Category Archives: family

my sister’s curly hair

When the light is right
her pretty curly hair looks red
like the darkest melted color of a sunset
or twined tree branches, free and wild,
growing down her shoulders dark
like chocolate cherry ivy.

We go places together
slip into hazes of Thursday night bars
with loud old bands
dance in the changing lights and
her curls bounce and twirl in time.

When she shakes her head at me
with a small smile
the curls fall quietly down
like waves of rain breaking
from a heavy cloudy sky

and when we swim laughing
in blue oceans of Carolina
the curls surround her like seaweed
dissolving
into salty reflections of sun
quietly fashioning night.

Even Memories Fade

Written late in the night many years ago. Found it in a handwritten book of notes. I have no idea, on a beautiful day like this one, why I felt like posting it.

Even Memories Fade

you, disappearing slowly,
a mist
a past a past life
crawling away from here like your life
depended upon it
but you really didn’t care that much about life
anyway
you, disappearing slowly,
and I
sit sit still watching
not concerned like I thought I would be
I thought I’d feel
an emptiness for the loss
but instead only numb
nothing.

Psychic Ability is Inherited

alone, she
watched the impending
clouds. grey thick and heavy
with waiting.

her father had
warned of such moments
and her mother
spoke quietly, “then,
you must listen”

it was just that their faces
had lit with excitement
despite her “you should
not be here”

they were waiting
as they always had.

and inside she felt
expectant. outside the grey
sky whispered, “yes, you already know
it will rain.”

Age 92

92 and you
Bruise so fast, when catching
Your wife who
Dizzy and falling, desperately needed you.
And you were there.

You were there
During world wars,
During depression,
During the birth of two boys and one daughter,
Then seven grandchildren, now six, the
Loss imprinted
On the lines of your face.

This week is 92,
But you say, 38 ½ years have gone by
In a joke that is at least
Twice my age.

Spaghetti (Christmas Tradition at Chipparrelli’s)

In the dim light of Chipparelli’s restaurant
tucked in a busy corner of Little Italy,
we sit at a small table,
red tablecloth with white cloth napkins,
and a warm glowing candle,
reflecting in silver forks, knives, spoons,
another year of family tradition.

I realize that my parents are just
a man and a woman. Two people
with past lives and younger faces.
They retell a story
and I can see vividly their first date:
my dad with two plates of spaghetti
he worked so hard to make
for my mom waiting patiently
in their private Italian restaurant
and that sudden slight nervous trip
to send both dinners straight
to the shag carpet with a splat.

We pass the fresh baked bread.
My dad dives into his usual lasagna,
and my mom begins her usual manicotti,
and I turn in my spaghetti for
some exotic dish I’ve never heard of.

I twirl my pasta.
Before me, my parents, two souls I love.
Before them, a little girl in pigtails
drinking Chianti.

Nursing Home Hallway

I turn to leave
and watch my grandmother,
dressed gracefully in
white slacks hanging
loose over thin limbs. She is tall,
regal,
looking at me from the middle of a
tan hallway that stretches
into a deep florescent
lighting, nourishing
the hazy limbo between us.

I walk straight,
past pictures of Christ
and metal crosses that hang
on the stripes of wallpaper
and fish circling in a dull tank,
past dark hollow rooms
where white-clothed bodies
watch TV,
past the chapel
that is now empty and waiting for
tomorrow morning’s mass.

I stop abruptly after a few feet and turn.
I watch my grandmother, her
thin frame easing into the hallway shadows.
She knows,
turns,
waves goodbye.

The light gets bright at the entrance.
I pass
white-haired women
who talk of President Roosevelt
and I hurriedly
push open the door.

house clean

Nothing quite like the feeling after a long volleyball tournament; ah the aches! Half hour to USA hockey, perfect time to post a poem….

House Clean

When I die
will you go through my things?
Fingering papers
and smudging your fingerprints all over my photos
even though you might remember later
that I hate that.

And making a mess in my kitchen where I
always wished that you were but
you weren’t.

Tossing out this and that; the this and that
that I saved purposefully
all those years.
Hoping to get it all done quickly,
hoping to find
that million dollar antique
that you already know I never had.

Then, in one corner, finding letters,
letters of deep secret
towards
self, family, love;
diaries of thoughts you never knew I had.

Will you throw them out?
Yes. Suddenly, in one moment, I am no longer
who you
want to remember.