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MORE POETRY
Rivke
- The Last Proletariat
©
Lisa Rosenblatt 2004
I'd be willing to wager according to the strictest sense she wouldn't brand
me voyeur during the years we lived on Houston Street sharing an alley way
strewn with trash beer cans, hypodermic needles and crumpled pall-mall
packs: discounted round trip tickets, a tax break for the poor that ragged
lot exercising their rights to follow orders and arrows pointing down to
the welfare depths of escapism where they are laid to waste side by side
basking on self-styled shores of Southern France, decrepit and reviled
having scrounged on all fours for their slice of the pie Riviera they
overlook petrol stained sand littered with flaccid condoms and broken
glass struggling to reinvent themselves and their perceptions of paradise
they emerge, ashamed, revolted and do it again, ad infinitum
our
commonality that and parallel clotheslines of woven flax geraniums, ivy
and tomato plants thriving despite the soot in weathered window boxes
juxtaposed, yours and mine I could not help myself- you were thirty, I was
ten and thought you Rahab, prone to redeem the Lower East Side you who
thrived on two slices of artichoke topped Sicilian from Ray's Pizzeria
cheesecake and triple thick vanilla malts: eggs, sugar, cream and canned
produce a working girl's fare, to go, every night when I once asked you
how could you eat so much you took three steps back and etching out the
idea with hands delicate as blown glass gesticulate 34-24-38 Curves like
this don't grow on trees, you solemnly attest
but
like many a girl my age wished your Joshua would come for you astride the
back of a heaving Andalusian mare, bound, with hooves unshod for a
decadent gypsy tent of autumnal velvet patchwork staked out in the Sinai
and laid out by his deferential hand was a resplendent feast of wine roast
lamb and figs vertically cleft exposing their clitoris hued sweetness
sustenance befitting your station The Peregrine Queen of the Wandering
Race please forgive the clandestine title I burdened you with in those
days and the daydream that you needed either strapping Semitic prince or
deliverance you who came to execute your purpose and fulfill
you-know-whose dream giving rise to the first ever classless generation
your philosophy so unadulterated - your calling, triple X
when
you'd prophesy during climax, "I am the holiest of holies!" I
can't remember one who didn't come back after he heard that you convinced
them and me, you were the fount of ablution such a collection of men, the
most charming, Othello his Afro, a halo of sloe black which you adorned
with emerald and purple ribbons of satin, always 99 of them never more or
less the tips hovering above sweat spiced shoulders, a salt lick for caged
birds his fingers, deft commissars as they played first you, then his
unplugged custom Stratocaster in baby blue sidewalk chalk scribbles every
time upon departure and watching while he hunched over were those pretty
hula girl ribbons sentient extensions of his sublime conscience belly
buttons undulating in unanimous agreement while he wrote: Holy Mary,
Mother of god, Have Mercy On Us, Sinners So Contrite and Repentant and
Bless Us With Josephine Baker for President four times a week for two and
a half years until the day Josephine died then in torment gouged his face
with fingernails, freshly painted in orgasm flung his unsuspecting chalk
down the gutter and never called on you or her name again
also
worthy of mention was your panty collection seasonal pricey fruit strung
up to dry: blueberries, cherries and apricots I thought they only came in
white bleached as the skin of the one who looked like Trotsky and
contrasted sharply with his costume from Juarez, a garish striped serape
twenty colors the claws of a mangy feral cat having at my eyes the coarse
wool belted by a noose around his waist and hangs just below his knees
exposing slivers of calves betwixt and between his poncho and
crocodile-skin cowboy boots in avocado green proving what I long since
suspected, nothing underneath he who never gets to be on top and always
kept his spectacles on committing to his memory you kneeling supernatant a
lily on a pond and shackled by Houdini's cuffs, which Rivke won at an
auction he allows himself to drown, then breaks the surface gasping
