Late one overcast Saturday afternoon, I took a drive down the freeway to Hartford to see what I could see. Sometimes there’s a poem in a picture. 
More photos at availablelightonly.com.
Ever to Cover: A Quilt Eulogy
In the photo below is a handmade quilt for my mother, designed and put together by my sister Sharon Morine. It was the last gift my mother received and, when she opened it, she no longer understood what a present was. The quilt was such an accurate representation of my mother’s personality, a few years later I wrote this poem for my sister and the quilt.
Our mother died the night before her seventy-first birthday, lying under what I know to be one of the finest birthday gifts ever. In memory of my mother, and the 10 months we spent together taking care of her after her initial stroke, my sister made me a quilt identical to Mom’s. My memento for my sister is this poem.
Ever to Cover
She made a quilt
to warm her mother
in her deathbed.
Once connected,
the wildest colors
joined together and
razzle-dazzled each other
into the biggest smile
ever to land on anyone
bright, bold, and full of humor
the quilt was a brazen reflection
of her mother’s personality
a custom gift wrap
to wear for her departure
of course the black was there, too
long, skinny pieces
in a happy border background
where random ragged
floaty white dots
sat and played
as trying days passed
somehow the border expanded with them
appeared to grow larger
come forward and take over
creating an absence of light
yet the quilt held tightly
to the vibrance of its colors
and steadfastly sat
on top of less movement
while the bleeding continued
in her mother’s brain
the quilt, in all its brilliance
could not create enough
heat or light to ease pain
or delay dying
the quilt-maker kissed her mother
one last time, and gently pulled
the rumpled pile of colors
away from the stillness
and the odor of sweat and struggle
buried in the cotton pieces
brought her to tears
and her wet face
absorbed the black
so deep in her pores
it seeped into her soul
seared her memories
and left her in ashes
smoldering
broken in, the quilt now sits
folded and a bit faded
on the back of my sister’s sofa
holding up, yet softer
with each passing season
its smile of many colors
patiently waits to cover
and warm another, waits
to brighten, to commemorate
as it did so well
once upon a time
for my mother
Photo used with permission: sewextreme.com
Happy Quilt by Sharon Morine of Las Vegas NV
Like this:
I answered the banana.
I answered the banana
the tiger on the other line
didn’t have much to say
he growled ferociously
with long pauses in between
so I told him the story of the day
grandma went to a board meeting
at the bank in a gorilla suit and
the board members wouldn’t start
the meeting, fidgeting because
they couldn’t figure out
who was in the suit and
grandma didn’t make a sound
not one giggle or gorilla grunt
then the tiger began to speak
and conversation moved forward
to recap our favorites: candy, cookies
and flavor of ice cream
he didn’t know my favorite was guava
didn’t care to know about them or
where they came from either
so, pronto we took a snack break
he munched on peanut butter crackers
I could hear him digging them
out of the box while
I dipped cold slices of cucumber
in mostly vinegar dressing
to which he said YUCK!
and started to howl
I could picture him
his mouth open full
of chewed-up cracker mush
and I heard someone say
bedtime! in the background
and the tiger said not yet and
asked out of the blue why
daddy and I had to live
in separate houses
said he kept forgetting
to pack important dino Legos
and half his fuzzy friends
would get into fights
when he tried to fit
all of them in his backpack
he didn’t like packing
and fell silent again
but I got the message
his toys were split up
hard to keep track of
hunkered down and spread out
under two beds, miles apart
everything seemed lost
and only some of it
ever got found and
when it did, there were
always new missing pieces
I promised to call again
ring him on the banana phone
every night ’til he returned
home from home
then he would gather, he said
the bits left behind
he needed to keep things together
and when I whispered goodnight
the tiger-boy growled the longing
and the longing ricocheted
against every wall
of the silent space between us
Photo courtesy businessinsider.com/sai
Like this:
Collapse
Leaning on the sink rinsing the cherries
