Sunday, February 14, 2010
Saturday, February 13, 2010
Pen-Less
Pen-Less
After not placing in the writing contest I said
Ok then, there you have it, I will never write again
I stay pen-less for an hour before
Someone’s expression catches my eye
Causes me to remember the pursing of my mother’s lips
The smell of her lipstick mixed with Pall-Malls
A little bourbon
They are going out
She,in a dress of ocean blue taffeta
That crinkles as she walks
There are pearls around her neck
She has black suede wedges on
High heels that enthrall me
She has grown so tall
May I go too, I ask
No, this party is for grown-ups
Mrs. Williams will be staying with you, though
Mrs. Williams smells like lilacs
Her voice is soft; her arms open
I wear yellow pajamas with feet
We have popcorn before bed and a story
I hear her come down the hall
Open my door ever so gently
See the light spill over my covers
I have been banging my head on the crib
Sucking the edge of my blanket
It’s all right, she said
Everything’s all right
Remembering this, I must catch it in words
Net it in an array of sentences, make it live
Are you there?
In my room where the golden moon
Hangs in the blackest of skies?
Do you hope with me then, that everything is all right?
If so, I have written
Joy Arnett
2-13-10
Portland, Or
After not placing in the writing contest I said
Ok then, there you have it, I will never write again
I stay pen-less for an hour before
Someone’s expression catches my eye
Causes me to remember the pursing of my mother’s lips
The smell of her lipstick mixed with Pall-Malls
A little bourbon
They are going out
She,in a dress of ocean blue taffeta
That crinkles as she walks
There are pearls around her neck
She has black suede wedges on
High heels that enthrall me
She has grown so tall
May I go too, I ask
No, this party is for grown-ups
Mrs. Williams will be staying with you, though
Mrs. Williams smells like lilacs
Her voice is soft; her arms open
I wear yellow pajamas with feet
We have popcorn before bed and a story
I hear her come down the hall
Open my door ever so gently
See the light spill over my covers
I have been banging my head on the crib
Sucking the edge of my blanket
It’s all right, she said
Everything’s all right
Remembering this, I must catch it in words
Net it in an array of sentences, make it live
Are you there?
In my room where the golden moon
Hangs in the blackest of skies?
Do you hope with me then, that everything is all right?
If so, I have written
Joy Arnett
2-13-10
Portland, Or
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Not One of Them
We are told our new patient
Is a psychopath
Having brutally murdered three women
With no remorse
Only intent
And plenty of that
Dangerous… given to sudden, unprovoked
Outbursts of rage and violence
Thinking his behavior is justified
Because he is responsible for Universal Judgment
Was born for the unique purpose
Of eliminating evil from the world
He stands by the Day Room window, holding an apple
At a spot where he can best see
The high curled wire of the security fence
And the yellow orb of the moon
Peeking between the limbs
Of a weeping willow
The firm red skin pops against the pressure of his teeth
Juice bursting forth, sweet and pure
Rolling over his parched tongue
Takes a second and a third bite, quickly
As a starving man would
The fruit making walnut-sized balls in the pockets of his cheeks
He is mindful to keep his lips
Tightly closed while he chews
Takes pride in the fact that he remembers his manners
Even in a place such as this
Where others come
Because they are insane
Anyone can see that they are
With their wild eyes, uncombed hair
Rumpled clothes and their
Rambling, nonsensical talk
But soon everyone will know
That he is not one of them
He is better and smarter
He never slumps about, but stands with his back
Straight like a rod of iron
Is able to point his toes at exactly ten till two
On the Universal Clock
Can stand for centuries this way; for what is time to God?
He raises the apple core high in his hand
Like a trophy before the masses
It is he alone who knows
That only this apple
(Out of all the ones in the basket)
Has the Secret of Life hidden within it
He smiles then at the Knowledge of Knowing
That this secret is now in him
Feels its hot power bursting in his belly
Coursing through his veins
Surging through him with every beat of his heart until
He feels that familiar throbbing in his temples
Because he has been given the Knowledge of Knowing
He understands that to keep his secret safe
He must stand completely still with core held high
For twenty-seven and a half minutes
Of Universal Time
And speak to no one
So at three in the morning
He is content to stand with his bare feet on the cold linoleum floor
Watching the yellow orb of the moon move across the thin limbs of the willow
Secure in knowing the Secret is his alone
And all of them will soon see
He is not one of them.