choking on potentiality a fragmented man reborn, a shard of self reclaimed
it's the guileless boy, true-blue, who unearths the pirate's treasure a
flawless sapphire, star-bright, a cosmic abracadabra, he holds his breath
racing back to his swank apartment in Central Park West where his wife is
stoned and snoring, adrift on the puce shag carpet valium and
vodka-straight up, eradicating the ennui of her bourgeoisie life and the
Leviathan guilt she feels for having a legless baby while on thalidomide
he locks himself in his panel walled office with an antiquated Underwood
hopelessly bent on liberating them all: his wife, their son and every
brutal caste system by writing a manifesto of such proportions that Marx's
epiphany would be sung by Bolsheviks and Mensheviks alike- their throats
opening tunnel wide the chorus shattering the windows of factories and
frozen mindsets everywhere and all at once
and why
should I feel pangs of miserable jealousy when he with a swagger finer
than Castro's in fatigues and kohl eyeliner tends to Rivke's hair with an
ivory-handled, boar-bristled brush copy-catting a maestro's light-handed
stroke warming up his harp and I think why that dirty dilettante, he isn't
even Irish! and if that isn't bad enough he plaits it, quick and neat
makes a cable fat as a Burmese python gorged on deserving church mice then
with hocus-pocus flair, undoes the links a second rate magician
brandishing a taped up wand in a small-time three ring circus
that
your hair should be so unremittingly vermilion shot through with fulgurant
bursts of molten honey down to the hollow of your back the rivulets
spiraling effortlessly sunsets in the Negev in postcard format sent to me
from Zev sequestered at a private school called Sde- Boker by comparison,
seem tepid, even though he writes: "Lilith, but you should see this!
Mt. Ramon in the distance is a Neanderthal crude tool fashioned just to
pierce the sky and when the sun sinks, the sky bleeds from the effort,
chaste offerings, every night inimitable, truly, it is; I would contest
anyone who said otherwise."
but if
he got an eyeful of Rivke's locks there'd be no contest especially after
Fidel is through brushing, the act stretched to excruciating limits until
I want to howl, "ENOUGH!" and leap across the alley sinking
teeth into his wrist but Rivke seems to know this and ushers him toward
the fire escape the only way out for him he descends the rungs, a lanky
thighed cavalier two at a time high-steps up to the curb, hails a
checkered taxi, commands the driver, "Hurry, I've got a plane to
catch at JFK- the last one to Havana!" the driver circles the block
five times all the while thinking to himself in Farsi, "What a
horse's ass!" comes to a lurching halt and palms Fidel ignominiously
out the door smack across the street from where Rivke holds court the
cabbies are wise to him by now, so by rote they play their part and there
Fidel slouches on a rickety chair too small for even his ego at a sidewalk
café where all they serve is Cuban coffee which he sips while he drafts
plans on a paper napkin a cartoon icon acting out a scene: he'll hire Wile
E. Coyote -just the rascally underdog for the job never one to say no at
the chance to use another round of dum-dum bullets or nitroglycerin,
which, according to Acme Corp. is the best explosive on the market Fidel
craftily positions X's here and there on the two-dimensional earth most of
the marks are limited to two or three sandblasted continents yet another
one of his harebrained plots for blowing up all the oil fields and putting
those greasy pimps out of business faceless statistics added to the
jobless market he thinks that by doing so the loose hipped sisters-in-arms
still working the streets will get his Big Idea and offer him their gifts
for free then with a mr. smarty pant's flair pinches the waxed tips of his
otherwise unruly moustache a commemorative, in remembrance of Georges
Clemenceau he fancies himself a Radical of the very same ilk and whispers
into his cup, "Five is my lucky number…" pats his mouth so
precisely and decides to leave the tell-all napkin for a tip he saunters
back to work where he has a chair at Monique's Beauty Shoppe and preaches
revivalist to any client who'll listen, "Magnetics are the way of the
future…" some of the women say nothing but most bark at him, "Reinaldo,
you fruitcake- just shut up and do my hair!"
