Rohn Federbush's Blog, page 32
July 11, 2013
Danny Bianco
Danny Bianco
Not allowed to say your name, made you up a new one.Fitting hair and dander, the name stayed way past your going.
In the nineties, I spotted you slipping into an Ann Arbor Main Street bank.I parallel parked so fast, the meter turned generous.
But it wasn’t the man I remembered, not you.Not the demanding son of a whore, who told you,It costs money for you to wake up, each morning.
You, epitomizing languid classical beauty,sketched in pencil on the wall over my empty bed.You are the one my blood still rushes to embrace.God forgive me, I still remember with ready, salivating hunger.
Not allowed to say your name, made you up a new one.Fitting hair and dander, the name stayed way past your going.
In the nineties, I spotted you slipping into an Ann Arbor Main Street bank.I parallel parked so fast, the meter turned generous.
But it wasn’t the man I remembered, not you.Not the demanding son of a whore, who told you,It costs money for you to wake up, each morning.
You, epitomizing languid classical beauty,sketched in pencil on the wall over my empty bed.You are the one my blood still rushes to embrace.God forgive me, I still remember with ready, salivating hunger.
July 10, 2013
Daddy’s Missing Photo
Daddy’s Missing Photo
With ten grandkids and oodles of greats, who knowswhich child needed one more story for show-and-tell?
You were looking fine: blue suit, peacock tie,leg up on the running board of the new Model-T.You stayed under forty miles an hour for the firstthousand miles to break her in, like a young colt.
In the black-and-white photo, your right armlays on the hood, probably still warm from your first ride.Your left hand grips your thin waist, a grand city dandy,your white fedora is pushed back like aneagle-eyed farmer’s when the sun is out of his eyes.
Did a secret admirer receive a chaste gift,Or did Mother’s frustration with your old-agedementia rip her favorite picture from the album?She told my older sister, she hoped I’d quit asking.She stopped calling you ‘Denzle’ in her diary.
But, down in the Keys, she screamed for us to, “Stop the car!”At eighty-six she ran to a wood railing near the ocean.“Daddy fished here,” she said, remembering the manshe’d loved for over sixty years.
With ten grandkids and oodles of greats, who knowswhich child needed one more story for show-and-tell?
You were looking fine: blue suit, peacock tie,leg up on the running board of the new Model-T.You stayed under forty miles an hour for the firstthousand miles to break her in, like a young colt.
In the black-and-white photo, your right armlays on the hood, probably still warm from your first ride.Your left hand grips your thin waist, a grand city dandy,your white fedora is pushed back like aneagle-eyed farmer’s when the sun is out of his eyes.
Did a secret admirer receive a chaste gift,Or did Mother’s frustration with your old-agedementia rip her favorite picture from the album?She told my older sister, she hoped I’d quit asking.She stopped calling you ‘Denzle’ in her diary.
But, down in the Keys, she screamed for us to, “Stop the car!”At eighty-six she ran to a wood railing near the ocean.“Daddy fished here,” she said, remembering the manshe’d loved for over sixty years.
July 9, 2013
After Reading Tate in 1998
After Reading Tate in 1998
Brother Tate whispers down the halls chasing scatterings of thought.
He has forgotten his dutyto usher in all tomorrows.
As he reaches for the limp bell ropes, a hairy cat rubs her arched back across the cassock’s hem.
He follows cat through the cryptic garden, stops to appreciate the warmth.
No bells peal out the wanton King, no clanks can feminize the Pope.
Silence allows the lambs to suffer while God awaits action’s prayer.
Brother Tate whispers down the halls chasing scatterings of thought.
He has forgotten his dutyto usher in all tomorrows.
As he reaches for the limp bell ropes, a hairy cat rubs her arched back across the cassock’s hem.
He follows cat through the cryptic garden, stops to appreciate the warmth.
No bells peal out the wanton King, no clanks can feminize the Pope.
Silence allows the lambs to suffer while God awaits action’s prayer.
July 8, 2013
The Absent-Minded Professor
The Absent-Minded Professor
The snow caught him by surprise; no gloves: no scarf, no boots. He had stuffed a stocking cap in his jacket. Turning up his collar, he trudged home. One mile into the walk, the snow was three inches high and falling like a son-of-a-bitch. He took off his hat and shook it. No use looking like a cupcake.