Joy Arnett
Is a psychopath
Having brutally murdered three women
With no remorse
Only intent
And plenty of that
Dangerous… given to sudden, unprovoked
Outbursts of rage and violence
Thinking his behavior is justified
Because he is responsible for Universal Judgment
Was born for the unique purpose
Of eliminating evil from the world
He stands by the Day Room window, holding an apple
At a spot where he can best see
The high curled wire of the security fence
And the yellow orb of the moon
Peeking between the limbs
Of a weeping willow
The firm red skin pops against the pressure of his teeth
Juice bursting forth, sweet and pure
Rolling over his parched tongue
Takes a second and a third bite, quickly
As a starving man would
The fruit making walnut-sized balls in the pockets of his cheeks
He is mindful to keep his lips
Tightly closed while he chews
Takes pride in the fact that he remembers his manners
Even in a place such as this
Where others come
Because they are insane
Anyone can see that they are
With their wild eyes, uncombed hair
Rumpled clothes and their
Rambling, nonsensical talk
But soon everyone will know
That he is not one of them
He is better and smarter
He never slumps about, but stands with his back
Straight like a rod of iron
Is able to point his toes at exactly ten till two
On the Universal Clock
Can stand for centuries this way; for what is time to God?
He raises the apple core high in his hand
Like a trophy before the masses
It is he alone who knows
That only this apple
(Out of all the ones in the basket)
Has the Secret of Life hidden within it
He smiles then at the Knowledge of Knowing
That this secret is now in him
Feels its hot power bursting in his belly
Coursing through his veins
Surging through him with every beat of his heart until
He feels that familiar throbbing in his temples
Because he has been given the Knowledge of Knowing
He understands that to keep his secret safe
He must stand completely still with core held high
For twenty-seven and a half minutes
Of Universal Time
And speak to no one
So at three in the morning
He is content to stand with his bare feet on the cold linoleum floor
Watching the yellow orb of the moon move across the thin limbs of the willow
Secure in knowing the Secret is his alone
And all of them will soon see
He is not one of them.
Joy Arnett
Talisman
He wears a white Christian Dior robe and gold brocade slippers
When he leaves his room each night
His crisply ironed pajamas
Are sent to the Forensic Unit
Wrapped in light brown parcel paper
By his mother who lives in
New York, New York
He carries a red bible bound in soft Italian leather
Holds it like a talisman tightly against his heart
Walks proudly, head held high
To a couch across from the double locked doors
At the end of the hall
Where he reads in the half light
From exactly three am until five after four
Told me once that he attaches one dark desire to the end of every sentence
Imagines that it transcends space and time
Takes his sins somewhere else
As if he could tie heinous crimes to the tail of a helium balloon
And watch it float away
Until it gets so small it becomes a simple dot
Instead of a serious rift in his psyche
He believes he is able to ensure the demise of his illness
By the unaltered routine of this nocturnal ritual
“Aha!” He says to me each night, as he returns to his room,
“Checkmate!”
But I do not trust his talisman
Even when combined with sentences of comfort
Every fourth Thursday I give him his anti-psychotic injection
Afterwards, I lean my forehead against the cool metal cabinet in the med room
And hold my breath for a moment, in memory of the five women
Who were murdered in his bed thirty years ago
Four weeks apart, between the first flower of springtime
And the drifting down of autumn leaves
His red bible bound in soft Italian leather
A silent witness on the nightstand beside him
Joy Arnett
Salem, Or. 5/2007
When he leaves his room each night
His crisply ironed pajamas
Are sent to the Forensic Unit
Wrapped in light brown parcel paper
By his mother who lives in
New York, New York
He carries a red bible bound in soft Italian leather
Holds it like a talisman tightly against his heart
Walks proudly, head held high
To a couch across from the double locked doors
At the end of the hall
Where he reads in the half light
From exactly three am until five after four
Told me once that he attaches one dark desire to the end of every sentence
Imagines that it transcends space and time
Takes his sins somewhere else
As if he could tie heinous crimes to the tail of a helium balloon
And watch it float away
Until it gets so small it becomes a simple dot
Instead of a serious rift in his psyche
He believes he is able to ensure the demise of his illness
By the unaltered routine of this nocturnal ritual
“Aha!” He says to me each night, as he returns to his room,
“Checkmate!”
But I do not trust his talisman
Even when combined with sentences of comfort
Every fourth Thursday I give him his anti-psychotic injection
Afterwards, I lean my forehead against the cool metal cabinet in the med room
And hold my breath for a moment, in memory of the five women
Who were murdered in his bed thirty years ago
Four weeks apart, between the first flower of springtime
And the drifting down of autumn leaves
His red bible bound in soft Italian leather
A silent witness on the nightstand beside him
Joy Arnett
Salem, Or. 5/2007
Responsibility
I get all weird about presents
My heart starts to pound, my palms sweat
I plaster a calm expression on my face but
Not from the joy of it, the tearing open of paper, the revealing of a surprise
We were learning Responsibility and Planning
My sister was thirteen
Old enough, my Father said, to pick her gift
She wanted a record player
Wanted one so bad she listed it twenty times on her list
“Is this all you want? Think about it, are you sure?”
