Within Close Range: The Flying Nun

Sitting on the basement’s wooden stairs,
staring down at Jim and Dad below,
knee-deep in water that doesn’t belong,
I see Dad is mad. Really mad.
Which makes me want to do something.
Say something.
“I wish I was the Flying Nun,” I sigh,
as I watch my favorite Barbie float by,
“so I could fly all over this mess.”
I long to soar above the world
on starched, white wings.
like Sister Bertrille each week on TV.
I want to make things better.
I want to put things right,
then rise above my house and over the trees,
around the schoolyard and up the street.
With this said, Dad suddenly stops being mad.
Smiling at me and shaking his head,
the earthbound task of clean-up begins.

Within Close Range: The Being in Basements

Some are reached by steep, wooden steps,
only at the end of which,
is a switch,
and salvation from the dark;
where cold, cement floors sting bare feet
and we search for cousins playing hide and seek
beneath an old, pine table,
and in cupboards stuffed with moth balls and old lives.

Down other stairs, parents send rapidly sprouting offshoots
(and their weedy accomplices)
to remain mostly out of sight, sound and smell.
New worlds explored in sunless rooms of cinderblock;
where mismatched 13-year-olds kiss, and later tell,
and budding musicians, mid black lights and bong hits,
learn to shake and rattle the house;
while in the dark and in a lawn chair, I learn to hang out.

Some sunken spaces are like snapshots
kept on a shelf in an old shoebox.
Still lives of vinyl bars and swivel stools
and down-turned glasses on dusty shelves, long unused.
Moth-eaten scenes of what might have been.
A gathering place for friends and kin
where woes of the week were drowned deep in cocktails
and lost in card games – or a top twenty song – to which most sang along,
as the stereo spun its new-fangled, stereophonic sound.
Curious but comfortless, being long-deserted and people-less.
Apart from the ghosts in the room.

My favorite sunken places are worn, but happy spaces
in which my favorite female faces
grow leaps and bounds beside me,
unconstrained and nearly unimpeded by upstairs edicts.
Sharing cigarettes, dance moves, inside jokes
and cases of beer bought just over the border;
making evenings fuzzy, and hangovers a new, underworld reality.
Playing pool, the juke box, the fool;
while trying to play it cool
when faced with firsts and friends far more in the know
about nearly everything that happens down below.

Within Close Range: Rocky

You came to Dad as a hired thug,
but found a mentor and friend instead.
And a family who adopted you like so many strays –
the scarred, the scared, the castaways.
Giving you shelter and a place at our table,
away from the streets, the violence and struggle.
Into our home and into our hearts,
like each lovable loser, you’re family now.
Showing duty and reverence to Mom and Dad,
you become a different creature with just us kids;
when you shadow box and dance in an imaginary ring,
reciting poems of your strength, your knock-outs, your wins.
Filling our minds with fact and fiction,
which is which hardly matters when told with conviction.
We hang on every word from your kind, but battered face
and marvel when you flex your “guns” and chew on broken glass.
Your prized possession is a gold championship belt –
that you sometimes like to wear when doing work.
Yet something tells me you’d give the belt away
if you could simply sit and draw all day.
Freeing your imagination and your wonderful art;
which colors the brutal truth of your life
and what you did for the sake of the dollar,
for food for your dog and bread for the table.
With a smile ear to ear and a clue in your eyes,
I sense your words are mostly lies
to camouflage the things you’ve seen,
the things you’ve done.
Thrust into this world misaligned and alone.
Third grade over and you were gone.
Fighting to survive, then fighting on demand.
Forced to do that with your gentle heart and creative hands.
While the real you, the sweet, curious and tender you,
would prefer to make art of comfort and meaning.
A good reason for being.
In your white t-shirt and rolled-up jeans
above ankle-high army boots and a head shaved clean.
you lean on a rake, on a break from your chores,
spinning glorious tales to the curious, young horde.