and
Rivke who has since drawn a bath scented with patchouli emerges in a towel
too short revealing legs a mile long and lovely that I could only imagine
anacondas of spun nylon thin as filament wrapped around their length,
ankle to thigh the most superior hosiery and highbrow enough for them
trotting around in the Village in raspberry strappy sandals of Italian
patent leather the stiletto heels clicking against the come-lately
pavement on her way to Washington Square Park for a chess match with
Lenin's ghost "I'll show him - dictate the working class will
he?" she hollers this last injunction at blind, one-armed Charlie who
perches on a wooden Coca-cola crate just outside of Angie's Five &
Dime which sells the best malts and cherry vanilla ice cream in the known
universe and Angie doesn't seem to mind Charlie hanging around out front
incessantly tapping a jump boot foot his lonely arm studded with raised
scars in Braille he campfires his junk, jerks hard on the tourniquet using
teeth strangely white he clenches the needle; the tip seeks out a bulging
vein, a finger sensate then miraculously, uses lips and tongue to inject
ecstasy through his heroin haze he hears Rivke and thinks her Cecilia, The
Virgin Saint he holds out his Boston Red Sox cap for the pack of Camel
cigarettes she throws his way hearing the gift hit it's mark cries out,
"Bless you sister!"
in her
tattletale uniform when she was out to best Lenin, uh-oh here comes Rivke…
that rebellious derriere speaking in tongue and straining against those
bleached out Levi's the ones with the missing pockets and in their stead
embroidered in hot pink script: The Nihilist's Revenge - Kiss This her
breasts rebelling against the sanctions of her crocheted halter-top made
by Rivke's der bobe in Lithuania, whose fingers she said looked like
spider's legs, spindly, double-jointed and just as hairy mastering the
crochet needle, a kerchief wearing, fat-bellied old-world witch
how
many summers she wreaked havoc on the city, that Rivke! I saw Father
Donovan's cheeks, as though he'd never deviated, stained plum wine when he
caught sight of her bending over Mr. Vitale's fruit cart in that
halter-top grasping the length of a speckled banana with an adept's intent
that he suffered a stroke- right there and then Rivke screamed with glee,
"No more altar boys for you!" when the stretcher came she
plucked an apple from the pyramid's top and prying open his mouth stuffed
the waxed orb in, "This is from Eve!" then, quicksilver, yanks a
banana from the cluster and slides it askew beneath his chin the Father's
face a model for Picasso now: a deformed rubicund nose his own
insignificant, the banana according to Pablo's standards an anatomically
correct grin, which she pinches had it been animate a bruise would surely
rise and sasses southern voiced "This comes with a peel off wrapper
in honor of Ms. Sanger!" genteel Carolina girls couldn't have done
better squeezes my icy fingertips, "Now is that direct action or
what?" shocking all but jaded me: I always knew she had an
anarchistic heart
icing
for that framed diploma-a PhD from NYU in physics her dissertation on the
eternity of music, math and light shunning scholarly robes for the
essentials on the clothesline because the pay was so much better, the work
decidedly less contrived she swore the university halls, until a free
for-all, the last bastion of elitism financial aid, a masquerade, a
servant to the Cause-she only bowed to Ethics and confides in husky
whisper she's waiting for the one who doubts to finally tip the scales a
house of cards collapsed, the death of King Copse's rule
We're
not a monarchy- I must protest True, she's swift to agree But well on our
way to a people's republic, with the rest of the world condemning us as up
and coming capitalists there's two sides to every penny, Lilith
indoctrination is cramming those market shelves uniformly labeled not made
in Tibet or Haiti, mind you; most favored nation, my toches it's more
devious than that; they're bringing the wall to us but she mistakes my
confusion for concurrence and seeing this eggs her on and the cheapest
trick of all, six feet under and my main man Marx would roll the
worker-bees fall so hard lovesick, scrapping jackals, automatons waving a
flag broken wind up sheep, embodying every ISM, stinking to God's high
heaven out of pity I bend space and time for them men grieving me most of
all role-playing eternal big daddies motherless orphans need food
centric
as a child, I see in retrospect, she would not allow a rift in her utopian
green field theory chaos in the form of a hungry mouth to feed whose black
or white perception is leprous to life and meaning like Ramon Mercader,
his back pocket hiding a pick proof the insane are not exempt from
collective consciousness it's efficacy all encompassing, stopping us both
in our tracks she, to meet with Lenin I, while reading Eugene Onegin a
braying carnival huckster, censor and executioner how out of place for him
to kiss the brow he would have pierced releasing her from his shame, she
curls a comma on the sidewalk, her halter a crimson Rorschach my nightmare
for years to come, from two stories above I cursed him pleading insanity,
he sports a jacket now, country club anglo white dancing dervish with
other hotel guests, while she on hospital gurney under hateful fluorescent
light heads to her next chess match hardest hit was one-armed Charlie,
hearing the news tumbled off his crate quit his junk and took up church
lights a votive every Thursday; he's partial to 4:00 p.m. Rivke, Patron
Saint of the Proletariat canonized by a blind man
<<<
>>>
Local
Cafe
By
Sky Premgyan
Among
all his things, well he owned a cat,
And
an old boiled and beaten black cowboy hat.
