Last Ride on the Merry Go Round (Poem With A Smile - My teenage warrior mom -

MY MOTHER IRENE KETOVER 7/23/31-11/9/19  (eulogy 11/14/19)



My mother was a realist undoubtedly a force of nature – the perfect 
counterbalance to the dreaminess of my father – between them they balanced my world.  My mother was the center of any gathering and frankly it seems ridiculous surreal downright silly that she is not here nodding her head as I speak. – Then again who amongst us knows for sure. She was certainly the loudest, clearest voice against any injustice personal, political or even in the case of her pond - duck related ..  Others have paid fitting tribute to her sass her strength her joy - her fierce loyalty to family, to the values which she felt in her unshakable moral core was the right thing -  All such tributes are absolutely true .. I stand by them as well .. and yet as children from time immemorial we all see different aspects of our parents.  I wrote something for my mother’s 85^th birthday,  a sense of my mother who always had me feeling protective of this woman most viewed correctly as a warrior. I know she wouldn’t mind my sharing this personal take on my teenage mom, as I always thought of her, since she surprised me by reading it at her 85^th party – and so with her tacit approval and just a few edits here goes… 

WITH A SMILE   … My teenage warrior mom

I watched as you proudly stood my stiff starched dresses to stand like soldiers in the kitchen - 

and you smiled

I felt your long fingers fumble through my hair twisting white clean strips of rags into wet curls as I stood watching out the window and you smiled

You smiled on your hands and knees scrubbing a floor, tush waggling long toes bare behind you, singing Que Sera Sera

You smiled patting endless perfect balls of chopped meat into magic fricasse

On Friday nights, dishtowel on your head, you struck a match with a shaky finger and lit candles, I watched your arms circling the flame three times, covering hands over your eyes, whispering something I knew had something to do with all of us, and then flung the towel onto the counter, called out Gut Shabbas, with what else – a smile.   

You smiled wiping out kumitz - cleaning heavy cut crystal dishes –until they shone with rainbow prisms, cooking, setting table with good silver, serving, clearing, washing, drying – still you smiled

You smiled singing Frank, and Nat, with my father, sang in your uniquely uniform continuously consistently off key fashion, 

you smiled as we rode off to where I do not recall - standing with me wind whipping your hair in the front car of a swaying wicker-seated-porcelain-railed train - the chain in front of us swinging against the blackness of the rushing tunnels  

You smiled bathing that new beloved-by-you baby brother splashing in a white vinyl bathinette as I stood and watched your face flush with a new softness 

You smiled swinging hands on the way to the park as we pushed that huge carriage - cold steel under my outstretched clinging hand walking in dappled sunlight singing A Tisket a Tasket,   

You smiled at walks end as we slid onto high stools to eat whipped potatoes, a stick pretzel, a chocolate malted – 

the baby asleep outside in his carriage- perfect 

Even if one that time, just that one time, we did forget the baby,

All the way home after running back and retrieving him you panting out of breath and deliriously relieved, smiled –

You smiled, needles flashing and clicking knitting long into the night 

and early at morning breakfast – your hair delightfully mussed, cigarette dangling from your lip you smiled.

Oh yes, you smiled, that mega watted klieg lit smile  

at your parents and inlaws and friends and passerbys and later you smiled at customers and employees that became so much more to you -

One and all individually and collectively they loved that signature smile 

Of course you smiled at my father in a way that set a template that made every Russian romance novel, every love poem, every lusted look and giggled pushaway known and familiar to me when I later met them – 

You smiled as I watched, lucky spectator with the best seat in the house – in the center of the love story that rose to the moon and stars and beyond

I inhaled the love and lust and passionate possibility of you - the dances you danced together, the secret looks, the arms around each other close, the whirl and whisper, the giggle and sighs - the very magic of this love of you -

I too enjoyed all those smiles 

But there was more, seen in stolen moments when a slipped glimpse caught the shimmer of your bright tears 

those times in the quiet of a still afternoon 

those times in the dark of night when on bare feet I was drawn to the golden light of you sitting there in a cool room as you let your knitting drop into your lap and just for a moment let silent tears fall onto a doll’s dress or a sweater for the baby, – as I watched quietly and tiptoed back to bed-  

those times of quiet hidden tears, that I came to know –

the shimmering beauty of your courage – confronting and besting that Fellow, Death that, silent, shunned, and hidden boarder who lived with us. 

