Oh No No No

There will be no tears
tonight for the father who sailed
every ocean, who watched friends
die in the Pacific waters, who witnessed
women drowning their children in the yellow
Yangtze, who came back less than whole
but more than before, who cooked pork chops
and butter beans, who brought dolls
from the south of France, who tattooed
his body in remembrance, who laughed
heartily at Christmas, who covered
my ass when I crashed the car in three
feet of falling, beautiful, righteous snow,
who never spoke of his pain, who lived
to see his children graduate from high
school and college, who cradled in his arms
his grandbabies, who left here on his own
terms though they were not of his choosing,
who comes to me some nights, without words,
a mouth speaking the language without sound.
And there will be no tears for the friend
who planted lilacs and irises, who read
Baudelaire and Balzac, who loved Buckley
and somas, who was found half-dressed
at the foot of her bed as if readying herself
for a night on the town, whose stone I have never
visited, whose laugher I will not forget.
And there will be no weeping for the man
who never met a stranger, who let too many
take advantage, who believed in the greater
good, who loved music and science, whose voice
was a comfort at the other end of a wire
completely indifferent to conversation,
who knew that death was his newest friend,
who left here leaving this magnitude
of a hole never known before. And there
will be no regrets for not loving the blonde-
haired hitchhiking boy from the Atlantic,
who, in reality, only made a stop in this small
town on his way to see his grandmother, tent
strapped to his back and the world in front
of him, who will always be a gypsy in spirit
and a family man at heart. And even the number
guy, who spends his days calculating unknowns
with those who will only enter his known
space for a semester or two, will not garner
my supportive tears. Oh no. Tonight, not one
of them will break me, not one will penetrate
this wall of flesh made stone, this steely heart
pounding out its inaudible song in such a crazy,
irregular, solitary rhythm.

Sometimes Knowing Is Not Enough

Leaves lie scattered
about the yard, covering
the resilient purple pansies

and dying mums. Yards and yards
of streets and avenues
wear the brilliance of their dying.

Beneath their fading colors,
you, and the many yous time
has taken, lie sealed and unmoving,

bodies and faces wearing shades
the restorative artist chose
for you, not quite your own but as close

as modern art allows. I feel this gnawing
inclination to go rake them off (the leaves,
the artists whims), to expose bare ground,

but I can't sense why--

to see you more clearly, to touch
the earth that touches the box
which touches the cloth which cradles

your body? I can't make sense
because there is no sense. Let
the dead lie where they lie, says

some small and getting smaller
voice inside of me. Think. How much
lovelier the earth is in this time

of dying than at any other time
of the year. No rakes will comb
that mound of browning green,

but hands may shove the reds
and yellows aside in reckless
abandon, making way for some other

colors to find a home above you,
those hands wanting to scratch and dig
until the nails are blackened, until

the heart, restless and uneasy, appeases
itself, knowing what the hands do makes
no sense, and what the heart does, less.

The Torch

...has been passed to me this Thanksgiving.
Mom not really up to it and mother-in-law
is simply too tired (88 now and has shingles--ouch!).

Will have about 16 people on Thursday and 10 or so
Friday.

I have only prepared the Thanksgiving turkey on 3
occasions (at least, that's all I remember), so I am
a turkey novice. I am just going to rub it down
with some sage butter (under the skin too) and stuff
it with fresh herbs, onions, celery, and carrots.
I think it will turn out fine.

Now, I'm trying to figure out the other things.

I have to keep these things in mind as I prepare
my list for Thursday and Friday (oldest brother,
his partner/girlfriend/companion and their child
and her children will be here Friday).

I have eaters who are:

gluten-free
kosher
low sodium
vegetarian

So, I must figure out foods that fit all types of eaters.

I am definitely not a traditional person in the sense
that I could forego dressing/stuffing and sweet potatoes
with marshmallows and all that sweet stuff on them,

so, I am going to experiment.

Sweet potato hash will be served. It has black eyed
peas, jalapenos, cilantro, thyme, red bell pepper
and other yummy things in it. I hope it turns out well.

The dressing will be gluten free and meatless and will
have the typical things in it--celery, onions, poultry seasoning,
fresh sage, egg, etc. , but I want to add something to zing
it up a bit. I may try some sundried tomatoes in there.
We'll see.

Also on the menu:

roasted asparagus
gruyere broccoli casserole (gluten-free)
fresh corn with diced red and green peppers
cranberry salad with mandarin oranges, pecans, and celery
(daughter-in-law)
corn pudding (my mother-in-law)
baked apples with cream cheese and nut filling (mother-in-law)
mashed potatoes (mom)
green beans (mom)
sugar shock cake (baby brother's girlfriend)
buttermilk pie (mother-in-law)
pumpkin cheesecake (daughter-in-law)

So, I won't have to cook everything, and most of mine
will cook quickly after I have removed the turkey
from the oven.

Still thinking about what kind of bread to do. Could
make some muffins with sundried tomato (gluten-free)
and bake some rolls.

************************

Been downer than down lately and wondering what in
the hell this--this being here--is all about, but I think
I will feel better when my children, grandchild, brothers,
and other family members are here.

I am truly thankful for the blessings in my life. I hope
I can pull myself out of this funk some day real soon.

Dear readers, whomever you may be, I hope
you are surrounded by those you love and those
who love you this Thanksgiving. Many blessings
from me to you.

Piet Mondrian
View from the Dunes with Beach and Piers, Domburg. 1909

Jackson Pollock
Totem lesson 2, 1945

Irish Setter pointing

(not Molly, but she looks like this one!)

For This Day

She tries to catch the crescent
moon in her teeth, this bird
dog crazy red girl, snapping
at air and wind. The geese come
suddenly, while she's in the midst
of her moon chasing scheme
and throw her off for a moment,
ears perk and front paw lifts--
the expected of her breed.
I watch her as I walk past
headstones and mud puddles,
smile in spite of myself, lift
my own front leg in momentary
abandon of reason. I want to be one
with this world as she is, this red
beauty who wrecks my house,
who knocks my friends down,
who readily forgives. I want to love
that freely, want to want that openly,
want to forget being human
for a day. I want to jump in the middle
of the muck right with her,
drink from the dirty water, smell
woodsy and whole. The moon comes
up full as we leave the cemetery, her fur
matted and wet, my t-shirt drenched
in sweat. We have lived for those few
moments, have accepted one another,
have balanced ourselves in the chilly
autumn air, and for this day, it is enough.