Thoughts of the skiing trip slipped in with each icy step. His wife’s bad cold, his argument against using the hotel doctor, his guilt chilled him. He coughed or sobbed. Thirty-five years and he could not forget losing his first-born.
As he crossed the street, a car misjudged the ice and struck him. Books went flying, but he wasn’t hurt. He apologized to the driver, “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m an absent-minded professor.” He wondered if his dead daughter would accept the same excuse.
The snow caught him by surprise; no gloves: no scarf, no boots. He had stuffed a stocking cap in his jacket. Turning up his collar, he trudged home. One mile into the walk, the snow was three inches high and falling like a son-of-a-bitch. He took off his hat and shook it. No use looking like a cupcake.
Thoughts of the skiing trip slipped in with each icy step. His wife’s bad cold, his argument against using the hotel doctor, his guilt chilled him. He coughed or sobbed. Thirty-five years and he could not forget losing his first-born.
As he crossed the street, a car misjudged the ice and struck him. Books went flying, but he wasn’t hurt. He apologized to the driver, “You’ll have to forgive me. I’m an absent-minded professor.” He wondered if his dead daughter would accept the same excuse.
July 7, 2013
Faith
Faith
If I should tell you all I believe, pagans would rejoice,Christians would embrace Muslims, Buddists, Jews,and God knows what the heavens would rain.
Spirits in trees refresh our souls, still waters wash away any remembered faults. The very stones cry out for redemption.
Which child once on-earthed doesn’t replenishtheir thirsty hearts to imagine another one to cherish.Wouldn’t a Creator want to stay tapped into every telephone of soul.
Maybe the ending pool of souls is this mix of living red waters, retentive pools of more than genes.My Lord is big enough to tentacle into every beastly heart, just waiting for free will to bring us finally home.
And if not this for truth, perhaps our four-legged friendsmight speak to us, again…as some traditions say they did the night our Lordallowed His only son to tour our deadly planet.
If I should tell you all I believe, pagans would rejoice,Christians would embrace Muslims, Buddists, Jews,and God knows what the heavens would rain.
Spirits in trees refresh our souls, still waters wash away any remembered faults. The very stones cry out for redemption.
Which child once on-earthed doesn’t replenishtheir thirsty hearts to imagine another one to cherish.Wouldn’t a Creator want to stay tapped into every telephone of soul.
Maybe the ending pool of souls is this mix of living red waters, retentive pools of more than genes.My Lord is big enough to tentacle into every beastly heart, just waiting for free will to bring us finally home.
And if not this for truth, perhaps our four-legged friendsmight speak to us, again…as some traditions say they did the night our Lordallowed His only son to tour our deadly planet.
July 6, 2013
Driving in the Dark
Driving in the Dark
Boasting of 40 years training in graveled ruts,with the Mustang’s windows down to hear oncoming cars,cleaving as a pagan in the dark to ancient judgmentswhen the surge for survival tingles the scalp,flaring nostrils, widening visions of moon-drenched leavesand scurrying creatures in black bottomless voids,but screaming friends demand the lighting of the headlight beams.
And once when the old Chevy fan belt broke at night:the radio sputtered, the heater flattered, and the headlights died.I followed the red lights of the car in front of me.The driver felt a presence behind him, winking in his reddened glow.He sped up. I needed to keep close. He floored his Cadillac.I think we hit 95 before an exit let me leavehim wondering who tried to frighten him into giving up his sins.
This must be how death summons us to unknown landscapes;no sounds of gravel, no moon, no steering wheel,no friends to impress, no heart beat to rally, driving in the dark to a brighter light.
Boasting of 40 years training in graveled ruts,with the Mustang’s windows down to hear oncoming cars,cleaving as a pagan in the dark to ancient judgmentswhen the surge for survival tingles the scalp,flaring nostrils, widening visions of moon-drenched leavesand scurrying creatures in black bottomless voids,but screaming friends demand the lighting of the headlight beams.
