She stumbled to the kitchen, started the coffee pot and grabbed a stale bagel from the bread box. It was stupid to stay up so late when she had to substitute the next day. Grabbing a cup of coffee she padded to the living room and switched on the TV just as the phone rang. “Mom, are you up?” It took her a minute to recognize her daughter-in-law’s voice. “Sure, what’s up?”
“Turn on the TV. Someone’s bombed the World Trade Center.” The words didn’t make sense. Bombs, buildings, who, why, what next? Hanging up the phone she turned on the television and watched as the two massive buildings disintegrated into dust and rubble and terror.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Sunday, September 11, 2011
Graduation Day
It was graduation day. Her graduation day.
The morning ceremonies were over and Saturday stood still for awhile. It was getting hot. Her mother was in the kitchen preparing food for the party later that afternoon. He was putting the finishing touches on the lawn in the back yard, trimming and making sure there was an even 2-inch space between the grass and the surrounding concrete.
Her brothers and sisters had scattered off to friends' homes, and her aunt lie quietly dozing on the sofa. She sat on a chair in a corner of the unused living room; just yesterday she and the other kids had hand-waxed the hardwood floors, their mother following behind with the electric buffer. Sitting still in her new pink wool suit, a gift from her aunt, she felt stifled in the girdle, stockings, and pearl white pumps, but also great relief at never having to go back to high school. She had not been accepted at college yet, and doubted she ever would be.
She had two options: continue to work at the Leed's Shoe store in town and live at home, or move in with her aunt across the Bay and work in her office. Really though, there was no choice; she couldn't stay here. She had graduated from high school and this was the first and perhaps only time to get away from him. It would mean leaving her sisters behind to fend for themselves.
She got up and walked over to the hi-fi cabinet, lifted the lid and put on her favorite Joan Baez album - the one he had forbidden her to play. Things would be different from now on she thought, as she turned up the volume.
Martha
September 10, 2011
The morning ceremonies were over and Saturday stood still for awhile. It was getting hot. Her mother was in the kitchen preparing food for the party later that afternoon. He was putting the finishing touches on the lawn in the back yard, trimming and making sure there was an even 2-inch space between the grass and the surrounding concrete.
Her brothers and sisters had scattered off to friends' homes, and her aunt lie quietly dozing on the sofa. She sat on a chair in a corner of the unused living room; just yesterday she and the other kids had hand-waxed the hardwood floors, their mother following behind with the electric buffer. Sitting still in her new pink wool suit, a gift from her aunt, she felt stifled in the girdle, stockings, and pearl white pumps, but also great relief at never having to go back to high school. She had not been accepted at college yet, and doubted she ever would be.
She had two options: continue to work at the Leed's Shoe store in town and live at home, or move in with her aunt across the Bay and work in her office. Really though, there was no choice; she couldn't stay here. She had graduated from high school and this was the first and perhaps only time to get away from him. It would mean leaving her sisters behind to fend for themselves.
She got up and walked over to the hi-fi cabinet, lifted the lid and put on her favorite Joan Baez album - the one he had forbidden her to play. Things would be different from now on she thought, as she turned up the volume.
Martha
September 10, 2011
Saturday, August 13, 2011
PAGLIACCI
Mark reclined on the couch, smoking one cigarette after another, sipping coffee for hours, and gazing at the drawing of Pagliacci on the wall. His senses didn’t take in much else in the room. There was TV and his music, but he never thought to turn those on anymore.
She didn’t know if he even realized that he was staring, for hours, at the drawing. His mind seemed only half there most of the time. The phone would ring and he would pick up, confused as to who he was talking to, and why. He would look at her helplessly and hand her the receiver. He’d already detached from this life, knowing he was on his way out. He didn’t cry about it anymore, or fight it, or complain. He just kept smoking and gazing at Pagliacci.
Later, when he was gone, she kept some of his music, all of his books, and the drawing. It reminded her of the dark and hurting days, but it also gave her a kind of peace and comfort she could not and did not try to explain.
