RIP Levon Helm
Thank you for being Loretta’s daddy in Coal Miner’s Daughter.
Thank you for your voice & drums in The Band.
Thank you for Dirt Farmer.
Thank you for the Midnight Ramble.
Thank you for The Last Waltz.
Now go listen to “Ophelia” and raise a glass.
(and while you’re at it, do the same for Dick Clark & Greg Ham)
I swear that when I’m going through my day, I think of this or that and then I think, “I can blog about that.” And then, when I get here and am staring at the screen, I just go blank.
On Friday, April 13th, I actually went out to celebrate my friend Joey’s birthday (which is actually Friday). Her boyfriend had organized some bowling. I thought that sounded fun, and even though Han was working, he encouraged me to go. So I headed downtown and was having fun bowling, when suddenly, Matt (Joey’s boyfriend), goes behind Joey who was turning around after bowling a frame and got down on one knee and asked her to marry him! We were all shocked! It was so beautiful and sweet. I was so sad Han had missed it, but I learned that Matt had told him about it the day before and asked him to be their officiant when tye the knot. Yay!
The weekend was stormy so a work volunteer event was cancelled and I did basically nothing. It was pretty great. I think I was in my pajamas until well into the afternoon. I was lazy and loving it, doing my best to not feel guilty about it. That night, Han conducted a songwriting workshop so I had some alone time. Again, was not productive at all, and that was okay.
On Sunday, the Acoustic Duo and I went over to Poway for a short 1/2 hour set to promote a big show coming up in September. It was a gorgeous day and it was nice to be outside. Afterward, Han & I had some lunch, took naps, and lounged about until his client for the afternoon showed up. I used the time to get the grocery list together and go shopping.
This week has been the basic same routine: work, home, dinner, work, sleep. Tonight, D went to a show at her old school and Han has rehearsal. I worked already, and still have a bit of time before Han gets home.
Of course, the blankness also applies to the poem world so nothing original, but this poem was the poem of the day from poets.org and I just loved it.
Pretty Polly
by Jane Springer
Who made the banjo sad & wrong?
Who made the luckless girl & hell bound boy?
Who made the ballad? The one, I mean,
where lovers gallop down mountain brush as though in love
where hooves break ground to blood earth scent.
Who gave the boy swift words to woo the girl from home,
& the girl too pretty to leave alone? He locks one arm
beneath her breasts as they ride on maybe her apron comes
undone & falls to a ditch of black-eyed susans. Maybe
she dreams the clouds are so much flour spilt on heaven’s table.
I’ve run the dark county of the heart this music comes frombut
I don’t know where to hammer-on or to drop a thumb to the
haunted string that sets the story straight: All night Willie’s dug
on Polly’s grave with a silver spade & every creek they cross
makes one last splash. Though flocks of swallows loom the one
hung in cedar now will score the girl’s last thrill. Tell
me, why do I love this sawmill-tuned melancholy song
& thud of knuckles darkening the banjo face?
Tell me how to erase the ancient, violent beauty
in the devil of not loving what we love.
Sorry folks. April 10 had a terrible backache. April 11 was just tired. And tonight, April 12 was tax time!
The back is better, still tired, but I’m getting a refund.
I’ll try to catch up on poems this weekend. Until then, please discuss this stop sign cozzee that somebody made. It’s right on my street.
When she closes her eyes
She sees sun spots
That bloom into sunflowers
She tilts her head back
And looks up to tall green stalks
Brown centers wink at her
When she opens her eyes
The clouds are scattered
Like buckshot across the sky
Deep down she believes
She’s not particularly good at anything
But sometimes she surprises herself
Water is metallic in her mouth
So she thinks she is losing her humanity
She cries at confrontation & sappy movies so we know she isn’t
She is not winsome or light
Though she wishes like hell she could be one day
Wearing sundresses & drinking bourbon during an Indian summer
Till then she’ll stare into the sun
Close her eyes and disappear
Into a field of sunflowers
It’s been a good weekend. First, Friday night, a visit with one of my dearest friends, Heather, who turned 40 that day. Then, I drove up to La Mirada to spend the weekend at my parents’ house. On Saturday morning, Mom & I went to pick up Dad from Pacific Palms. 
We took him straight to dialysis. I wasn’t feeling well that day so I took a nap when we got back to the house for a couple hours. Then we went to Five Guys for a burger & some fries, then I went to get Dad from dialysis.
That night, I got Dad a meatball sub and Mom & I got Alberto’s. The evening was nice & mellow and I went to bed around 10:30 pm. This morning, Mom made waffles & sausage . I went to put gas in her car, then we watched basketball and some golf. Dad & I went outside for a bit, then lunch was ready. Mom made paella with pan con tomate and asparagus. It was delicious! And for dessert, flan! All very good. The home health nurse came and helped Dad out with his stuff. Overall, he was very good, maybe the best I’ve seen him in a while. It was good to see, and he was happy to be home.