I remember and acknowledge and celebrate along with all the dazzle of your dancing smile- 

I came to know early on, consecrated in one precious singular sacred moment so very long ago when I approached you, and reached out and dared to touch a single tear easing its way toward your mouth – 

When that little girl me intoned "Don't cry Mommy" I came to know – 

the nature of my teenage mommy - 

the true majestic nature of those smiles 

that manifesting mystic magic, born and borne as a shining talisman protecting us all.

So long ago, in that cool darkened living room, the click of knitting needles, quieted , stroking the soft wool in your lap, the wetness of that brave secreted tear on my finger, you, my teen warrior woman, the powerful mother I adored, was revealed in all your vulnerable shuttered glory.

Then, now and forever as years float, tumble tossed through life and death  – I feel that smile, that chosen strength scored, seared, branded in my soul, side by side with my protectiveness of that secret girl under the smile, my love sealed forever and a day, for the who you were and the majesty of the who you chose to be, then, now and forever ...

And now the ride you both spoke about on the merry-go-round has stilled – the calliope quieted and yet I still feel the whirl, the wonder, the whisper and wallop of the girl who for a few short days lay with me alone in a quiet hospital room in a foreign state and chose to hold me close before going out to face the world with a smile 

The mold is now broken – 

The lessons remain –

The meaning of the song and the flash of your actual Smile 

Unforgettable. 

Smile - Nat King Cole (High quality) - YouTube

I Sing the song of my father

I Sing the song of my father *

I sing the song of my father

every particle of my being

today infused with him as

though he stands beside me

and has never left – though

he did vanish one hot

August morning - sunlight

burning through white

coverlets – though I felt

His heart beat three times

Once – Twice – Thrice

under my palm and

then stop – he did not die

I sing the song of my father

Who left with black hair

glinted with silver in his

Sixtieth year – slipped from

any coil mortal or otherwise

but for the coil that holds my

heart pounding my soul still –

I sing the song of my father

He turned my head to

the first cloud in my first

sky - to the wind in the shimmer

of sun filigreed leaves to the

sea rippling – as he drifted sand

through fingers and we sat

Together watching a tiny flag

on the top of a curlicued  

Castle tilt and fall into the

Onrushing tide. 

I sing the song of my father

In the eyes of all who work hard

and deserve respect and those

who cannot find work through

limitation or exclusion.  In the

wonder of all that sprang natural

and all that rose from the mind

of men and women –

I sing

The song of my father who turned

my face to cobalt and burnt sienna

the shock of turpentine on a clear

morning a blank canvas holding all

possibility. 

I sing the song of my father

in the crabs that poked from

the mud on the day on the pier

while he painted and the sun

began to slip below gilding all

In that silent sacred place to

Which he granted me entrance.

I sing the song of my father – to

Sun burnt ribs that rippled under

Young flesh – to his ebony hair

To the taste of salt on his young

Flesh as he carried me far out

Into the sea. 

I sing the song of my father

to that crinkle nose secret

smile he passed to my mother

as they sang from song-sheets

To his eyes closed in ecstasy as

Music shook the walls around

and I peeked from my own

encouraged experience to see

A tear trailing at crescendo

I sing the song of my father as

I feel his hand in mine strong

Ever present – singing in the

Shimmer of leaves in a willow

Rustling in chestnut blossoms

Soaring on the velvet tip of

A blued jay on a clear day

Returning caw for call

I sing the song of my father

As he stood watching my ride

On a carousel light slanting

Through high window – calliope

Playing waiting for me with

Open arms to jump – I jump

I sing – the song of my father

Holding my newborn son

in aquamarine waters high

above his head – diamond

droplets falling about them

I sing the song of my father

Coffee cups before us

Words flying as red cardinals

soaring from- between –above

I sing the song of my father

I sing in memory, in reflection

In honor, in dedication and

In love – I feel his presence in

the air that brushes my cheek

In every particle of my being

and though I thought it a wonder

that he left when his hair was

mostly black and his back straight

when he could bend and rise

From the earth of his gardens hands

rich with fragrant loam – Left still

young enough

I see him now – hair white –

The slightest stoop as he stands

Shining in the blaze of sun

Beams shooting dancing rays

For it is from

His lips - I sing his song

Forever with the life he

Lent to me.

