scupper's Open Salon Blog

Still

Thu, 17 May 2012 04:05:32 -0400

The coat was the same,

but it wasn't you.

Same long arms

drifting alongside.

Same lanky swag.

For a moment,

just a moment,

I was back traipsing

post your long stride.

The wind pushed,

the trees leaned,

and you reached

instinctively back

pulling me forward.

And once inside,

you took your time

unclasping the

nickel ring atop

my cerise boiled wrap.

Faded light.

We settled well

into the walls of wood.

The smells of kitchen.

The waft of home.

How silly I was

about the message,

your clasp upon my ankle

climbing stairs.

Blackberries teetering on a plate.

Photo: Common Domain/Dept. of Ag.

In the nuptial

Fri, 11 May 2012 04:05:17 -0400

Sister: She would pick my busiest month.

Aunt: Coon Dog Day. Did she set the date for Coon Dog Day? You know this is the 49th year. Well, you've been invited every year, why didn't you know the date?

Brother: It's more technically involved, mom.

Cousin: What is the circumference of the armpit?

Friend: Nothing would please me more than to share Ole Blue.

Colleague: Drama, yet?

Wanmei: Ivory, all ivory? We try again.

Bride: Love, love, love these shoes. I might fall walking.

Groom: Yep, thought it was about time.

Father: There'd better be alcohol.

Mother of the 9 boys: Call on Monday--we're at Disneyworld.

Calvin: Nice talkin' to you again.

The farmer: Monkeygrass, Fern, the wild by the creek. Get the bleached willow.

The artist: Not the green and brown glass. It's for the wedding.

The girls: Nee Nee, married? No, he's just her boyfriend.

The bartender: Really to the right, but we'll see. So how many drink?

The florist: Rustic elegance.

The caterer: Come try it out.

The DJ: Scan the new contract.

The printer: Bring them in and we'll swap out.

The mother: (cursor blinking)

By Chance, Leo

Sun, 1 Apr 2012 18:04:44 -0400

Poet Antonio Machado, 1875-1939

Last March, just before the buds released the petals of the dogwood, I met my friend, Leo.

I was sitting by the pond, writing, and occasionally trailing stale crackers toward pothering ducks.

At the picnic table beside me, a Latino woman in a long cream skirt stood talking to a man who was also feeding ducks. She was lovely, and stood straight with grace.

After a few minutes, she patted him gently upon his right shoulder, and then I observed her walking near the lot at the park's edge.

"My wife, Perla. She goes to the car to sleep."

I was startled by his subject, and mumbled, "ohhh."

What does one say to a stranger in the park? I don't know who spoke first or next, but for more than the next hour, the two of us sat talking. The man gestured as he talked, and shared with me a boyhood story where in San Francisco, he and his brother Chi ate his mother's Amur River chowder spread on chunks of sour bread. And this was before the dementia, before his mother passed.

And Perla. Perla was now resting in the car, because they were new to the area and their home was not available for occupancy for two more days. The couple had attempted a room, but had enough remaining money for one night only. My new friend and his wife had decided to stay awake the night before having coffee in a 24 hour diner and to alternately rest in the car during the day in the park theyd seen enroute. Their intent was to sleep later that night with their remaining money in the rented room.

"We want to be clean when we enter our new home."

Leo told me he'd followed a cousin to our sleepy town. That he'd put all the money he'd saved into buying the house, and that his relatives would help keep them until he began working again. He remarked he was at a loss for what people did in our town for enjoyment. He was used to open venues, large libraries, and gatherings near the bay. Already, he was disoriented by the change and loss in culture. He looked at me with sincere, expressive eyes.

"I think I will be lost here."

When I had nothing left to feed the ducks, Leo passed another sleeve my way.

" I apologize," he said.

" I've neglected to ask your name. I am Leo."

And we shook hands as I shared mine.

We talked in rhythm as if we had always been friends. At some point we laughed so loud our bellies shook. I wondered if we'd disrupted Perla in the car. We talked of loss, and I shared the consuming cancer. And later, before Leo fell sleepy again, he recited verse by Machado.

As we said goodbye, Leo pressed fifty dollars into my hand. For your sister's family.

"I can not take this money, Leo. This is your room money."

But Leo would not be persuaded.

"It is not for you," he said.

"It is for the trials of your sister."

I asked him for a moment. And I asked for his forgivness and explained I meant no offense. I passed him a spare key and instructions to my cabin.

" My home is small and you'll have to improvise for hot water. It's clean, and there is music, food, a good view of the creek. Please make yourselves comfortable. Read if you will. I will not be there for the next few days."

"No one will bother you," I said as I sketched a simple map on the back of a scrap from my purse.

But kind Leo and Perla did not go to my cabin that night, and although I've written again often at the edge of the Pond, and although I've read more Machado, I've not seen or encountered them since.

Perhaps, in another time.

Has My Heart Gone To Sleep?

Has my heart gone to sleep?
Have the beehives of my dreams
stopped working, the waterwheel
of the mind run dry,
scoops turning empty,
only shadow inside?

No, my heart is not asleep.
It is awake, wide awake.
Not asleep, not dreaming—
its eyes are opened wide
watching distant signals, listening

on the rim of vast silence.

Antonio Machado

* Machado photograph, public domain

The Float

Fri, 30 Mar 2012 03:03:44 -0400

You know,

going back isn't possible.

We can't eclipse

the eclipse.

So it's enough

to be here now

with the hint of the Lumbee

floating past and dark and beyond.

Bank sitting.

Isn't it enough

to go forward

with kind words

kind hearts

and ample good days

with sun and set

remaining?

Your gentle mother

wafts in mind.

Sometimes.

your gentle father.

Your gentle soul.

The thick leaves

overflowing your yard

and spilling into the street.

Your easy grace.

And when you loved me best,

I'll keep.

*Youtube/agiosvw:http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gav3IgeBbec&feature=related

Squamate

Sun, 18 Mar 2012 10:03:39 -0400

All last year,

when I could not lift my arms,

or reach around to render the clasp

you were there.

And you are there now still

cooking

as I do not cook

except in urges

spending hours

or days

stirring among pots.

And you are there now still

cleaning

as I clean at random

taking everything out

taking everything off,

paring, before

returning, compartmentalized.

And you are there now still

talking

reliving the stories of your youth,

reviving your art,

reverberating.

But when you go

and I do not,

I promptly trade clothes for iridescent rags,

burn tuna fish sandwiches,

freeze M&M's,

run to the corner store for a winning Pick3,

drink dark beer on the porch,

and dream a trellis of smoke.

Sometimes then,

I find old tunes.

Tunes in my head.

Tunes that make me tap my feet

with toenails painted red,

my tail discarded

on your old rotted stoop.

Tunes that make me

lift my arms,

with dewlap open,

my eyes upward.

Tunes that make me drift

and dream, and sing, and yodel,

and even spit,

remembering many tunes.

Photo: Wikimedia Commons

*{{Information| |Description= {{de|Bartagame, Amphibolurus vitticeps, bearded dragon, so benannt im Frankfurter Zoo}} |Source= {{de|Eigene Arbeit}} {{en|Own work}} {{es|Trabajo propio}} {{fr|Œuvre propre}} {{it|Lavoro proprio}} {{la|Opus proprius}} {{pt|O