“Yes!” she said, again and again
I wanted a Chatty Cathy doll, a wallet, pink ballet shoes, a Kodak camera
A pair of fishnet stockings, and a paint-by-number kit
On Christmas morning there was one present under the tree for my sister
She ripped it open, clapped her hands, yelled “Yahoo! Thanks!”
I admired it with her. Cream and pale blue with a black turntable, Perfect!
My dad said, “Forget anything?”
“No,” she said. “This is all I ever wanted!
“Too bad you didn’t ask for records.” He said, lighting his pipe.
She didn’t cry. She set her jaw hard and pretended it didn’t matter that she would have
No music on Christmas Day.
I had to open my gifts next, listen to everyone ooh and ahh over them
Say thank you, oh I like it so much while I felt
Like a huge ball was lodged in my gut
Later, I sat in my closet where
I cried and stuck my tongue out at my new chatty doll
That night I kissed my sister’s cheek while she slept
Joy Arnett
October, 2008
Portland, Or
My heart starts to pound, my palms sweat
I plaster a calm expression on my face but
Not from the joy of it, the tearing open of paper, the revealing of a surprise
We were learning Responsibility and Planning
My sister was thirteen
Old enough, my Father said, to pick her gift
She wanted a record player
Wanted one so bad she listed it twenty times on her list
“Is this all you want? Think about it, are you sure?”
“Yes!” she said, again and again
I wanted a Chatty Cathy doll, a wallet, pink ballet shoes, a Kodak camera
A pair of fishnet stockings, and a paint-by-number kit
On Christmas morning there was one present under the tree for my sister
She ripped it open, clapped her hands, yelled “Yahoo! Thanks!”
I admired it with her. Cream and pale blue with a black turntable, Perfect!
My dad said, “Forget anything?”
“No,” she said. “This is all I ever wanted!
“Too bad you didn’t ask for records.” He said, lighting his pipe.
She didn’t cry. She set her jaw hard and pretended it didn’t matter that she would have
No music on Christmas Day.
I had to open my gifts next, listen to everyone ooh and ahh over them
Say thank you, oh I like it so much while I felt
Like a huge ball was lodged in my gut
Later, I sat in my closet where
I cried and stuck my tongue out at my new chatty doll
That night I kissed my sister’s cheek while she slept
Joy Arnett
October, 2008
Portland, Or
These Things I Know
These things I know…
That I never knew love until I knew you
Never knew acceptance until you kissed my face
That all my faults
Rolling over you like water over rock
Have only made you smoother still.
I lose my keys; lock myself out of cars and houses
Back into ditches; forget that I’ve left the espresso brewing, the washer filling
Enticed by some passing moment I feel I must catch
There is a poem to write, flowers to plant, a dog to love
Flitting here and there like a hummingbird, I hover
I’ve forgotten how to land unless, perhaps, I never knew.
You are so grounded; completing each task as it comes to you
Carrying within you the history of things well done
I get so frazzled with the ordinary things of life
You are my sanctuary of peace
Your smile brings me joy, the touch of your work-worn hands against my cheek
Still ignites my soul even after all these years.
If we had found each other sometime in our innocent youth
Before we were wounded
Would our love have taken the same course?
For in the midst of our suffering we grew intimate with desire
Learned the meaning of a thirst so deep
We could not imagine living any other way.
During those long years of our first marriages, when we lay two thousand miles apart
Staring through hopeless nights at our separate ceilings
We came to know in great detail what we never wanted to be again
Strangers in our own homes; the visible invisible
Ones who no longer mattered to spouses
Who had promised to love and cherish us.
Those marriages fell apart, even though both of us in one last attempt,
Threw our life boats to the waves and paddled for all we were worth
But the greatest secret is this
The discontent of our spouses;
(That same discontent that broke our hearts)
Came to be our greatest gift!
When we met that day in December, time should have stood still
The universe should have held its breath
Heralding in such a love as ours!
You, all wrapped up in the comfort of your one-ness
Your life full of doxies, car repairs and overtime
Sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.
I longed for someone to talk to
A sensible, adult conversation, after work- was my suggestion to you
And you, a coffee teetotaler, took me up on it.
How our guardian angels must have high-fived!
We talked for hours that night at the Apple Peddler
I left my phone number on your answer machine the next day.
We progressed to dinner and a movie and I kissed you first
Made you laugh until you could remember what laughter felt like
Bursting forth from your belly
Flirted with you shamelessly, as I remember
Once night you pulled over in the middle of nowhere
Kissed me, said… “This is getting serious.”