Martha
August 13, 2011
He Gave Her Pearls
he gave her pearls
she wanted saphires
he gave her symphonies
she wanted the opera
he gave her expensive dinners
she wanted picnics in the park
he gave her companionship
she wanted fire
he gave her security
she wanted adventure
they gave each other goodbye
Sandra
she wanted saphires
he gave her symphonies
she wanted the opera
he gave her expensive dinners
she wanted picnics in the park
he gave her companionship
she wanted fire
he gave her security
she wanted adventure
they gave each other goodbye
Sandra
Sunday, July 10, 2011
Moon
Some nights the moon is so full, its intrusion complete and I pull the drapes, slowly so the dust doesn’t rise and pin them together at the center, like wrapping up a day. Just to block out the unnatural pulsing. I expect in the small glance I allow myself, to see giant moths, batting at the light, singeing wings and great dramatic falls of something so light it’s a toss-up as to whether that dead moth will ever hit earth. Maybe its singed body, in that agonizingly slow decent will heal itself and fly up again to swat at the heat and glow of that moon. Sometimes I envision a murder of crows perfectly backlit, their pointed beaks headed south, their wings with no effort at all, no movement of bird-parts soaring toward a distant mountain. It’s as if looking at scenery moving behind a still-life of birds.
I cannot, on these nights close the curtains quickly enough, my heart pounding the sound track with its erratic thumping, a base drum out of whack until I fear it just may not go on. I stay away from the glow of the moon that slices through the middle section of curtain. A bright stripe like a laser cutting through and the hammer of my heart weakening and I wonder if I’ll have enough life left at the end, as the moon, the absurdly dominant round ball thing of it, sinks beyond the hills.
I’m startled sitting here in the dark, thinking maybe in the morning the moon will rise again and again, wondering if I’m seeing through blindness at something so blond and pale and strong that I mistake it and really after all this I’m looking directly into the sun.
Cooper Gallegos
I cannot, on these nights close the curtains quickly enough, my heart pounding the sound track with its erratic thumping, a base drum out of whack until I fear it just may not go on. I stay away from the glow of the moon that slices through the middle section of curtain. A bright stripe like a laser cutting through and the hammer of my heart weakening and I wonder if I’ll have enough life left at the end, as the moon, the absurdly dominant round ball thing of it, sinks beyond the hills.
I’m startled sitting here in the dark, thinking maybe in the morning the moon will rise again and again, wondering if I’m seeing through blindness at something so blond and pale and strong that I mistake it and really after all this I’m looking directly into the sun.
Cooper Gallegos
Monday, May 9, 2011
The Bronx
Sunlight. Headache. Her eyes open slowly
heavy from too much gin.
I’ve never fucked anyone from the Bronx before.
She looks around for something familiar,
sees the head buried in the pillow
remembers Irish music, a long, long cab ride.
He stirs, leaves the bed, returns with a plate
of overcooked eggs and sliced bread.
She asks for toast. No need, bread’s already brown.
Returning to the heap of blankets
he pulls her close and they search again
for the excitement that brought them here.
Where’s the subway, she asks.
Wait, he cries, write your name here on the wall,
to show me mates I’ve had a woman.
She scrawls quickly, turns to leave.
Wait, he cries, tell me what I said
that made you come with me. I want to use it again.
heavy from too much gin.
I’ve never fucked anyone from the Bronx before.
She looks around for something familiar,
sees the head buried in the pillow
remembers Irish music, a long, long cab ride.
He stirs, leaves the bed, returns with a plate
of overcooked eggs and sliced bread.
She asks for toast. No need, bread’s already brown.
Returning to the heap of blankets
he pulls her close and they search again
for the excitement that brought them here.
Where’s the subway, she asks.
Wait, he cries, write your name here on the wall,
to show me mates I’ve had a woman.
She scrawls quickly, turns to leave.
Wait, he cries, tell me what I said
that made you come with me. I want to use it again.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Foiled
Nature has measured up again
Blasting us with water
Grumbling like a naughty child
Rebellious
Sandra S.