He
owned a truck, his very own rig,
The
thought of it made him just do a small jig.
The
place where he stopped to chow down on his way,
a
fine weather beaten local cafe.
He
went in there often to eat and get warm,
A
spot where the folks 'round about here do swarm.
In
a booth in the farthest dark corner he sat,
In
his green plaid wool shirt, on a peg hung his hat.
The
folks all around, well in they would trudge,
To
a table or booth just to sample the fudge,
Or
the pies or the cakes and the steaks they were grand.
The
cook was so good folks would give her a hand,
Or
him as the shift change would always decree.
The
food was so good, did they have a degree?
Nope,
it was just that the air was so clean,
The
spring nights were cool and the moon shone so keen.
The
food tasted good on a night that was fair,
With
lightning bugs, locusts and love on the air.
Yes,
in they would come with their friends and relations,
To
sample the grub that was best in the nation.
For
dinners, for lunches or just for a snack,
They
sure loved to eat there and they would be back.
<<<
>>>
The
Town That Heals
By
Sky Premgyan
To
the town that does heal
Came
the Wall that does heal.
And
it’s really real and it’s a big deal,
So
laugh if you feel like it, there, that’s the way,
We’re
all in it on this new day.
In
the town that does heal live the waters that heal,
They’re
really real and they make a fine song,
So
smile if you feel like it, there, that’s the way,
We’re
all in it on this fair day.
In
the waters that heal is the stuff that does heal,
And
it’s really real and it makes a fine sound,
So
cry if you feel like it, there, that’s the way,
We’re
all in it on this fine day.
In
the stuff that does heal are the minerals that heal,
And
they’re really real and nothing can go wrong,
So
heal if you feel like it, there, that’s the way,
We’re
all in it on this good day.
In
the town that does heal lives the turtle that heals
On
top of the mountain, finally stopped countin’,
So
live if you feel like it, there, that’s the way,
We’re
all in it on this fine day.
I went
to Saturday’s (Nov. 8, 2003) ceremonies at the Veterans Park expecting
to be sad. But I was amazed to find that the overwhelming feeling was of
joy, healing, gratitude and a welcome home to all of the Vietnam veterans
and everyone else. - Sky
<<<
>>>
Rain
Song
By
Sky Premgyan
Rain!
I’m glad for the bees
And
the flowers and the trees
They’ll
get soaked to the knees
With
the glory and the breeze of Rain!
The
cholla needs the rain
And
the river needs the rain
And
they all need the same
And
their cool wet refrain
Is
Rain!
The
lake needs the rain
And
the grass needs the rain
And
the desert needs the rain
And
they all sing the same song –
Rain!
The
smell of the rain
And
the feel of the rain
And
the sound of the rain
A
big deal, it’s the Rain Song –
Rain!
I like
to write poetry about life as it is happening. So, I was sitting out on
the covered porch enjoying the rain without getting wet as this song began
coming to me. Blessings to All!
<<<
>>>
Ode to Joe Hodovan
By
Sky Premgyan
He
always had a smile and a ready wave,
But
his precious life his poor dog couldn’t save.
He
didn’t pack a suitcase, left no forwarding address,
’Twas
his dear friend Ron who found him,
Found
him beaten there to death.
Joe
would visit with my neighbor,
They’d
be chatting through the day,
Drinking
beers and smoking cigarettes,
Well,
that was just his way.
And
he claimed he liked my poetry,
His
words made me feel good,
But
now his life has left him,
His
skin has turned to wood.
His
brown dog, name of Cocoa,
She
was always near at hand,
They
say she bit his murderer,
That
poor cold-blooded man.
Yes,
he went out dramatically,
He
had a certain flair,
And
when we get to where he is,
Perhaps
we’ll see him there,
Or
maybe he’ll come back again,
A
wee babe newly born
With
a fresh new start at living,
To
greet a brand new morn.