I spent the night with you in January, knew full well what I was doing
Stood out on the deck later, in the glow of the porch light, wrapped only in your blanket
Thinking, I love this man more than anything in the world
You brought me back inside, made me hot tea
Handed it to me in a mug,
Your hand shaking a bit.
I remember how the soft kitchen light looked on your face
How there was nothing but gentleness in your hazel eyes
How you held my hand on the way back to bed
How I was afraid to move while you slept that night
Didn’t want to wake you, spent the night awake, listened to night sounds in a strange house
Until it was dawn and time to go home.
We didn’t know exactly what line we had crossed, before I left
Only that it was an awkward one
You took a giant step back
I cried when I got home
You called and asked me why, but I couldn’t explain the hope I had in my heart
And the fear that I may have lost you in the midst of finding you.
Within a week you knew
I packed up my stuff and borrowed your truck to move it to your house
Made friends with the night sounds
Wasn’t afraid my movement at night would wake you
Just kept scooting closer, lulled to sleep
By the rise and fall of your chest against my back.
The day we married was the happiest day of my life
A love such as ours is
Like a comet that passes within our sight
Once in a million years
Bursting open the heavens with its fire
Dancing in beauty and brilliance.
These things I know…
Joy Arnett
That I never knew love until I knew you
Never knew acceptance until you kissed my face
That all my faults
Rolling over you like water over rock
Have only made you smoother still.
I lose my keys; lock myself out of cars and houses
Back into ditches; forget that I’ve left the espresso brewing, the washer filling
Enticed by some passing moment I feel I must catch
There is a poem to write, flowers to plant, a dog to love
Flitting here and there like a hummingbird, I hover
I’ve forgotten how to land unless, perhaps, I never knew.
You are so grounded; completing each task as it comes to you
Carrying within you the history of things well done
I get so frazzled with the ordinary things of life
You are my sanctuary of peace
Your smile brings me joy, the touch of your work-worn hands against my cheek
Still ignites my soul even after all these years.
If we had found each other sometime in our innocent youth
Before we were wounded
Would our love have taken the same course?
For in the midst of our suffering we grew intimate with desire
Learned the meaning of a thirst so deep
We could not imagine living any other way.
During those long years of our first marriages, when we lay two thousand miles apart
Staring through hopeless nights at our separate ceilings
We came to know in great detail what we never wanted to be again
Strangers in our own homes; the visible invisible
Ones who no longer mattered to spouses
Who had promised to love and cherish us.
Those marriages fell apart, even though both of us in one last attempt,
Threw our life boats to the waves and paddled for all we were worth
But the greatest secret is this
The discontent of our spouses;
(That same discontent that broke our hearts)
Came to be our greatest gift!
When we met that day in December, time should have stood still
The universe should have held its breath
Heralding in such a love as ours!
You, all wrapped up in the comfort of your one-ness
Your life full of doxies, car repairs and overtime
Sleeping the sleep of the exhausted.
I longed for someone to talk to
A sensible, adult conversation, after work- was my suggestion to you
And you, a coffee teetotaler, took me up on it.
How our guardian angels must have high-fived!
We talked for hours that night at the Apple Peddler
I left my phone number on your answer machine the next day.
We progressed to dinner and a movie and I kissed you first
Made you laugh until you could remember what laughter felt like
Bursting forth from your belly
Flirted with you shamelessly, as I remember
Once night you pulled over in the middle of nowhere
Kissed me, said… “This is getting serious.”
I spent the night with you in January, knew full well what I was doing
Stood out on the deck later, in the glow of the porch light, wrapped only in your blanket
Thinking, I love this man more than anything in the world
You brought me back inside, made me hot tea
Handed it to me in a mug,
Your hand shaking a bit.
I remember how the soft kitchen light looked on your face
How there was nothing but gentleness in your hazel eyes
How you held my hand on the way back to bed
How I was afraid to move while you slept that night
Didn’t want to wake you, spent the night awake, listened to night sounds in a strange house
Until it was dawn and time to go home.
We didn’t know exactly what line we had crossed, before I left
Only that it was an awkward one
You took a giant step back
I cried when I got home
You called and asked me why, but I couldn’t explain the hope I had in my heart
And the fear that I may have lost you in the midst of finding you.
Within a week you knew
I packed up my stuff and borrowed your truck to move it to your house
Made friends with the night sounds
Wasn’t afraid my movement at night would wake you
Just kept scooting closer, lulled to sleep
By the rise and fall of your chest against my back.
The day we married was the happiest day of my life
A love such as ours is
Like a comet that passes within our sight
Once in a million years
Bursting open the heavens with its fire
Dancing in beauty and brilliance.