published in Bards Annual Anthology 

the ketchup wars

the ketchup wars 

whooping warriors of bloodless pretend wars

we ran, mugging fierce faces at each other as

we fell, graceless as bowling pins in faked suffering

the kind seen in the silence of marble chilled cinemas 

the kind of ketchup killing 

where rugged men rode ranges of firing rifles

stuffed with celluloid splendor of grace and always 

always lived to ride home with clean hands 

to some sweet lady holding her hair off her face

and their cows safe in the fence she had fixed 

SCISSORS AND SPACKLE 

Cat on windowsill - A Haiku

Cat on windowsill 

Folding boneless in sunlight

Origami breathes

HAIKU JOURNAL 5-29-12 

Girls in Plum Sweaters

Girls in Plum Sweaters 

what can girls in plum sweaters

be expected to know of loss

as they pass the shovel among friends

unorated letters on pretty stationary drift

in the wind - as earth hard-hits the coffin

inside sweatered pruning friend on white satin

outside they, fresh as dropped stitches 

from a single skein of yarn

creating a forever hole

in matching plum sweaters,

dirt under fingernails

cold wind in their fresh washed  hair

Burningword 

Red Dust

Red Dust

On the steps behind the garden gate he sat, 

small dark eyed boy 

compact and steely as a newly minted dart 

coiled in the exile of his mother’s dubious fear. 

Outside others shouted, kicked unseen stones 

in the red baked earth – 

he watched as billows of joy drifted through the latch 

until a boy chasing a soccer ball came to the gate and  

waved him on - petulant, dubious, rebellion puffed his

sparrowed chest and dark eyes dancing he quickly 

lifted the latch and ran onto the red rousted dust 

as fuses sprang and all was glinting metallic,  

a boy arm, a shower of red rock, a sneakered foot,

that soccer ball, all collateral damage,

scar on the land – 

this now gone boy 

once safe behind the grated gate 

now mixing

with the red dust.

 New Myth  5-29-12 

In the center of the eye

In the center of the eye

In the center

of the eye

that can no longer

hold

fragile sense of certitude in

nothing beyond Now

Crescendoed crash

light smash

shifts all in shades of shimmered

cerulean

tide pulls

tremulous tempestuous

insistent

irrevocable

Tomorrow.

Indio Rising - 6/19/12

Papa’s Box

Papa’s Box

Mandated for centuries a plain pine box

raw wood unadorned slipping easily

into the earth from whence he came

But Papa loved mahogany

spent lemon scented Sundays

oiling the whirls in the towering breakfront

the cornered Victrola on its own fringed carpet,

the twin side-tables at which he knelt to polish each

claw footed toe in turn with his white cheesecloth

and soft sable mustache brushes

In the soft late afternoon Sunday light

glowing golden he’d smile at the gentle shimmered

sheen of his burnished mahogany

and so – when it was time – there in place

of that mandated raw pine was Papa slipped

into the earth in solid mahogany shining

as his smile lowered into the soft earth of

that final Sunday a scent of lemon oil drifted

a filament of pure white cheesecloth lifted into the air 

*scissors and spackle 8-23-12)   

I am haunted

I am haunted

by the tumbled toss

of cosmic die that

flung my speck of

soul “here and now”

full bellied and free

rather than there and

who knows when –

burkaed, beaten,

starving, perhaps an

ash blowing in wind –

cosmic toss of good

fortune – haunted by

echoes of the others

beseeching bloated

arrogant far too for-

tunate-to-do-nothing

me – I stumble on in

too much good inten-

tion and far too little

action -this languid

legacy of legions of

“there but for some

grace go I” haunted

by unearned privilege

BARDS ANNUAL ANTHOLOGY 2018 

Away from home in my own skin - a prose piece for Poets United Sunday Pantry

Breasts. Yearned for as a tiny girl and then, and then, they came seemingly overnight. Breasts had power over my life, like some slutty cousins who come unexpectedly to stay with you and end up following you wherever you go and leaving you with their bad reputation. For, as everyone knows, or should, girls with big breasts do have reputations, whether they have earned them or not.  Reputations, that are created behind bathroom doors, mostly by adolescent boys who want to get their hands on “them” and less often, but frequently, by girls who would just as soon rip them off for their own if they only could. They boys, I knew at thirteen, would gather in clumps around the water fountain in the hallway at school or more disturbingly after school in front of Joe’s Pizza Palace in the shopping center, thumping each other on the arm and nodding as though they all had some secret knowledge about me. When you’re a girl with big breasts you can either go with all of this, or retreat.  I favored retreat – under voluminously big shirts and after school days at home after homework, down in our cool, damp basement, curled up in a soft old velvet armchair that had been my grandfathers, sipping iced coffee which I considered very sophisticated and reading a Russian novel which I knew was. Sometimes, I’d cry into that tall tumbler of iced coffee, the glass pressed tightly against those two treasonous mounds – sometimes I’d convince myself it was the Russian heroine who was throwing herself under train tracks or some such drama, though I knew.  I knew. It all seemed quite dismal until I met Jerome Fitzmaurice in Problems In Democracy, and everything changed.   (298 words)