June 2022 in Memory of Edna-
The following series appeared in the Collection entitled Sometimes Grief- barks up the wrong tree published in 2012 shortly after my father passed. It is reprinted here in memory of his wife Edna-
The Edna Variations
(for my Mother in memory of her husband and our Father)
Forward
You will not negotiate with death. You cannot dictate terms, conditions or schedules.
Death will not be timetabled. Death will come for everyone and everything you have ever known. And then death will come for you. The only thing you must really know about Death is that you cannot prepare. Anticipate. Control. Elude. The biggest fear you will have to face when death arrives is just how the living will deal with the loss. Death knows the name of everyone you have ever loved and will take their heart and soul with it away from you here on earth forever. And just for the record ? Death knows your name too. Perhaps our only hope is before a loved one leaves us (or it is our time to go) that a stamp of return to send is placed deep in the departed’s heart
After You’re Gone
After your gone and left me crying
After you’re gone there’s no denying
You fell blur, you’ll feel sad
You’ll miss the dearest pal you ever had-
Bessie Smith w/ the Benny
Goodman Quartet 1935
On the café table
on this train this morning
is a book of Short Stories
with his art work on the cover
The one he always wanted you to write.
The stories are accounts
of a person’s life.
Each page turns like days
which were collected into years
as a lifetime passed.
Later this afternoon
you are taking his book home.
You will walk in the door
out on the end of the island
to spend time with a lonely woman
who has lost him at last.
She will be so very glad to see you
to have company and conversation
at the end of the day at sunset.
You’ll make her the drink
and crackers with cream cheese
just like he always did
at this time of day.
You’ll place his book in her hands
and perhaps take away
for just a few hours
that dreadful feeling
of loss
of abandonment.
Now you have become
the sound of a familiar voice
the sound of comfort
in the very empty room
he passed away in.
The smile in the doorway
for his wife
your mother
but really
all the heartache in the world
is simply never
just
yours.
5/2011
On The Feast of St. Anthony
In my pockets tonight
I have a pair of dice
On one side
And a holy medal of St. Anthony
In the other.
I discovered it hanging on
My late father’s work bench
With a small key attached.
What the key opens
I have no idea
Perhaps a box of
Lost things.
But even the box is lost
At the moment.
So was I
When I noticed the medal
Hanging there on a nail.
Never remember seeing
It there before
So I took it down immediately
Like he had left it there for me.
Then I saw the dice
Pocketed them as well.
All that night
I held the medal
Of St. Anthony
Tightly in my hand
As I slept
Hoping
Maybe even
Praying something
So dear to me
Could be returned
To me.
In the morning
It was still lost
I was still lost.
But at least now
I knew why
6/2011
Pentecost Sunday
She thought
as she prayed
I know I could feel
his arms around me last night.
His art
His paintings
His music
was a poetry that was still alive in me.
Whatever we leave behind
like all we will ever take with us
is of the life and love we once shared
with another.
The exterior that fades
The interior that endures
The loneliness that permeates.
A silenced heart.
She cried
when no one was around
to see her tears…..
All I have ever done
was the best I could have done
for you…
Take these memories
echoing in tongues of fire
from me now.
Please leave me
to remember him
as I want to.
The burn of his departure
promised me resurrection
…..and I do believe….
But O god now…..
how unearthly quiet it all seems
without him.
All I can hear are those tongues of fire
please let that spirit live
spread but dissipate somehow….
into a comfort
a promise
of forgiveness
over my anger
about being abandoned
Look into my spirit now
You not so holy ghost
and send this sadness
this pain.
this loss
to where it needs to go.
Give me a new language
To express this crushing grief
I no longer had the words for it
I understand
Take from me my devastation
in the roaring wind
that filled the upper room
Extinguish this anguish
Please no more of this
hollow, lost in-between.
Take this window
Of him
out my mind.
And If he cannot return
Please take me to him.
5/20
Short Dog Sunday
After church that morning
My Mother called me a Lothario
In the aisles of the IGA
because I thanked the Bakery gal
For getting her warm bread.
We headed out to the car
And standing outside
Looking especially
Lost
Sad
And stunned
There he was
Short Dog
Not a story collection
But a real man.
His space of that chilly,
gray sidewalk stunned
A shadow of lost life
Indecision
And a very quiet
Desperation.
In the car we looked at each other.
I’ve got a couple of bucks
Edna said she did too.
We pooled the bills
And I went out to him
Said, Morning Short Dog
And pressed the few bucks into his hand.
His eyes watered slightly
And he mumbled
Thank you.
Getting back in the car
I called Edna an
Enabler.
5/2011
My Mother, The Daily News and the 4th Dimension
I went out in the Driveway
To smoke a butt at 6am
Before Mass and bring in the
Daily News that was delivered
Every morning pre-dawn
Wrapped tightly
In a yellow plastic bag.