Lulu is a sweet pup, although she has bouts of the crazies that are pretty funny. Around 3 pm, I drove back to San Diego. Tonight, Han & I will have a lasagna and watch some TV. Catch up on who won the Masters and talk about our weekends and the schedule ahead. Now for tonight’s words:
A Moveable Feast
“If you are lucky enough to have lived in Paris as a young man, then wherever you go for the rest of your life, it stays with you, for Paris is a moveable feast.” – Ernest Hemingway
I have never lived in Paris
nor been a young man
but my moveable feast is Spain,
in particular, the east coast, the Costa Brava
I remember sleeping in, walking to get a croissant,
then heading to the beach for the day, save for a
break for a late lunch, perhaps a siesta, then back
for more
floating in the Mediterranean, scared and thrilled by
what seemed to me like large waves, from making sand
castles to getting up the nerve to sunbathe topless,
Playa de Aro will always be a magical place
after the beach, I’d spend hours on the balcony
reading or just watching the people go by, on their
way to town. At night, when I was younger, I’d play
outside with the other kids until late, then when I got
older, I’d dress up to hit the discos with my cousins.
the food, the weather, the utter lack of responsibility
my memories have made these things perfection,
a place in my head that never disappoints, where I am
young, tan, and with my life in front of me
it’s been nearly, could it be, almost fifteen years since I’ve been back
there are children of my cousins I’ve never met
if I returned, would it match my memories -
probably not, but would it become another
moveable feast, something to think back on
fondly, new memories, new adventures
to dream, to dream
spending time in my
high school town isn’t too bad
Mom and Dad are here
I’m up in La Mirada tonight for the weekend. Dad gets out of rehab tomorrow then it will be Easter. Even though I don’t practice any religion, I still consciously didn’t eat meat today. Why? The rituals go deep sometimes.
Today’s thoughts for a poem; I hope to explore this a bit more.
Girl, Friday
That girl, Friday? They say she was born that day of the week & her mama was so dumb she just named her that without even thinking about it. I hope she doesn’t have a brother.
My Girl Friday is a godsend. I just don’t know what I’d do without her. I’d simply be lost. But what a curious term. I mean Crusoe had his Man Friday so why shouldn’t she be known as Woman Friday?
Oooh girl, Friday is going to be off the hook! I have been lookin’ forward to it now for so long! Ima get my drink on, maybe hook up, at least do some dancin’ cuz I sure feels like dancin’!
Okay, so it’s not a new poem, but it has to be done. Padres lost their home opener to the dastardly Dodgers, but baseball is back, and it was a joy to turn on the radio on the drive home to hear the Padres broadcasters telling the good news.
Opening Day
this is about baseball
it’s about cold beer & green grass
new bats & tailgate parties
it’s about common ground
between fathers & sons
who forge a relationship
with batting averages, RBI,
& Cy Young award winners
it’s an American obsession
it’s summertime
it’s Padres pride
it’s opening day
an epidemic sweeps through
corporate America
suits & ties in big office chairs
trade it in for choice seats
off the third base line
for peanuts…and hot dogs…
in the hot sun
this is about the church of baseball
where the proper prayers and
incantations can swell and
make us all believers
in a perfect bunt
a shot out of the park
(“somethin’ goin’ that fast oughta have a stewardess on it, don’cha think?”)
the double play to end the inning
“it’s a simple game” yet one
that evokes a poetic beauty
it’s the dirt, the clean white chalk,
every blade of grass,
soft leather of your favorite glove,
riding your bike to the diamond
where dreams can be true
in summer days & nights
where you pray not to suffer
the fate of the mighty mighty Casey
or the sad reality of a rainout
it’s an infectious joy from my sister to me
it’s opening day &
I believe in the church of baseball
Because I went to bed at 10 pm. Probably should have stayed home. The antibiotics or this infection took its toll on me yesterday. Cranky one minute, in tears the next. Side effects. Plus a strange lingering metallic taste, especially when I drink water.
Didn’t take any percocet when I went to bed, but I still had incredibly vivid dreams. Or maybe it was just one dream with plenty of non-sequiturs.
My mom said my dad would be coming home from the rehab facility this weekend. Yay!
Today, two poems:
The Dream
the car could jump and skid atop chain link fences
I sat on the window, touching tree trunks as we ‘drove’ past
the unknown driver shook hands with people below
in the room, there were candles and a small girl
she took my hand and suddenly we were running
fast, scary fast, I had to let go
at a reserve of some kind, in an auditorium where
you had to climb vertically to get to your seats
then you enter a maze
from the maze into an open park, the girl reappears
I don’t take her hand and she is off, a woman nearby
says I can meet up with her if I go down this other path
behind me a massive hawk swoops down to eat something
walking backwards, I take photos of the enormous bird who
is now following me
the woman asks if the little girl owns a dog because on the side
of the path lies a dying dog with blue eyes
before I can snap its photo to ask the girl, the hawk takes a nip at me
the woman says that he’s just playing
suddenly I’m no longer walking, but crab-walking, still backwards
and a woman out of nowhere sits on my left leg
surprisingly, I’m still able to crab-walk with her on me
a second woman sits on the first woman’s lap
and we begin singing “The Weight” by The Band
we arrive (somewhere) and the ladies leave and I realize
I no longer have my phone with the photos of the hawk
I go back in, climb the auditorium, go through the maze,
go out into the park, when a door opens behind me, and
there is Han holding my credit card asking if I’m ready to go
Thoughts on ‘Shoulda Been Jimi Savannah’ (after Patricia Smith’s poem)
jealous
how you weave your words, string them together
so they look intimidating, yet they are plain English
sad
how you must have disliked your mother, the way she
kept you down or at least tried to
inspired
how you occupy so much of your own verse, never feeling
sorry for yourself, but celebrating the you who you’ve become
reflective
how you, though I don’t know you personally, continue to
be in my life, illustrating, simply by being, that it can be done
Took the day to stay home & recover a bit more. Took a long afternoon nap fringed with oxycodone. Had groceries delivered for the first time, probably not the last. Worked a little & watched NCAA men’s final. Now for today’s poem (or at least the start of one)
A Step Up
as Dad recovered
his strength & will to live increased
one afternoon
before returning to San Diego
he recounted part of his life story
that started actually with his dad
and how, with every move, whether
geographical, physical, or emotional
it was a step up
I wish I had recorded him
but then I considered it
like the old oral traditions
him telling me so I can tell you