Saturday, March 26, 2011
space and time
She sits quietly, noticing the rain
the gentle tap-tap
that measures the minutes
that drift into hours
and before it can even begin
the day has ended
and she has not moved forward
not even an inch
but her heart is light as she buries
her soul in the story
of love and loss and survival
Thursday, October 14, 2010
33 Miners
Luis Urzua
33 miners below.
Not looking into an abyss, but from it.
Each man gazes up at impermeable, ancient rock,
sealing him in his doom, in his tomb.
69 days of not knowing
how it will be, if they will be.
69 days of hope, despair, grief and doubt.
Deep below and high above, leaders emerge,
courage ebbs and flows, and frailties come to the fore.
Hope arrives as the urgency of birth, thrusting, piercing the rock.
One by one, the men are lifted into a new unknown,
Newborns delivered from the earth to the waiting arms of a joyous world.
Martha
Martha
Sunday, June 27, 2010
This is when
This is when she feels the freest.
Barreling down Highway One towards Santa Cruz in early morning. The ocean, endless, to her right, in all the colors of blue that blue can be. Pastures, eucalyptus groves, strutting clouds, solitary sand dunes, sheer-terror rock cliffs and autumn colors conspire to pleasure her on the journey.
This is when she feels the safest.
Cocooned in the driver's seat, soothed and energized by Irish ballads, Elgar symphonies and Bob Seger's Silver Bullet band. The music carries her spirit in all directions while her body stays the course.
This is when she feels the most herself.
Her thoughts are her own and uncensored, free-floating, not sticking to anything in particular, not needing to or making sense.
This is when she feels her heart and mind open.
Nothing is impossible or dire. She is aware of timelessness and insignificance and presence and now.
This is when she is.
Barreling down Highway One towards Santa Cruz in early morning. The ocean, endless, to her right, in all the colors of blue that blue can be. Pastures, eucalyptus groves, strutting clouds, solitary sand dunes, sheer-terror rock cliffs and autumn colors conspire to pleasure her on the journey.
This is when she feels the safest.
Cocooned in the driver's seat, soothed and energized by Irish ballads, Elgar symphonies and Bob Seger's Silver Bullet band. The music carries her spirit in all directions while her body stays the course.
This is when she feels the most herself.
Her thoughts are her own and uncensored, free-floating, not sticking to anything in particular, not needing to or making sense.
This is when she feels her heart and mind open.
Nothing is impossible or dire. She is aware of timelessness and insignificance and presence and now.
This is when she is.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Extemporaneously Speaking
The mellifluous serendipity of life
Juxtaposed against the prevaricating impetuousness of
Supercilious malcontents
Gesticulating stultifying and deleterious consternations
On subordinated Homo Sapiens
Illustrates cognizance replete with cataclysmic . . .
Wait! Wait! Hold up!
I ain’t gotta try usin’ no big highfalutin’ 10 dolla’ words
To say what I gotta say.
I just gotta say it straight out.
So here goes.
Life is lovin’ me and I’m lovin’ it right back!
Saundra C.
The mellifluous serendipity of life
Juxtaposed against the prevaricating impetuousness of
Supercilious malcontents
Gesticulating stultifying and deleterious consternations
On subordinated Homo Sapiens
Illustrates cognizance replete with cataclysmic . . .
Wait! Wait! Hold up!
I ain’t gotta try usin’ no big highfalutin’ 10 dolla’ words
To say what I gotta say.
I just gotta say it straight out.
So here goes.
Life is lovin’ me and I’m lovin’ it right back!
Saundra C.
Sunday, March 28, 2010
He Dreams
He dreams beyond his reach
desires more than he can have in one lifetime
He envisions a hacienda with stucco enclosed courtyards
sheep grazing, pretty girls riding in the arena
manicured orchards, a small family mausoleum
He can almost hear the mariachis playing,
smell the spring lamb on the spit
in celebration of the holy day of resurrection
Sometimes his sleep is filled with loss
a nightmare full of failure,
the house, the land, the family: all gone
He wakes in terror, reaches across the bed
for the warmth of the woman at his side
desires more than he can have in one lifetime
He envisions a hacienda with stucco enclosed courtyards
sheep grazing, pretty girls riding in the arena
manicured orchards, a small family mausoleum
He can almost hear the mariachis playing,
smell the spring lamb on the spit
in celebration of the holy day of resurrection
Sometimes his sleep is filled with loss
a nightmare full of failure,
the house, the land, the family: all gone
He wakes in terror, reaches across the bed
for the warmth of the woman at his side
Sunday, February 21, 2010
Fog and Ice
She dreams of how it will be
when she is old and he,
not much younger
will decide she is no longer of use
to herself or others
and consign her to the home
away from home
The home where old men and women
locked in rooms at night
are left alone
to face the silence
and unanswered questions
What was it for?