I feel a contraction low in my belly
I’m not pregnant, I’m misaligned
somewhere in my core
an eruption with the force
of shifting tectonic plates
threatens to swallow me
heartbreak is an earthquake
precipice in every direction
the dinner hour sneaks up on me
I have no recall of movement from the sink
my son brings me a bowl of soup
I do not look in his eyes when I thank him
for I cannot bring myself back
from the wasteland into which
I have squandered myself
untended raw edges fester
the muscles in my face
now do as they please and
I do not want my son to see
the wreck loss has made of me
when I go to bed my memory misfires
the sound of his voice, his lips his smile
smack me in the head my eyelids snap
open like shutters as I lie still, asleep
the dark whispers his smell
the face of my love looks down at me
the warmth of him close, fleeting
conducts the collapse
that dawns in the early light
the carefully chosen bottle of wine
not enough juice to keep me airborne
above the clouds in the quiet sunflower blue sky
not enough to land me safely
where small birds hide from a storm
that rages night and day
relentless and pounding
since he went away
Photo ©2012 Hattie Wilcox
Like this:
Sue is Chocolate: A Eulogy
for Susan Fazekas Sardi (1956-2006)
Sue is chocolate
densely intellectual
strong and sweet
down to the pretty toes
on her luau feet
a Key West girl
with a New York state of mind
every day a novelty
her party opportunity
Sue is chocolate
for all time
Sue is chocolate
smooth, soft-centered
dog person, cat person
even a rat person
a maven and a 24-hour haven
for all things girls
an old soul is she
of books, Broadway and tea
cucumber sandwiches
salty nuts and cream centers
the best of the light and
the best of the dark
Sue is heart, all heart
Sue is chocolate
the silly, the serious
the stuff of courageous wit
marching to bright music
in the rhythm of the storm
her silent wings rage
her earthly life worn
her memory reduced
to words on a page
still she sends her love
from the wars she has waged
she bids us fare well
Sue is chocolate
lying where she must lie
cozy in a wooden box
lovingly wrapped in a tropical dress
her toes left bare to warm in the sun
forever in the wind
Sue is dusted in softness
in an endless ocean of powdery sand
and what she leaves behind
is the moment’s stillness
in the rich and lasting
taste of chocolate
Like this:
Under the Lychee Tree
It’s midday in the shade
under the lychee tree
three skinny little local girls
squat on their haunches
twigs in their hands
scratching the ground
lantern bugs, geckos and
cane spiders asleep in the heat
perch silently, unmoving
in the branches above
I’m going to be the butterfly
‘kay? chirps Malia
okay, I’ll be the prince, says Lokai
silent Araya continues to scratch
nothing in particular in the dirt
the other two wait for her to speak
finally Malia and Lokai ask
Araya, will you be the princess?
Araya looks down at the ground
and her voice rises
I don’t want to be a princess
I want to be the King!
silence and frowns all around
Malia begins to grow wings
of caramel and soft butter-yellow
her torso elongates into
a fat fuzzy pink boa of a body
and King Araya proclaims:
Lokai, if you can catch Malia
and hold her in your hand
for five whole minutes
you will turn into a beautiful
black butterfly-prince, marry Malia
and flutter forever happily ever after
What’s the King going to do?
query the butterfly and the prince
Araya replies, slowly enunciating
with Shakespearean pauses
the KING…is…H-U-N-G-R-Y
I order all-you-can-eat
potato chips and pizza delivery
in one hour for all my people!
the kingdom stands and chants
Hurray! Yay! Yay! Yay! Hurray!
their sticks clickity-click
in the tree boughs
then in unison, one big whack-attack
sticks flail above their heads
down fall all dead leaves
and the girls make a beeline
for the house
lantern bugs, geckos and cane spiders
wake, watch the sky and
wait for dusk to descend
soon they, too, will retreat and
make their way to the house
to dine on cockroaches and silverfish
from the high corner of a window
or the edge of the ceiling
motionless in their all-night hunt
they will keep a sharp eye
on a sleeping king
a prince and a butterfly
for when morning comes
all will return
to slumber and jubilee
under the lychee tree
Photo ©2011 Tim Houghton/sharpwideopen.com
Tim found the lantern bug in a lychee tree “in his mum’s garden in Hong Kong.”