And once when the old Chevy fan belt broke at night:the radio sputtered, the heater flattered, and the headlights died.I followed the red lights of the car in front of me.The driver felt a presence behind him, winking in his reddened glow.He sped up. I needed to keep close. He floored his Cadillac.I think we hit 95 before an exit let me leavehim wondering who tried to frighten him into giving up his sins.
This must be how death summons us to unknown landscapes;no sounds of gravel, no moon, no steering wheel,no friends to impress, no heart beat to rally, driving in the dark to a brighter light.
July 5, 2013
What if?
What if?
What if the moon did drip?Would those tears melt on all our tongues?The gravity-fighting liquid might pointour toes as we lift off.
Stairs would no longer be builtin high-rise buildings.Elevators? A thing of the past.
The energy crisis would abateas we floated from place to place.Life would be prolonged by partswearing out more slowly.
And when death, the end stop, loomed,we might soar in our swaddling clothesamong the stars, slipping for the last timedown the soft slopes of the Milky Way,encouraging all you earth-bound folks to join us.
What if the moon did drip?Would those tears melt on all our tongues?The gravity-fighting liquid might pointour toes as we lift off.
Stairs would no longer be builtin high-rise buildings.Elevators? A thing of the past.
The energy crisis would abateas we floated from place to place.Life would be prolonged by partswearing out more slowly.
And when death, the end stop, loomed,we might soar in our swaddling clothesamong the stars, slipping for the last timedown the soft slopes of the Milky Way,encouraging all you earth-bound folks to join us.
July 4, 2013
Summer Surprise
Summer Surprise
I’m not saying a bird dropped it, but without my permission; in fact, in spite of my best efforts, my poor Christmas evergreen who has struggled for two years to root down well enough into the porch pot to push an inch or two out from each spikey arm has now been entirely usurped by this massive, dinner plate leafed, vine hurtling plant which has grabbed onto the wind chime wound around the dinner bell, strangled the bronze sprite and the butterfly on her toe nearly obliterating the shine of the blue globe and threatening every patio strut and banister within fifty yards.
I told my husband not to go out there because the various stretching vines are waving around like some man-eating, ravenous plant. I just want to know who told that morning glory she could take over my patio. And by the way, could you ask her to produce at least one bloom to prove her worth.
I’m not saying a bird dropped it, but without my permission; in fact, in spite of my best efforts, my poor Christmas evergreen who has struggled for two years to root down well enough into the porch pot to push an inch or two out from each spikey arm has now been entirely usurped by this massive, dinner plate leafed, vine hurtling plant which has grabbed onto the wind chime wound around the dinner bell, strangled the bronze sprite and the butterfly on her toe nearly obliterating the shine of the blue globe and threatening every patio strut and banister within fifty yards.
I told my husband not to go out there because the various stretching vines are waving around like some man-eating, ravenous plant. I just want to know who told that morning glory she could take over my patio. And by the way, could you ask her to produce at least one bloom to prove her worth.
July 3, 2013
Seneca on Lake Michigan
Seneca on Lake Michigan
“Whatever has been said well by anyone is mine.”
The greatest solvent known to man is a well-spring of poetry.Openings of space and light of our Michigan lakes allowpoets the fortitude to brook our insufficienciesand claim the right to witness.
The destitute plains with their pretended seas of grass holdno semblance to the reflected sky and storms of the Great Lakes.Sailors of old thought them oceans and their hazards worse.
Shout of their expanseKeep all their assets.Visit their shorelines.Count every fishand gorgeous cloud,
because they’re yours!
“Whatever has been said well by anyone is mine.”
The greatest solvent known to man is a well-spring of poetry.Openings of space and light of our Michigan lakes allowpoets the fortitude to brook our insufficienciesand claim the right to witness.
The destitute plains with their pretended seas of grass holdno semblance to the reflected sky and storms of the Great Lakes.Sailors of old thought them oceans and their hazards worse.
Shout of their expanseKeep all their assets.Visit their shorelines.Count every fishand gorgeous cloud,
because they’re yours!
July 2, 2013
Mr. Moon
Mr. Moon
Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon,you’re out too soon.There’s not a star in the sky.
Go back to your bed and cover up your head
and let another day go by.
Mr. Moon, Mr. Moon,you’re out too soon.There’s not a star in the sky.
Go back to your bed and cover up your head
and let another day go by.