How could it have been different?
Who am I?
She fantasizes a different outcome
one based on legends
movie scenarios
where the old are set on ice floes
no food or water
left to drift
to die alone
Without drugs
without machines
without somber-faced relatives petting hands
and wiping away the spittle
Without their unspoken prayer
“God, let her get on with this
So we can get home and get some sleep.”
Friday, August 21, 2009
Nothing Better
What could be better?
Your hands holding a love letter
You wrote the words, took the time
to set down our truth, speak the sublime.
Our gift, meant to last forever
Beyond your life or mine.
Martha
Your hands holding a love letter
You wrote the words, took the time
to set down our truth, speak the sublime.
Our gift, meant to last forever
Beyond your life or mine.
Martha
Seven O'Clock
Seven o'clock and where is that sock?!
I hate myself
Every morning I dither
6:30 the radio screams!
I shut it off, just like my mother
Not now, I whine -- I still have time
It just can't be . . . seven o'clock!
Where is that damned sock?!
Agh there on my foot,
What else could go wrong?
But, haha, seems I made it again
I knew it all along
I can still do it
Just.
Martha
I hate myself
Every morning I dither
6:30 the radio screams!
I shut it off, just like my mother
Not now, I whine -- I still have time
It just can't be . . . seven o'clock!
Where is that damned sock?!
Agh there on my foot,
What else could go wrong?
But, haha, seems I made it again
I knew it all along
I can still do it
Just.
Martha
Tuesday, July 28, 2009
It Was Easy to See What They Saw in Each Other
The gold wedding band lay at the bottom of the drawer, covered by brown and blue socks, neatly folded boxers, and a small stack of dingy t-shirts with the arms cut out. Daddy never talked about their marriage. All I knew was the stories I made up from the two photographs he also kept in the drawer. She was fourteen when they married; he was twenty-four and in the Army Air Corp. He must have looked a lot like the picture: green eyes that shot off the page, a crooked cocky smile. It was easy to see what they saw in each other. She had a wild look, excited, self-assured in a way that you wouldn’t expect from someone so young, someone born and raised in a town of 300 where the churches outnumbered the stores.
I want to know how they met. He was probably stationed somewhere nearby, Abilene or Anson? Maybe she hung out in honky-tonks near the base. She could easily pass for drinking age in that war time atmosphere. Tall, angular, long auburn hair swept to the side like a movie star.
There’s a story that floats around in my head, more dream than reality, about a marriage even before she met my father, a marriage when she was only thirteen. Maybe I made it up. Maybe someone told me the story, sort of an insurance policy just in case I ever had any admiration for my mother. That was a dangerous possibility. To me she was beautiful, and glamorous, and, well, so sad, all at the same time. She broke my heart, again and again but I loved her all the same.
They must have moved around after they married. I was born two years later in Lubbock. They were settled enough to take me in for studio photographs, not just once but several times. And then the pictures ended, replaced by snapshots.
SMARTZ
I want to know how they met. He was probably stationed somewhere nearby, Abilene or Anson? Maybe she hung out in honky-tonks near the base. She could easily pass for drinking age in that war time atmosphere. Tall, angular, long auburn hair swept to the side like a movie star.
There’s a story that floats around in my head, more dream than reality, about a marriage even before she met my father, a marriage when she was only thirteen. Maybe I made it up. Maybe someone told me the story, sort of an insurance policy just in case I ever had any admiration for my mother. That was a dangerous possibility. To me she was beautiful, and glamorous, and, well, so sad, all at the same time. She broke my heart, again and again but I loved her all the same.