Within Close Range: Laps

I look into Mia’s bloodshot eyes for the challenge.
And off we go.
Stroke for stroke. 
Lap after lap.
Ten, twenty, thirty.
Keeping an even pace.
No sign of the other’s weakness.
Forty, fifty, sixty. 
Tiring, but single-minded.
Who’ll be first to surrender?
Seventy, eighty, ninety.
I can hear, in my non-submerged ear, Mom calling.
But grumbling stomachs and dinner be damned.
Closing in on a hundred laps, Mom calls out again.
“Okay,” Mia gasps, “let’s stop at a hundred and four.”
Rejecting her offer, I push off once more.
And she follows.
Hundred and four. Hundred and five. Hundred and six.
Mark’s now standing poolside.
Tiny hands on tiny hips.
Dinner is getting cold and Dad is getting mad.
I call an immediate draw.
My opponent responds with a nod.
I climb out, expecting her to follow.
Instead, Mia slowly sinks back in the water.
And with an enormous grin,
pushes off the shallow end
for her victory lap.

Within Close Range: Spring

When wildflowers peek through the damp, leafy forest floor,
windows are flung wide open,
welcoming in the cool, lake breezes
and the smells of spring in the land’s reawakening,
like the thawing corral, heavy with sweet-smelling muck
flung here and there by high-spirited ponies.
Impatient to walk barefoot across the newly sprung lawn
emerging from the still cold ground,
I make tracks across the yard to the edge of the bluff, and back
and coat my toes in mud and early grass.
Spreading spring throughout the house.

Within Close Range: Flying

I dream of flying –
like the Flying Nun –
Lifting off the edge of the bluff with the wind.
Rising quickly toward the fat, lazy clouds
hovering over the great lake,
I swoop and circle the nearby harbor
where scattered sailboats bob below
in the calm of the bay.
But the familiar forms, 
hidden back among the trees,
at the edge of the crumbling bluff,
soon call me to the dusky shore.
To home.
And the glowing, kitchen window.
And the figure of Mom in her pink, plaid apron.
Ever regal, ever busy, in her blue and yellow kitchen.
I hover there, in the cool lake air,
listening to the oh, so happy sounds
of pots and plates clinking and clanking.
I try to guess what’s cooking
by what’s wafting through the windows.
Until a strong breeze lifts the aroma and me
back out, over the vast, rippling water.
Past the sunken, old pier
where giant carp spawn year after year.
Past the rocky harbor walls
standing hard against the waves.
Until the house and the cottage and the beach disappear,
and I begin to really soar
over endless stretches of dark and deep.
Crestfallen to find my bed
and solid ground beneath me
when I wake.

Within Close Range – Candied Abandon

Beside something scrumptious simmering on the stovetop
in an old, enameled, cast iron pan
that looks as if it has cooked a million meals
and I hope will cook a million more
being at Nonnie’s is a sweet tooth’s paradise.

A candy coated, chocolate covered, land of plenty.

Shelf after shelf of saccharine delights.
Coffee candy, toffee bits.
Circus peanuts, caramel nips.
Oooy-gooey turtles in a box of white and gold.
Tin boxes crammed with powdery, crescent cookies that melt in my mouth.

And leave telltale, powdered sugar fingerprints everywhere.

A wealth of sweet treasures easily discovered
in bedside tables and TV cabinets,
atop plush, well-vacuumed, wall-to-wall;
in pockets and purses, and small tin boxes
filled with tiny, hard, fruit-shaped candies.
Creamy, sweet, tart perfection.

Hopped up on sugar, I scavenge for more.

Scanning curio shelves for a glimmer of wrappers
through crystal candy dishes in glass cabinets.
Climbing up on the long, deep, velvety sofa,
reaching for the lid of the porcelain box on the mirror-topped table,
I follow my greedy reflection in the mottled gold glass.

Seeing no misgivings for more than my fill of butterscotch and Bulls-Eyes.