These things I know…
Joy Arnett
Mute
Mute
We all give up things
Relationships beyond repair
Chocolate, cookies, tasty deep-fried treats
Alliances to ourselves
Cars or houses too expensive to keep
Lives for countries
Max gave up words the day he turned twelve
Hasn’t spoken in two years
Doesn’t seem to bother him a bit
Though others grow irritable at having used
Every trick they know to woo him into speaking
Only to find he will not give up a single syllable
Four highly paid Psychiatrists, three Child Psychologists
One renowned Ear Nose and Throat Specialist
A Behavioral Modification Expert and one bully at school
(Who tried to exchange a beating for words)
All failed to produce a single whisper or moan
Early on, I tried to trick him into talking
Lined up cereal boxes on the table
Said, “Want Golden Grahams, Lucky Charms or Cheerios?”
He simply pointed to his choice
Next time I put the boxes away; just asked what cereal he wanted
He shrugged, sat there until I made the choice for him
Ate it all, not minding a bit that it was All Bran
I worry the most at night, between the evening news
And the sunrise edition I entertain a nagging thought
That he may have what his grandfather had
May be hearing voices telling him;
“Don’t say a word or your mother will die,
Your dog will run away, the world will explode.”
Worry that there are thoughts holding him hostage against his will
Surely he would have to be convinced of some ominous threat
To give up words
What if he thinks he has a direct order from God
Telling him not to speak until there is world peace or until
Something, somewhere happens?
I only cry in the bathroom
Sitting on the toilet with the shower going full blast
I’m his mother; for god’s sake there should be
Something I can do to reach him
His father left,
He was never good at waiting
The proverbial pregnant pause made him anxious
Too much silence made him fill in the blanks
Take up the slack, do something
I thought Max might say,
“Where’s Dad been lately?”
But he didn’t need words to figure it out
He has no other symptoms of his grandfather’s illness
But he is young and
There is time for him to get an idea
That he is Christ or Buddha and
Can walk on water
Or run in front of a moving car because he is Invincible
Indestructible and full of some power no one else has
Or he may think, like Grandpa,
That there are coded messages everywhere
Hidden in the newsprint (every third letter)
Or in the street signs (first letter only)
Or in special phrases heard on the television
Last night I dreamed that we were sitting on the patio
Max turned to me and said, “I’m working on a new theory
All about words and the energy they have,
The velocity by which they travel
The effect they have long after being spoken
About the struggle of communication
How easily words can be reduced to prattle
The power of silence
Its effect on people.”
For once, I was the one without words
And woke up crying,
Hoping that maybe all I have is another Einstein
Joy Arnett March 2008
We all give up things
Relationships beyond repair
Chocolate, cookies, tasty deep-fried treats
Alliances to ourselves
Cars or houses too expensive to keep
Lives for countries
Max gave up words the day he turned twelve
Hasn’t spoken in two years
Doesn’t seem to bother him a bit
Though others grow irritable at having used
Every trick they know to woo him into speaking
Only to find he will not give up a single syllable
Four highly paid Psychiatrists, three Child Psychologists
One renowned Ear Nose and Throat Specialist
A Behavioral Modification Expert and one bully at school
(Who tried to exchange a beating for words)
All failed to produce a single whisper or moan
Early on, I tried to trick him into talking
Lined up cereal boxes on the table
Said, “Want Golden Grahams, Lucky Charms or Cheerios?”
He simply pointed to his choice
Next time I put the boxes away; just asked what cereal he wanted
He shrugged, sat there until I made the choice for him
Ate it all, not minding a bit that it was All Bran
I worry the most at night, between the evening news
And the sunrise edition I entertain a nagging thought
That he may have what his grandfather had
May be hearing voices telling him;
“Don’t say a word or your mother will die,
Your dog will run away, the world will explode.”
Worry that there are thoughts holding him hostage against his will
Surely he would have to be convinced of some ominous threat
To give up words
What if he thinks he has a direct order from God
Telling him not to speak until there is world peace or until
Something, somewhere happens?
I only cry in the bathroom
Sitting on the toilet with the shower going full blast
I’m his mother; for god’s sake there should be
Something I can do to reach him
His father left,
He was never good at waiting
The proverbial pregnant pause made him anxious
Too much silence made him fill in the blanks
Take up the slack, do something
I thought Max might say,
“Where’s Dad been lately?”
But he didn’t need words to figure it out
He has no other symptoms of his grandfather’s illness
But he is young and
There is time for him to get an idea
That he is Christ or Buddha and
Can walk on water
Or run in front of a moving car because he is Invincible
Indestructible and full of some power no one else has
Or he may think, like Grandpa,
That there are coded messages everywhere
Hidden in the newsprint (every third letter)
Or in the street signs (first letter only)
Or in special phrases heard on the television
Last night I dreamed that we were sitting on the patio
Max turned to me and said, “I’m working on a new theory
All about words and the energy they have,
The velocity by which they travel
The effect they have long after being spoken
About the struggle of communication
How easily words can be reduced to prattle
The power of silence
Its effect on people.”