We’ll
never know, I guess,
But
I’m just glad I knew him here,
For
his was a valued friendship
And
I felt his spirit near.
Author’s
note: Joe Hodovan was a friend to me – I could feel him smiling and
encouraging me to write and submit this poem.
<<<
>>>
Kites
By
Sky Premgyan
Kites,
kites, such mystical heights,
They
rise to without any wings.
Heights,
heights, such magical kites,
Connected
by only their strings.
Greens,
blues and all kinds of hues,
Their
colors a sight to behold.
Reds,
yellows, blacks and whites,
Their
brightness appearing quite bold.
Originally
from China
Once
used in celebration,
They
since have spread around the world,
Inspiring
much elation.
Who
doesn’t like to see a kite
Free
floating on the breeze,
Except
when one gets snared aloft
And
hung up in the trees.
Then
finally pulling free again,
And
climbing air in stages,
Making
children of each one of us,
Regardless
of our age!
Love
and Blessings,
Su
escritora,
Sky
Premgyan
Truth
or Consequences, NM
<<<
>>>
The
Wall
By
Sky Premgyan
Now
the leaves unfurl as The Wall comes to town,
Bikers
and truck horns accompany it ‘round,
A
small fast parade through our downtown it goes,
Those
vets, they need healing,
Their
heartache it shows.
A
time now to knit what was
once torn apart,
To
honor Viet Vets, we have now made a start.
My
eyes fill with tears as I watch that parade,
My
brother fought there and his heart needs your aid.
Thirty
years later, we’re ready, it seems,
To
soothe their hard brows, to soften tough dreams.
The
Wall has a home in the heart of our town,
The
chance now is ours to right up what broke down.
With
blessings to all,
Your
Escritora,
Sky
Premgyan
<<<
>>>
Spring's
Welcome Arrival
By
Sky Premgyan
With
sun or no, spring birds they glow
And
twitter in their trees.
Sweet
flowers bloom and somtime soon,
Bees
buzzing on the breeze.
Trees’
baby leaves in green new sleeves
Unfurl
in their own time.
Days
getting long and birds’ new song,
Old
Coyotes faithful whine.
The
river’s high, spring birds they fly
And
nestle in their nests.
Dove’s
famous call, new lizards crawl
And
robin’s soft red vest.
New
weeds grow high, homeowners sigh,
And
wind blows strong ’round here.
The
sun grows warm, new bees they swarm,
Yes,
spring time’s days are here!
With
love and blessings
From
my heart to yours
Sky
Premgyan
Truth
or Consequences, NM
<<<
>>>
Lord,
God Forgive Us
By
Carolyn Kissinger Mann
Written
by the Grace of God
through
my pen October 2001
Lord,
God in Heaven, Forgive us all,
For
not realizing that pride brings the fall.
The
terror that’s wrought brings worldly acclaim,
Death
and destruction brought down in Your name!
Evil
repaid with evil is sin
But,
hardened hearts have let Satan win!
Flames
are now raging in the pretext of right,
Innocent
blood fills the rivers of plight!
In
Your book it is written and must come to past,
A
new Heaven and Earth, the old will not last!
Lord,
God how long ’til You come from the sky,
To
take up Your children and make evil die?
I
watch for our Jesus each day and night.
I
wait for His coming without any fright!
The
trumpet will sound as He opens His gate,
So
ask His forgiveness before it’s too late!
Lord,
God in Heaven, forgive us all.
I
pray now for those who will not heed Your call.
Heaven
and Earth will soon pass away.
Where
will your soul go on that great judgment day?
Lord,
God in Heaven, forgive us all.
Who
will be saved before the fall?
Time
is of the essence and you must heed His call,
Through
the Holy Spirit it is possible for all!
Bull
Rider
By
Lee Belle Johnson*
Take
this advice from one who knows:
When
you ride “The Bulls” in the Rodeo,
When
the whistle blows and you quit the Bull,
Don’t
look back to see if the Rodeo clowns
Have
the bull by the tail.
Hit
the ground running and run like… Well.
Don’t
worry about your flapping shirt tail.
The
clowns will have the bull under control.
That’s
what the clowns do.
So
I’ve been told.
You
can’t always believe what someone has said.
If
you do… well, you could wake up dead.
