CatScratches

My Dad

My dad was an American
A patriot
a veteran
a blue-collar kid who grew up
in the heart of Manhattan
who defended the unions
Especially after Reaganomics
and even after the accident

My dad was a father
a husband
a brother
a limousine driver later
who ate books like food
who loved his wife and
children like men do on
black and white tv

My dad had a genius IQ
untapped as it were
malnourished brilliance
evolves differently
unavailable to society
it spilled all over us
it's bloomed and blooms in ways
we only get to learn now, today

A song for my mother

I miss you
I wish you could see
The moon over my tree

I think about
All of our lives
And Time, she just rolls her eyes

We say why oh why oh why oh why
And we look for an answer to soothe
But why is a crooked letter and
Her edges will never be smooth

We say why oh why oh why oh why
But an answer we'll never get
Because why is a crooked letter and
No one's straightened her yet

I hear it
I fear It is you
Warning me "love what you do

Persistence is key
To your fill
And regret, the bitterest pill"

You say why oh why oh why oh why
And you give up things for Lent
But why is a crooked letter and
She'll always remain bent

You say why oh why oh why oh why
But an answer you'll never get
Because why is a crooked letter and
No one's straightened her yet

I need to
Agreed to be me
Regardless of the fee

I've paid it
I've waited so long
To learn the words to my song

I'd say why oh why oh why oh why
And you would simply reply
Why is a crooked letter baby
Please don't cry

I'd cry why oh why oh why oh why
And you'd smile into my fate
Because why is a crooked letter baby
That'll never be made straight

Thanksgivings...will always be for Mama Catherine

'06

Visions,
Dozens
Of my mother
Standing in front
of the kitchen sink
dish rag over her shoulder
cold water running over potatoes
that only Mo could mash
the mysterious smell of Bell's
for twenty-eight years
the sound of that fat stainless steel spoon,
scraping the bottom of Mama's ancient pot
"Did it pop yet?"was the question of the day
My Aunts go up and down, up and down
the stairs to the basement 
bowls and plates steaming,
in the corner Dave and Matt,
just little boys their hair greased in d.a.'s
cigarette packs rolled in their sleeves,
lipsyncing Greased Lightning
They have kids of their own now
But Thanksgiving will always be home

*******

'07

Fixed at the stove there
Spinning her spells
over the rice pudding
My dad loved so well
There she is standing
Where she belongs
I'm choked with longing
And then come the songs
Made up lyrics to Davey Crocket, Adelvaise
Songs she sings to us in silhouette at night
I hear her voice out loud
I see her beautiful smile of old
I feel her hands cupping my face
All the while her palm gets cold

Faeth

You laugh loud and hard
When the little plastic jug
Goes glub glub glub
Between your chubby thighs
As you slam it upside down
On the water in the tub

Later when you sleep,
backed up against me
I can smell my life and happiness in your hair
And feel yours pulsing in your tiny heel

A horse called Verse

You know how it is Ca…”When you fall off a horse, the best thing to do is to get right back on.”

I’m not sure who said that first, but it was told to me with a trademark smirk some time ago by my cousin Billy while describing the ensuing drama after separating from his wife.  I’ll leave you to wonder what he meant but the important thing is, it was Billy who said it.

Billy was the first person (other than my Dad -always my biggest fan) to tell me that I should write.  “You should write a book,” he said to at Thanksgiving once (like one he describes in the letter on my blog entry "Thanksgiving..."). Of course, we come from a long line of native New Yorkers so it came out more like “Yu shud ride-a-book”.

I haven’t written that book…yet.  But I do write. I have for as long as I can remember..  Even if the only people who ever read what I write are family and friends and the occasional performance art audience I would still write.  It is my lifeblood. But what Billy said has stayed with for some time.  Get back on that horse.

Because I’ve been writing things down all my life and writing poetry, prolifically, since I was about 13, my daughter will someday pick up the boxes of so many notebooks, notepads, typed pages and napkin scribbles I’ve saved and discover exactly who I am. She'll also find out who I was and in some ways who I will be, all in my own words. 

When she opens that box, she will meet me as a brainy, insecure adolescent who puberty was VERY unkind to, with a monstrous unrequited crush on a kid we called Danny Gonzo and a penchant for ballad meter. 

She will know me as an even smarter, happy, if less-than-ambitious teenager, with good grades and good friends who are still an important part of her life. 

She will know me in my twenties when life was really fucking rough and I experienced more in ten years than most people do in a lifetime. 

She will know me in my thirties when I started learning from my mistakes instead of repeating them. When finally, I got comfortable in my own skin, with my own face and felt truly beautiful for the first time.  When I found my groove and my muse and I got real. 

She will see me perform at so many open mics and even do a regular gig at Mo’s cabaret show at the Duplex on Christopher Street.  She will know me when I wrote poems fiercely and frequently and found her father.  Or, rather, when he found me.

She will know me in my forties…which began with her and which continue to be the best years of my life.  Hopefully she will know many more decades of me…because I will keep writing it all down.  I can only hope that she learns something from it all, is proud of her mother and the life she led and finds out things I never got to find out from my own wonderful, loving parents.

It’s been far too long since I posted anything or put up any new poems.  It’s not that my now almost 2 year old daughter is a drain on my creativity but that I’m happier spending that creativity on her, making Halloween bats to hang at Daycare as opposed to writing.  I’ve written and forgotten more poems and essays since she was born than I could possibly count.

But now, I felt like I had to post something, if only to get me back into the rhythm of it. Billy said I should and because my wicked awesome, painfully funny and talented cousin Billy is just one of those guys you listen to, I’m going to get back on that horse.

I like to call him Verse.

Untitled

I drink day old coffee

I stay up too late

I sleep in my makeup

I burn on occasion

I say too much  

I just can’t wait

Except when I can

And that’s always too long

Fighting for happiness

I wouldn’t say I have panic attacks
So much as I have bouts with panic
Silent, violent scraps with anxiety
The melee in my head happens quick
And so far I always win
Oh he tries to box me in
Rations and irrational fears
Pressure from peers
Looming smears
A bloody wreck he’d have me
But only if I let him
And so far I always win

You've Come Home

A Hitchcock of ravens in the silver oak
My totem of birds
Flocks
Hawk swooping in
Swallows 
Baby Bunny
Burrows in the shrubbery
Ground hog holes
Fireflies like golden snowflakes
What’s left of a Japanese Maple sprouting
Rice-paddy-hat-wearing fungi
A Forsythia bush waves from across the street
It seems I’m right where I should be
I can even see Cassiopeia from my stoop

Back in the saddle...

and it only took a year and forty-five days. Whooda thunk my beautiful perfectly perfect baby girl  (she kinda looks like she does in the sonogram below right?!)

could've sucked away all my creative energy for the more than the first year of her life?  Okay so of course she did.  But it's all coming back. 

It's like going number two.  It comes rushing in whether you like it or not and sometimes it takes a while Sometimes it happens so fast you're not sure it did happen.  Sometimes it's cathartic.  Sometimes it's painful.  But for now...it keeps on coming. 

I've written three new poems.  For each of those, I've lost a dozen to my daily commute, Bumble, 7 consecutive loads of laundry, my career, my libido...my life.  It's also been the best year and forty-five days...of my life.

My pen and paper take a backseat to the Bumble

You'd think that with all the emotionality, hormones and various ups and downs of impending motherhood that my creative juices would be overflowing...alas, it is not so.  I've been trying to write but am having enough trouble just remembering where I left my keys in the morning.  They call it baby brain.  But look at our beautiful Bumble...I can hardly think about anything else.