After-Shock dedicated to my mother Irene Ketover * (a 4 in 1 poem)

George Hodan 

After-Shock 
dedicated to my mother Irene Ketover * 
(a 4 in 1 poem) 

I

Ah she limped southward home – suddenly feeling the feeble crawling

into the hollow between each purple breath-

a strange stark completely non-mystic malaise fell heavily over  her shoulders

leaning onto a newly given cane –

feet shuffling as though already caked with soil – through this pestilence

of soul – she moved,
hunched -burdened as any donkey whipped forward

neither, family, friend, nor compromised future any consolation –

As she limped southward home – wondering where the past twenty years

had vanished and how she – yes she - had suddenly become the old woman

in the mirror who refused to return her true image.

II

Of course the prodigal son returned with a roar at the news – rushing in manic maddening proclamation to save her from herself – a daughter one-thousand miles away collected each word as an obvious treasure – spilling her longing in e-mails already grieving, lighting candles in the silences between them as they spoke of weather reports and therapies, reasonable, quiet talk, that drove her to the edge of madness – returning long-shelved thoughts of a cool tavern and an afternoon of quiet solitary Scotch – anything to still the prodigal son and the dutiful daughter as she struggled to remember where she had put her-

self

                                                                                                (Inspired by Whirligig words 7 -5/31) 

III

They had a method in the old country for such descendant despair

the women would pick up complicated needlework and work -together
humming under the shade-trees.

The men, one fool after another - as young and sparkly eyed as small boys would break from
 their toil in the olive groves – move out of the sun, play dominoes – 
Though the women tsked and shook reproachful heads – 
there was not a single one that did not - after a while- 
smile – as they sat - women and men under the shade-trees

surrounded by stones bleached pale as the faded lace of old bridal gowns

the sun so strong that despair shriveled, dried and blew out across the green pastures - far into the unseen distance vanishing before reaching the gentle white dots of sheep grazing on the edge of the horizon.

As she climbed the stairs, unlocked her apartment door, limped in and

sat in the cool whir of air-conditioned air - among the things of her life-

time – her eyes drifted closed – and she felt the needle between her fingers the smooth edge of dominoes – and the imagined breeze in a created land of olive trees and grazing sheep and the laughter of simple living – and smiled –

in spite of it all.

                                                                                                            (Inspired by Whirligig words 8 -5/24)

IV

When she woke - for surely she had slept – it was late –

darkness rudely fingered the sky and there was a full kettle on boil – curious and curiouser she thought – a top-hat sat on the table - just outside her vision flashed the white fur of a snow-shoe hare – Ah, she thought snarkily now this was nifty- a veritable cherry on the sundae of her supposed vanquished despair – For, you see, now she looked through the glass – spied her neatly arranged sitting room - all apparently in order - until she noticed the chain on the door switched from left to right a tumbled bag of carrots left on the kitchen counter swapped for a single unreachable ring sparkling in each carat of three– the then, the when and the now and without a single doubt

she realized Alice had returned and led her through the glass where she now stood befuddled, bewildered, and bewitched, pacing but without a hint of limp – breathing deep --

and free - fogging the glass from the other side – 
Looking.

Yearning 
to return inside – hope rising like a bright red balloon swelled to bursting
 – delighted and disoriented – in equal measure - either on the edge of breaking free or about to

soar away deep 
bouncing on the wrong side of the mirror – 
Forever.
She chose to laugh
and glass
crumbled about her
to sweet powder
tickling
despair to dust
blowing past her unpinned hair 

                                                                                                (Inspired by Whirligig words 9- 5-31)

            Note -

• Dedicated to my mother Irene Ketover who is coming back stronger than ever after her recent surgery - This single poem in 4 stanzas – represents the surreal world and state of mind - many find themselves inhabiting after a simple fall and a broken hip.  - I included the words from Whirligigs 6-9 in order to catch up.

Un-titled

I was a constrained contained trapped adult

chained within childhood convention confines

and chronology – a compacted adult blowing

birthdays away with great puffs hotly eager to

grow – suffering enforced politeness at a host

of indignities – from “children’s menus” to all

that was held from me by simple size – seeking

to step into my future to come in the whisper of

the wind, in ruffled pages -books swallowed al-

most whole – …. Only now – when there is no

like-hood whatsoever that I should be mistaken

for a child – do the giggles bubble and a skip

slip into my step.

Only a Locket, Never for Wendy, Picnic, 3 Poems on Loss/Lost

Only a Locket, Never for Wendy,  Picnic,  

3 Poems on Loss/Lost 

~

Only a Locket 

Only a locket *

It was only a little thing

they told me – again and

again – not worth much at

all – replaceable in any low

end jewelry store – They’d

buy me another – Another –

Sweet secure, ignorant young

faces – mystified at grandma’s

tears overflowing the sharp

ruts in soft creases that was

now my metaphormized face

dripping onto my parchment

hands -older now by decades

than my mother’s ever got to

be – It was the remembering –

My mother her smile like a

dream – putting me on that

boat – my name pinned to my

good navy coat – My mother

sea wind whipping her hair

from its pins – clutching me

to her hard as the ship’s horn

blasted – and in an impetuous

fumbling final frantic moment

reaching up -into the tangle of

her hair and unclasping the locket

I had never seen her without –

Pressing pressing it into my hand

closing my fingers around it – as

the crowd surged forward

pressing pressing – that little locket

in my palm – holding it so tightly

that even as the crowd carried me

off with them-as the ship pulled

from shore and all the people dis-

appeared I could still feel its mark

– and the heat of her heart – with

me in the wake of the waves as

a cold wind blew me to America.

* photos are not personal - they are public domain images 

~

Never for Wendy 

Never for Wendy

In the land of “lost boys”

a little girl could only be

a gentle Wendy suffering

in sweet silence her

subjugated loss of

capturing pirates –

tending the others

and ending with a

needle and thread

still sewing shadows


~

Picnic

It was a family circle picnic

there were faces never seen

children running in circles

in the dappled summer sun

to the lake where I was for-

bidden and so,wandered on

a winding path through cool

trees -light filagreed through

-barefoot – and dreamy and –

three – the clatter chatter of

their voices fading to bird-

song and then vanished and

there I was –

lost

The making of Honey

Rostislav Kralik

The making of Honey

“Oh I is so tire honey”

My mama worked “in

clothes” that’s the way

she liked me to say it –

Once I peeked in after

school when I sat on

the bench in the front

of the store and waited

for that opening of the

door that would spill

her out. Once I peeked -

and there she was lining

up a row of shirts so -

straight and fine I could

have taken my grown-up

-engineer-self’s level to it

and a bubble would have

floated just perfectly -

Back then on that day –

could have been any day

“Oh I is so tire honey”

lingered in the air sweet

mysterious and sacred

as a Latin service I heard

once – ending with a bell

shimmering like a tear -

Everything come together

in the hot steamy waiting

to a discrete symbol -

A simple element on

the periodic chart of

our life together –
ever remembered