Like this:
Nicotine Air
See the black between my teeth
yellow stains on the ends of my fingers
the smell of smoke in my hair
yeah, I was there
born to breathe Mama ‘n Daddy’s
nicotine air
shirtless girl of the south my Daddy
like his Daddy drove the back roads
to fix tobacco scales
while his muddy baby girl
played every day in the ditch
in nicotine air
green fields as far as you could see
rafters heavy with leaves drying golden
sweet in hot humidity
each harvest meant
big checks paid a whole year’s rent
in nicotine air
I light up like a lightnin’ bug
dying slow in a sealed jelly jar
one tiny air hole
in the lid
one
tiny
air hole
in the lid
Photo circa 1959
Nicotine Air first published by Dead Mule School of Southern Literature 2010; Haggard & Halloo 2011
Like this:
Kimi is a Whistle
for Kimi Michelman, b. 1929
Everywhere she goes
Kimi insists on wearing
her sandals with high heels
despite the fact
she’s 83 next month
the Okinawan beauty
who calls herself
the tallest midget
feels the need for height
so daily dons the killer shoes
gets dressed all the way to the nines
to fly out and about
a twinkle in her step
an octogenarian treasure
perched and poised for lunch
she’s on the town
with her new friend Gene
forever the dame
Kimi splashes him with the smiles
of a sunny beauty queen
while startled by her vivaciousness
79-year-old Gene gives her his best shot
to keep the lines between them hot
down on his knees in the parking lot
thanking his stars and the universe
for the rolling-on-the-floor
giggles date with Miss 80s
her non-stop flirting energy
a constant beam from the lighthouse
that is her flashing laughing eyes
Kimi keeps cooking
whether in the kitchen
or driving her new car
she croons Hawaiian lullabies
at Henry Louie’s karaoke bar
her voice still true
her hands keep busy, too
she still can put together
(if she really loves you)
the biggest, fattest musubi
the best ball of sticky rice
sweet and sour surprise
ume plum inside
Kimi is a force
she’s the real deal
as she twitters through life
in her kitten heels
she’s a bullet shot
from a silk and sequined gun
Kimi is a whistle
Kimi is a sun
Photo © Ed Michelman courtesy Kimi Michelman. Used with permission.
Like this:
Wolves
He tied her hands and feet
taped her mouth and covered her eyes
with a rag from the back seat
wrapped her neck to toe
in purple satin from their last show
a few words of love he groaned
and then he pushed hard
and let her go
rolling, turning over and over
down a grassy spill
she regained herself
at the bottom of the hill
felt the damp wet through
the cocoon of her own making
spun from intimacy with a lover
who slowly bid her unfold
yet he did not keep her for long
what he felt for her was too much
he smashed her lips shut with duct tape
her hands to her sides tight under the shroud
so she could no longer speak
caress him with her eyes
or reach for him, her flame bound
passion contained
she had landed hard against a rock
and when the black whirling stopped
she felt her body cold and in the quiet
she drifted in and out of wakefulness until
memories of his tenderness stirred her
to the perfection of her fate
so natural under the night sky
a soft bundle on open ground
the rustling of leaves in nearby trees
wolves whining in the distance
Photo ©2012 Hattie Wilcox
You’re welcome to use my photos with copyright credit.
Like this:
Song in Your Eyes
for DHM
There was a song in your eyes
and you sang it to me
every time your lips opened
to meet mine
and now each minute I try
to breathe in a clean breath
I inhale the thickness
of a pinless grenade
rolling my way
your leaving hangs in the air
a scratchy scarf wrapped
too tight around my neck
a bulging heavy pack
pulling down on my back
assault me repeatedly
it’s hard to stay standing
the blows constant and hard
lock me in a vise of sorrow
and nothing is left to ooze out of me
though the putrified strain
rains and rains
inside I am dry
barren
each hour, even in sleep
there is a rumbling, a tossing about
I struggle in a war with myself
my enemy is my desire
how can I destroy a void
weaponless in the absence
of everything I knew
to be you
beyond blue, I long for lavender
to bathe my body, powder my skin
remove the scent of you
lingering in every pore
I long to replace you
with the taste of cold
sugary tart ruby-red
grapefruit between my teeth
instead, stuck to my tongue
your last kiss is rubber cement
blocking all other senses
I can no longer take anything in
I spit up, stale coughs
whatever’s left
the invisible equivalent
of cutting off all my hair
I crash into low-hanging boughs
laden with giant old roses
hit in the face I reach out
clutch the thorny stems
and no matter how much I bleed
I cannot loosen my grip
I give in, bury my nose
in the softness of the folds
in the velvet petal-skin
of the beauty within
and one last time again
I listen and breathe in
the song in your eyes
for a moment