Within Close Range – Best Friends

We try to light it squatting beneath an old, planked bridge.
Like naughty, little trolls.
Laughing and cursing the unrelenting wind and an almost empty box of matches.
Coughing. Giggling. Coughing.
Startled by the snap of a twig.
Whispering and waiting for something in particular.
Not caring about anything in particular.
Until the tiny roach sticks to my mouth and I wince.
Pulling the burning paper from my lower lip.
Betsy laughs.
Which makes me laugh.
Even though it hurts like hell and my lip is already blistered,
making me to worry about how I’m going to explain the burn to Mom and Dad –
who notice every pimple.
But then I stop caring.
Content to be beside my friend.
Standing firm against the bitter lake winds.
Feeling happy just to be,
we walk beside the tiny creek.
Sudden cravings hasten our final footsteps.
Down the deserted road of my secluded neighborhood.
Stepping over acorns and twigs fallen from late October trees.
Side by side.
Stoned.
Smiling in the comfortable silence of a very, best friend.

Within Close Range: The Greenhouse

Defying the somber shades of dead in a Midwestern Winter,

hidden beneath thick, mean layers of snow and ice.

green was something you could see, smell and touch

in Mom’s greenhouse.

Stepping down into its steamy realm was like discovering a distant jungle.

Moist.

Pungent.

Earthy.

Exotic.

I’d sit on the cement stairs,

arms hanging over the metal railing moist from the humidity.

Galoshes and socks dangling precariously.

Watching Mom dig her hands into a soily concoction.

Inhaling strange, sweet smells of bone meal and blood meal.

Manure and lime.

And life.

Nurtured with the same intensity Mom tended her flock.

Passionate and determined all should flourish.

Cultivating her offspring with a unique and fertile mix of love and cynicism,

melancholy, curiosity and eccentricity.

The Gentle Push

The open road before you.

The gentle push I’ll give you.

Toward those who have much more to teach you.

So sure you know its direction.

Blind curves hidden from your youthful attention.

But that’s okay.

It’s fumbling.

It’s humbling.

It’s finding your own way.

You’re done listening.

Because the whole world is calling.

And my long heard words are falling on deaf ears.

But that’s okay.

Cause it’s fumbling.

It’s humbling.

It’s finding your own way.

That will gently push you back to me some day.

The Tightrope

You said you were committed.

I said I’d be supportive.

But the words don’t sit well.

For your actions tell a different tale.

And your dogged words seem far too determined.

Such blind insistence.

Or path of least resistance?

Ever searching for the answers you want.

All the while ignoring the signs along the road

that might lead to the ones you need.

Neglecting the scattered litter

of past mistakes and warring expectations.

Which I beg to witness at a comfortable distance.

Without uncomfortable and conscripted exchanges

between different people

on different journeys.

Anxious to see a figure on the far horizon.

Hoping they find their way to being kinder.

And more grateful.

But the path keeps twisting and returning

and treading over the same old ground.

Now hardened against new growth.

New possibilities.

New love.

Always looking for something more than that they should be thankful for.

And the peace and simplicity and beauty of the generous road just cleared

is suddenly cluttered.

And claustrophobic.

And strewn with dog treats and decorating magazines.

And the trail becomes a tightrope.

With blindfolded eyes set on some illusive prize at the other end.

Trying to balance on the narrow rope that is constantly off-kilter.

Shaken by opposing desires.

Lack of trust.

Pack of lies.

Loving, but misguided intentions.

Desperation.

Ever the victim.

It’s hard enough to watch.

Don’t ask me to take that wavering walk.

I’m happy here on the ground with my family and friends.

Whose relationships I’ve earned.

Not cajoled.

Not bought or sold.

Which need work.

Here and there.

But are always easy and comfortable.

Trustworthy and sincere.

And certain.

Are you certain?

Of it?

Of you?

Of the rope and where it’s leading to?

Are you certain the links of this coupling are strong,

Not bound by fears of a future alone?

Questions I’ll ask from that comfortable distance.

Hoping you’ll find the prize you seek

beyond such blind insistence.

My Friend

My beautiful friend, with the beautiful smile.

Weighted by fear.

Flattened with worry.

Wanting happiness, but not minding your own.

Keep it simple.

Keep it clear.

Take a long, deep breath.

And another.

Take hold of the thing that gives you power.

That powers your passion.

That fills you with fire.

Be fearless.

You’ll soon find the you that smiles more than once in a while.

And makes you my beautiful friend, with the beautiful smile.