For once, I was the one without words
And woke up crying,
Hoping that maybe all I have is another Einstein
Joy Arnett March 2008
Feeling Good
Feeling Good
For two years right before I turned fifty-five
I was a platinum blonde
Cost me seventy dollars a month
To keep the roots at bay
There was, I’ve decided,
Something magical about that time
I bought things that I normally
Wouldn’t give a second glance
A baby blue Angora sweater
With buttons of pearl
A faux leopard wrap, fur collars and hats
Black high-heeled boots
So many sparkly things that
I had to buy a jewelry box on legs
Made out of mahogany
Just to keep track of my treasures
My lips were magenta or rose
And once, the dark red of fine rubies
My eyes powdered in colors of the sky at dusk
With just a hint of iridescent glitter
Felt like somebody then, I did!
Flirted shamelessly with my husband
Bought a thong but tugging it out of my ass
Just wasn’t ladylike
Replaced it with French cut panties of lace
Bras to match-in red
Nothing much had changed I guess,
Except the way I saw myself
For two years right before I turned fifty-five
I was a platinum blonde
Cost me seventy dollars a month
To keep the roots at bay
There was, I’ve decided,
Something magical about that time
I bought things that I normally
Wouldn’t give a second glance
A baby blue Angora sweater
With buttons of pearl
A faux leopard wrap, fur collars and hats
Black high-heeled boots
So many sparkly things that
I had to buy a jewelry box on legs
Made out of mahogany
Just to keep track of my treasures
My lips were magenta or rose
And once, the dark red of fine rubies
My eyes powdered in colors of the sky at dusk
With just a hint of iridescent glitter
Felt like somebody then, I did!
Flirted shamelessly with my husband
Bought a thong but tugging it out of my ass
Just wasn’t ladylike
Replaced it with French cut panties of lace
Bras to match-in red
Nothing much had changed I guess,
Except the way I saw myself
SAM
Sam
I was so little when they separated us.
Do you remember me?
I think of you all the time.
Are you married, are you happy?
Where are you Sam?
Wherever you are… I love you.
I send this one thought to you
Over and over across the miles
And pray
That suddenly you will feel
The brush of an angel kiss
Against your cheek.
They told me you were in a foster home.
I was adopted but I have always searched for you.
Holding mama’s hand walking downtown
Every boy we passed I thought could be you
My mama would say, “Hush! What’s done is done.”
And jerk my arm a bit.
So I learned to say words to you in my mind
And send them across the miles between us.
Have you ever heard your name whispered at night?
Woken up and wondered who called you? It was me, Sam
It was me. I am still calling you.
Everyday, I say, “I love you Sam. I will find you.”
Just wait and see, Sam…just wait and see.
When I married Gene, I thought
If my brother were here I would ask him to give me away
And he would laugh and say,
“You were already given away! This time I’m keeping you!”
Sam, do you hear me calling?
My voice is soft like the summer wind
I have blue eyes Sam, like Dad did.
I’ll bet yours are brown
And I’ll bet they are quick to see the good in people
Like I do, Sam
Like me.
I will keep sending you angel kisses
And my voice will be in your ear
It will carried by the snowflakes,
Or the soft sprinkle of the spring rain
You will hear me in the quiet of the night.
Until I find you, I will be all these things
I will find you, Sam
I will. I am stubborn like that
And when I do
We will never lose each other again.
I’m looking for you
Listen for me Sam, never stop listening.
Joy Arnett
Roseburg, Or
2007
I was so little when they separated us.
Do you remember me?
I think of you all the time.
Are you married, are you happy?
Where are you Sam?
Wherever you are… I love you.
I send this one thought to you
Over and over across the miles
And pray
That suddenly you will feel
The brush of an angel kiss
Against your cheek.
They told me you were in a foster home.
I was adopted but I have always searched for you.
Holding mama’s hand walking downtown
Every boy we passed I thought could be you
My mama would say, “Hush! What’s done is done.”
And jerk my arm a bit.
So I learned to say words to you in my mind
And send them across the miles between us.
Have you ever heard your name whispered at night?
Woken up and wondered who called you? It was me, Sam
It was me. I am still calling you.
Everyday, I say, “I love you Sam. I will find you.”
Just wait and see, Sam…just wait and see.
When I married Gene, I thought
If my brother were here I would ask him to give me away
And he would laugh and say,
“You were already given away! This time I’m keeping you!”
Sam, do you hear me calling?
My voice is soft like the summer wind
I have blue eyes Sam, like Dad did.
I’ll bet yours are brown
And I’ll bet they are quick to see the good in people
Like I do, Sam
Like me.