They must have moved around after they married. I was born two years later in Lubbock. They were settled enough to take me in for studio photographs, not just once but several times. And then the pictures ended, replaced by snapshots.
SMARTZ
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Anybody Can Learn to Play
She wanted to play the harmonica ever since she heard that woman at The Five and Dine in El Segundo. They must have been in their fifties or sixties, the three of them. One played guitar and the other a keyboard. But it was the harmonica that made Marlene fall in love.
Later a friend of a friend gave her one but only if she promised to play it. She tried but it was just too big, too fancy. So she put it back in its pretty case and went down to the used book store where she found a smaller one with an instruction book and a guarantee that “anybody can learn to play.”
At night she’d pour herself a finger of Jim Beam and sit out on the back step to practice. At first it seemed hard and then easy and then it got hard again. The only part she could get right was the uh huh huh-huh. And after awhile it got to be more fun to have another finger or two of JB, forget about the book, and just let ‘er rip.
Later a friend of a friend gave her one but only if she promised to play it. She tried but it was just too big, too fancy. So she put it back in its pretty case and went down to the used book store where she found a smaller one with an instruction book and a guarantee that “anybody can learn to play.”
At night she’d pour herself a finger of Jim Beam and sit out on the back step to practice. At first it seemed hard and then easy and then it got hard again. The only part she could get right was the uh huh huh-huh. And after awhile it got to be more fun to have another finger or two of JB, forget about the book, and just let ‘er rip.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
OOO Girl! You got that GOOD hair!
Good as opposed to Bad?
Bad as in Black?
Black as in Ugly?
Ugly as in Me & You?
Me & You as in Africans?
Africans as in Slaves who survived the Middle Passage?
Slaves as in 3/5th of a Human Being?
Human Being as in White People?
White People as in Beautiful?
Beautiful as in porcelain white skin, thin lips, narrow noses, and Long, Silky Straight Hair?
Long, Silky Straight Hair as in Good?
OOO Girl! You got that GOOD hair!
Yes I do.
In fact, in case you hadn’t noticed, everything about me is Good.
Good as in Proud.
Proud as in Knowing who I am and who I came from.
Knowing as in embracing the Strength of my ancestors.
Strength as in surviving the denigration and destruction of my African Culture and Beauty.
Culture and Beauty as in lifting a newborn baby, with iridescent black skin and tightly coiled course hair, to the sky to be blessed by the heavens with Good Health, a Good Family, a Good Life.
Yes, I have Good Healthy Hair.
I have Good Black Skin.
I have Good Strong Bones.
I have a Good Full Heart.
I have a Good Blessed Life.
Hell, I’m just damn GOOD!
Saundra C.
Good as opposed to Bad?
Bad as in Black?
Black as in Ugly?
Ugly as in Me & You?
Me & You as in Africans?
Africans as in Slaves who survived the Middle Passage?
Slaves as in 3/5th of a Human Being?
Human Being as in White People?
White People as in Beautiful?
Beautiful as in porcelain white skin, thin lips, narrow noses, and Long, Silky Straight Hair?
Long, Silky Straight Hair as in Good?
OOO Girl! You got that GOOD hair!
Yes I do.
In fact, in case you hadn’t noticed, everything about me is Good.
Good as in Proud.
Proud as in Knowing who I am and who I came from.
Knowing as in embracing the Strength of my ancestors.
Strength as in surviving the denigration and destruction of my African Culture and Beauty.
Culture and Beauty as in lifting a newborn baby, with iridescent black skin and tightly coiled course hair, to the sky to be blessed by the heavens with Good Health, a Good Family, a Good Life.
Yes, I have Good Healthy Hair.
I have Good Black Skin.
I have Good Strong Bones.
I have a Good Full Heart.
I have a Good Blessed Life.
Hell, I’m just damn GOOD!
Saundra C.
Path in the woods
Annie and I went for a humdrum walk in Tualatin, (the place with the dreadful RV park) and we came upon some unexpected woods. It was a beautiful hike. Surprise woods are always the best.
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