Frida Kahlo's message: Keep going!

Polio age 6 

And a bus accident, age 18,  

Why not spend 10 months in bed gazing at yourself in a mirror

That your Mother hung over head, nothing else to see

Why not paint yourself, there's nothing else to see

In Hospital ABC, 

Why not marry someone who is always chasing other skirts,

Another artist, 20 years your senior,

Keep going, keep going, decorate your corset

And paint your shoe that lengthens your right leg

Shortened by polio

Why not paint a watermelon with seeds from your wheelchair

To tell us all to accept the seeds in the sweet fruit of life

Because it's all we have, 

Live every day.  

She did. 

Be my teacher, Frida Kahlo. 

 

Victory!

The ballots were not even all counted, but we all knew.  Our man, Mamdani, 

Raised his right arm in victory to the roar of the crowds, a victory for the

Parents who needed to know their children were cared for while they worked,

The grandmothers caring for little ones and needing food for them, the ones who had no jobs,

Those who work and still need SNAP, and the ones who live well but know that the last 

Election only delivered misery and loss to our Beautiful Country. 

The biggest since 1960, these voters, who no doubt braved obstacles to vote,

But by hook or by crook, got their ballot into the system, the one that works 

Flawlessly, monitored, one that does not have fraud, a system we rely on.

Yes, he raised his right arm and roared into the crowd that New York delivered,

Oh and so did Virginia and New Jersey, Georgia and Pennsylvania.  

Let the voters roar for prosperity for the people, for community and for love.

I want to believe that Love always wins in the end. 

 

The view from on high

The trail, being impossibly steep, rocky and generally unpleasant

Did offer a view, an excellent view, down the amber slope towards the 

Shimmering lake nestled between the curving paths.

I could see them, the small people on bicycles, pushing strollers, arm in 

Arm perhaps, and some dogs and if I squinted, perhaps, a baby gracefully

Swishing through the air on her swing.

It was a good moment to pause, to listen to my breath gradually slow,

To let the sweat dry, and to just look, gaze, reflect, pause a moment

Thinking that the small lake would survive these times, would be here long

After my passing, is still here after the recent passing of my friend, Ken,

The one who told me he would herd goats if he failed his doctoral oral exams.

He passed, and so did I, as I remembered so long ago that simple conversation

Which will live on as long as there is someone to hear it.

 

Growing Up

She's reaching for the next grip, carefully placing her feet,

This growing up business, the stretch, and the collapse into 

A mess of tantrums, screaming at this universe that somehow 

Is too big, and not to her liking, this growing up business stretches

All of us from the joy of that new competence, to the severe challenges

Of not losing the adult temper that must always stay in check, the 

Stretch of always being the adult, always patient, always teaching.

I watch this dance and, at times, retreat into this quiet room 

Where I can hear the din of family life, but am not responsible.

Oh, I did my time, and they grew up to have their own,

And my heart is with them, even if, at times, my energy is not. 

 

Desperately trying to grow a tiny lawn

The pathetic lawn turned to mud as the children splashed joyfully, while

Scattered tufts of fescue gratefully sprinkled with water may have smiled

I would have liked to see.

The lawn, the lawn, the tiny lawn that I had tried to grow again

Not once, twice, thrice, four times, but five, finally succumbing to the

Roar of the gas powered aerator, the layer of lawn compost, the special seed, 

The special sprinkler that runs twice per day, shredding all aspirations to save water.

Hoping against hope for a lawn, a tiny lawn, big enough for a kiddy pool

For the one who just arrived in this world, for the two that visit in the summer.

A month in, if I stare at it at a low angle, it looks greener, but on close inspection

The straggly blades do not impress, punctuated by enthusiastic holes dug by local squirrels,

The lawn calls to me to work again, to fill the holes, to spread more seed and to pray

For rain.  

 

Parking blues

Those with money, the shoppers over there, the businesses, can find a place to park,

Happy to pay $2/hour for the privilege of parking in front of what they seek, 

We, the people, in the adjacent, rather crowded, little houses, some 

Rundown dwellings will be overrun by the Audis, the BMWs, the Ford trucks,

and all the other assorted cars driven by the precious students, 

who install themselves and their discarded lunch detritus

onto our streets for 50% less, from 7 to 3, or 4, or 5. 

My disabled neighbor will scour the neighborhood for a place to park her 

slightly dented, faded Prius, alternately distraught and resigned,

Watching the students throw their empty Red Bull cans into her carefully tended garden,

and the neighbor who is ferrying her husband, who no longer knows where he lives, 

Will find her small driveway blocked, because the Almighty City does not allow

NO PARKING signs, she sobs as she calls the Police for the 17th time that week.

 

Panique a Bamako avec Warren Nash

It may be early to start reading Panique a Bamako

But it's not too early to start speaking French with Warren

Or

For that matter, my son, the dad, the one with whom I've been writing texts in French

For about forever.

My daughter is still angry that I did not teach her French even though I really didn't speak it then,

Those days when I could hardly speak my native tongue, raising kids on my own

Just trying to get through the day

But this is different, Panique a Bamako can be read at leisure, like when I sat at the 

Feet of my own grandmother pretending to read, love is written in its

Own language.