The
show is over; you head back to the ranch,
Knowing
in a few days it will be the same thing,
Going
from one Rodeo to another,
In
all kinds of weather, “Oh brother.”
Summer
time so hot you almost smother,
Winter
so cold you think you will freeze.
Well,
it’s your life. Go for it.
Do
as you please.
If
you come in first we will cheer, “Ole.”
If
you don’t make it, so what?
There
will be another day.
You
are a first class Bull Rider,
So
was your Dad.
The
best All Around Cowboy
was
your Grand Dad.
Your
Great Grand Dad was a Bull Rider, too.
At
the Rodeo he was a Hum Dinger.
I
am not a Bull Rider,
I
am just a Bull Slinger.
Dedicated
to my great-grandson, Sterling Johnson of Queen Creek, Arizona, a
Champion. © Lee Belle Johnson, Truth or Consequences, NM, 2002.
<<<
>>>
Dear
editor:
Are you interested in a
child’s view of war?
This poem was given to me
by a co-worker; it was written by her granddaughter. The author’s mother
was just called up for duty in the Persian Gulf to fight in the
non-official war against Iraq.
Susan
Miranda
Sierra
Vista Hospital
Truth
or Consequences, NM
Greed
Makes War
Written
by Jane Dornbusch,
age
14, on Jan. 31, 2003
War
is raw,
It
is neither cruel nor heartless,
In
fact it is soulless.
It
is only programmed by others to make a benefit,
No
thought goes to those who die ‘fighting for their country,’
Instead
they are simply recognized as pawns, in this great game of give and take.
War
doesn’t give a care how many lives are lost,
Those
who die are made to believe that they are only heroes if there is war!
Made
to believe that the only way to feel special, or recognized is to fight
and kill others.
Made
to believe that they’re fighting for what they believe in.
In
truth, they are only warring to gain a profit for others,
For
those who are already wealthy,
But
still greed devours them,
Greed
for more riches, that buy them power and rule.
These
people fail to see that LOVE is the real treasure.
But
“we can’t make a profit from love!?
Once
again selfish beings convince the world that war is their only way to show
nationalism.
Soldiers
march off to battle, and meet their fate,
While
greed consumes those who count their millions.
In
the end the world is no longer free,
But
enslaved and empowered by greed.
Greed
is what makes War!!!
<<<
>>>
Knights
and Maidens
By
Carolyn Kissinger Mann
Some
women they dream of knights in white satin
and
men search for maidens unspoiled.
How
said it all seems that the ones of their dreams,
aren’t
perfect or have somehow been soiled!
I
too, dreamed of vine-covered castles
and
he dreamed of a vision in white,
but
now I can say that has all slipped away,
since
we chanced on each other one Knight!
So,
if you dream of knights in white satin
or
the perfect maiden unscathed,
keep
your fancy in mind and one day you will find,
chance
is how your own true love is Maid!
(From
The Bride of Funny-Side by Anderie Poetry Press Copyright 1996)
<<<
>>>
Giving
Hearts
By
Carolyn Kissinger Mann
If
all the world could be like you
the
loving persons that you are
We’d
have a better place to live
and
everyone would be a star
So,
may everything you pray for
always
come to light
for
the kindness you have shown
to
others in their plight
May
the pureness of your hearts
always
come back to you
May
you find great happiness
in
everything you do
May
there always be a rainbow
over
any storm you face
May
your lives be blessed with sunshine
The
sunshine of God’s grace.
My
gift to all God’s helpers
<<<
>>>
War
For Freedom
By
Carolyn Kissinger Mann
of
Truth or Consequences, NM
We've
never heard the guns of war,
except
on our TV.
We've
never suffered horror untold
to
keep our people free.
We've
never tramped through jungles
or
froze in some foxhole.
We've
always lived in comfort
while
you were in the throes.
We've
never known what it was like
to
watch our buddies die.
We've
been spared the anguish
of
watching soldiers cry.
We've
never had to shoot someone,
who
was our enemy,
but
we thank God for those who have,
to
keep our people free.
So,
for all of you who have been to war,
our
thanks go out to you.
You've
made this country what it is,
you
are “Red, White and Blue.”
Now,
all of us are called to war,
to
rise united and pray,
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