F. Kennedy. I'll never forgot the day he was shot in Dallas. I was at work in old Building 60, in my cubicle. My boss sent his assistant around to tell us he had been shot. We stood by his door as the news came in over the radio, and within minutes we heard Walter Cronkite tell us that our beloved President Kennedy was dead. No more work was done that day. And this is Thanksgiving Day in Portland. Here's two more poems from our trip: The Luxury of Leisure Time I'm reveling in this day already and it isn't even half over. Early morning cuddling without worrying about where I need to be next, a trip to the gym and a walk along Portland's main business street, breakfast of salmon hash at the elegant Benson hotel across the street. And now relaxing on the chaise watching The View, women's TV, for the first time. What a luxury or maybe decadent excess that's oh so easy to get used to. I'm not in a hurry to get up and I … [Read more...]
The first poem
Like I promised here's the first poem from my Thanksgiving trip -- and not too upbeat at that. I get all excited about traveling, and then get turned off pretty quickly. I think the bottom line is I'm just more comfortable at home. Flight to Portland I'm squooshed in the middle seat. The man to my left keeps poking his elbow into my side as he taps on his laptop. The girl on my right snoozes after gorging herself on salted peanuts and chocolate chip cookies. I'm bummed. One of my Bose earbuds lost its cushion, my book is in the overhead bin along with my computer, so, I'm using the address side of a magazine advertisement to write this poem of flying woes. At least the baby has stopped screaming my seatmate's o.j. didn't spill into my lap, and I can still enjoy Neil Young sing about his old guitar. Only an hour left to go on this miserable flight, that's getting more and more bumpy by the second. I knew I should have stayed home. But, more than about … [Read more...]