Found it
No problem.
Brought the
Daily News
In the house
And put it near the chair.
When we came back
Edna asked
Jimmy…
Where did you put the Daily News ?
I pointed over near the chair.
She looked
And looked.
Nothing there
But empty air.
She said are you sure ?
Yeah Ma I go….it was right there before.
She threw up her hands, shrugged
With assured resignation sighed the following….
Well then I guess it’s in4th Dimension
Next Day
The Daily News
Never even made it into the Driveway.
My Mother said
Enough is enough
And called the Paper Delivery service
Was told the guy had car trouble.
And I wondered….
Do you think he called into the 4th Dimension ?
5/2011
Rage
She shook with fury at him
Snarled so very dark
Pulses of furious rage.
She growled insults
On the way to church
That Sunday morning
Parking in the
Rectory driveway.
Because she could.
Practically spraying
A fine mist of spittle
She seethed such spite
Such anger and fury
She even went after him
In front of his family
In voice that sounded
Like Burgess Meredith
Telling Rocky off
In the gym about being a loser.
And then they all marched
Into the Church and sat
In the front pew
To attend the mass
In memory of her husband,
Who had the same name
Her son who presently
She was beyond being
Pissed off at.
What set this all of ?
Who knows really
Perhaps it was look
She didn’t like
A tone of voice
That reminded
Her of too much
or
Leaving 3 minutes early for church
She hated him
In that moment
In an out of control
Rage that only
A mother can muster
For a son.
Who reminded her
Just way to close
To the old man
At times
Trying to be patient
And kind.
Like he used to
When she got
Like this
Rage.
He had left her alone.
Left her with this pale shadow
Imposter
this worthless bastard
too much like
but not enough of him.
It was all
Just reason enough to
Damn him to hell.
Let us pray.
7/2011
From the Archives
Medical Records
Says here that I was born 6/7/55
for $125.00 with that you get three consulting physicians @ 25 bucks a pop & a C-section.
And all I’ve heard my entire life was that I was no bargain.
Bullshit
-Attitude House 2001
*
Sister in Gemini
(for June Webb)
I remember seeing her out in the front yard in the June sunshine
When we were both quite small
Out on a blue chez lounge recovering from her latest operation
Her blonde hair and massive white bandages and cast seemed to glow
The doctors where trying to repair her deformed limbs
She and I had been born hours apart
I was told that June might never walk again and would probably
Have to struggle this handicap for the rest of her life
Yet it was me who was indelibly marked with harmless
port wine stains on my face and neck….
Like a Technicolor Achilles
and was told to consider myself lucky
I saw her years later in the marketplace still limping with
Her signature smile and familiar lope
I kissed her and wished us a happy birthday
And she smiled and remarked…why you haven’t aged at all
I replied with a shrug….you ought to see me on the inside
They knew just where to aim the arrows.
Got Abstract /2014
The Yellow Sting Ray
When I turned 12
I pestered the living crap
Out of my folks for this
Really, expensive Schwinn
Yellow Sting Ray Bicycle
With high set handle sissy bars,
Gear shift and sparkly plastic banana seat
That I saw in the widow of Terry’ Bike shop
In town.
The old man said how ugly it was
and was just way too much GD money
at 89 dollars for such stupid dangerous thing
But it was my birthday
And I think my Nana kicked
In some dough.
So that evening my mom pulls
Into the driveway with it sticking out
Of the rear of the gray station wagon
And I took off on it like a bat out of hell
Not getting more than twenty feet away
And attempted to POP a wheelie like I had
Seen them do on TV.
Of course I immediately dumped the thing
Going air borne and ending up
In a crashing concussion
To the hard into the road surface
Raking myself up one bloody mess
Of road rash from head to foot in
Shredded clothes and with blue stones
And tar stuck into my abrasions.
Not only that I bend the frame,
handle bars
the yellow banana seat
came off as well.
And some 67 years later
I’m still doing pretty much
The same kind bullshit
to anything
I can get my hands on.
Just still trying to ride the GD thing
Without going down in flames
And tearing my ass to shreds
Down into the gutter
Got Abstract 2014
*
The Kitchen Tables series- in progress
Do we hear what we see ?
Deaf and Blind sensing only frequency
We see in sound
And hear in light
4/22
If I could write in 3 D Stooges Poetry
I would want to be Larry
It would so Fine to be Larry
Talk like Larry
Walk like Larry
Look like Larry
Wouldn’t I just nonchalantly stroll
Into the bar of East 6th Street and 1st Ave
To the open Mic reading
Feeling so Larry Fine in 1939
Order a beer and recite a poem
Spilling secrets of Moe and Curly
Being Larry Fine at the microphone
And I bet I was through?
Bet I wouldn’t go home alone. Uncollected 4/22
Rubbereden 
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