I will keep sending you angel kisses
And my voice will be in your ear
It will carried by the snowflakes,
Or the soft sprinkle of the spring rain
You will hear me in the quiet of the night.
Until I find you, I will be all these things
I will find you, Sam
I will. I am stubborn like that
And when I do
We will never lose each other again.
I’m looking for you
Listen for me Sam, never stop listening.
Joy Arnett
Roseburg, Or
2007
RETRO
Retro
I’m evicting my computer
It’s a mind stealer; driving me to Google things
I used to look up in the Encyclopedia Britannica
Keeping me up past my bedtime to conquer the twelfth level of Zuma
Making the scratch of a sharpened pencil against pristine paper
A relic of the past
I’ve replaced my grandmother’s recipe for beef bourguignon
With one I can fix in thirty minutes from Rachel Ray’s website
Fast forwarding through the chewing and swallowing of it
To Google the latest opinions of the world
On everything from dressing my age to making the furrow
Between my brows disappear
My father may have been on to something that hot summer evening
When we gathered around the Curtis Mathis to watch men
Hop through the dust of the moon
His glass of bourbon and soda hit the table with a hard clink
He frowned. “This is the beginning of the end.”
My mother passed him a Pall Mall. “You’re drunk” she said.
I’m evicting my computer
It’s a mind stealer; driving me to Google things
I used to look up in the Encyclopedia Britannica
Keeping me up past my bedtime to conquer the twelfth level of Zuma
Making the scratch of a sharpened pencil against pristine paper
A relic of the past
I’ve replaced my grandmother’s recipe for beef bourguignon
With one I can fix in thirty minutes from Rachel Ray’s website
Fast forwarding through the chewing and swallowing of it
To Google the latest opinions of the world
On everything from dressing my age to making the furrow
Between my brows disappear
My father may have been on to something that hot summer evening
When we gathered around the Curtis Mathis to watch men
Hop through the dust of the moon
His glass of bourbon and soda hit the table with a hard clink
He frowned. “This is the beginning of the end.”
My mother passed him a Pall Mall. “You’re drunk” she said.
Miracles
Miracles
It’s hard to say when her delusions started
What made impulses go awry
As they jumped from dendrite to dendrite
Some say it’s a chemical imbalance
Others blame genetics
She doesn’t blame anybody
She simply flees from moment to moment
From one attempt to the next
To evade the tormenters set on her destruction
I sometimes hear her mutter
“Run like the wind…like the wind!”
This, a personal memo to herself
A reminder not to rest lest she be destroyed
Chopped into a million pieces, drowned
Shot with poison arrows
Tortured on racks and made to lie for ungodly periods of time
On beds of nails, or in slime and muck until she gives up, lets go
Dies
They’re gonna hang me in the attic tonight, she says to me
Hang me by the neck
Until I am stone, cold, dead
Sit down a minute, I say,
Let’s talk
I let her start because I have to think
It does no good to state the obvious
That there is no attic in this mental hospital
There are no gallows, no racks, no beds of nails
It will happen tonight she says, I will be shot and thrown in the river
It’s all happened before
Did you know I’ve lived one hundred and three lives in the past?
Been tortured and murdered in every one
Maybe this life…one hundred and four
Could be different, I say
She squints her eyes at me as if I am her pursuer
Things are never different, she says
Are you one of them?
If you could have things different,
What would that be like for you
I would eat pancakes, she says
What else would happen, I ask
There would be no more rivers
Maybe you could be safe in
Life one hundred and four, I say
When she looks at me
Her eyes are vacant brown orbs
It is then that I realize
She has no connection with the concept of safety
The word itself is a foreign thing
Has no inkling of how “safe” feels
Makes me wish I could catch a miracle scurrying by
Reel it in by its tail, pop it right into her head
Like in the movies when they show things backwards
Shards of glass reforming into the crystal vase that just took a dive
Returning effortlessly to the polished tabletop
Dendrites would behave as they were meant to
Neurons, synapses would get a complete makeover
Suddenly, there would be a twinkle of knowledge
In those brown eyes
She would laugh, and say, I’ve been so silly all these years!
Not saying it couldn’t happen but
I’ve yet to see a miracle
Instead, I bring her some tea and listen as she tells me
How cold that river is
Joy Arnett
February 2008
It’s hard to say when her delusions started
What made impulses go awry
As they jumped from dendrite to dendrite
Some say it’s a chemical imbalance
Others blame genetics
She doesn’t blame anybody
She simply flees from moment to moment
From one attempt to the next
To evade the tormenters set on her destruction
I sometimes hear her mutter
“Run like the wind…like the wind!”
This, a personal memo to herself
A reminder not to rest lest she be destroyed
Chopped into a million pieces, drowned
Shot with poison arrows
Tortured on racks and made to lie for ungodly periods of time
On beds of nails, or in slime and muck until she gives up, lets go
Dies
They’re gonna hang me in the attic tonight, she says to me
Hang me by the neck
Until I am stone, cold, dead
Sit down a minute, I say,
Let’s talk
I let her start because I have to think
It does no good to state the obvious
That there is no attic in this mental hospital
There are no gallows, no racks, no beds of nails
It will happen tonight she says, I will be shot and thrown in the river
It’s all happened before
Did you know I’ve lived one hundred and three lives in the past?
Been tortured and murdered in every one
Maybe this life…one hundred and four
Could be different, I say
She squints her eyes at me as if I am her pursuer
Things are never different, she says
Are you one of them?
If you could have things different,
What would that be like for you
I would eat pancakes, she says
What else would happen, I ask
There would be no more rivers
Maybe you could be safe in
Life one hundred and four, I say
When she looks at me
Her eyes are vacant brown orbs
It is then that I realize
She has no connection with the concept of safety
The word itself is a foreign thing
Has no inkling of how “safe” feels
Makes me wish I could catch a miracle scurrying by
Reel it in by its tail, pop it right into her head
Like in the movies when they show things backwards
Shards of glass reforming into the crystal vase that just took a dive
Returning effortlessly to the polished tabletop
Dendrites would behave as they were meant to
Neurons, synapses would get a complete makeover
Suddenly, there would be a twinkle of knowledge
In those brown eyes
She would laugh, and say, I’ve been so silly all these years!
Not saying it couldn’t happen but
I’ve yet to see a miracle
Instead, I bring her some tea and listen as she tells me
How cold that river is
Joy Arnett
February 2008
Now
Now
He can't control his movements; the face twitching, head turning,
Eyes blinking, lips pursing; he spits out his words like gunfire
"Used to milk cows on my farm. Warm milk, good cows.
Could drink the milk of seven cows in one sitting!"
I try to imagine what his life is like living in the hospital
No green pastures rolling into one another
No hay sparkling, heavy with dew
The soft breath of calves absent from his mornings
How tiresome life must be; fighting each involuntary grimace
Held in checkmate by an unbeatable opponent
His orchestra of foreign sounds causing even the strongest among us
To sometimes avert our eyes
He can't control his movements; the face twitching, head turning,
Eyes blinking, lips pursing; he spits out his words like gunfire
"Used to milk cows on my farm. Warm milk, good cows.
Could drink the milk of seven cows in one sitting!"
I try to imagine what his life is like living in the hospital
No green pastures rolling into one another
No hay sparkling, heavy with dew
The soft breath of calves absent from his mornings
How tiresome life must be; fighting each involuntary grimace
Held in checkmate by an unbeatable opponent
His orchestra of foreign sounds causing even the strongest among us
To sometimes avert our eyes
The Freedom Train
The Freedom Train
The three women have the look of
Those who sit endlessly in airports or train stations
Or on hard benches at bus stops waiting for something to arrive
That will take them anyplace from where they are
Sitting is interrupted by pacing or looking this way and that as if
Briskness of step or fervency of look will bring speed to the freedom train
Number Two leaves the painted wooden bench
Walking rapidly in a stilted rhythm
Up the South Hall across the East down the North
Completing the square while avoiding all lines in the tile
Until five squares are done
Stopping once or twice to peer into rooms as she goes
“Get the fuck out!” says the man on the end
She runs a little then
Returns to the bench, shoulders drooped, head hung low
Asks Number One the time
“I have a Timex,” says Number One “Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’ ”
“Shut your pie hole!” says Number Three
Number One leans in, whispers, “Two fifteen and fourteen seconds.”
Smiles; leaves for her turn around the ward
Remembers a square dance, the sound of fiddling
The tapping of shoes, the polished sheen of the wood floors
A man with cowboy boots and a black hat
Remembers how her petticoats twirled, the whoosh of air against her thighs
Was he her husband?
Stops Mr. Green on the West Hall, says, “Are you my husband?”
“I’m God” he answers, joining in her second lap
“Tell me your sins and you’ll be white as snow.”
“Don’t want to be white or cold.” She says, pulling ahead
Happy when she returns to the bench, having been away so long
“You look lovely today,” she tells Number Three
Who returns the compliment with an evil stare
“The Devil Incarnate, “says Number Two
“Fuck off!” says Three
Then rises, half jogging, half walking on her Olympic course
Mumbling words in a secret code, for luck
Stopping to tie her shoe, finds she has lost nimbleness of hand
Fumbling, slips it off, rearranging the frayed laces
To point directly North and South
In the exact middle of the thirtieth tile on the East Hall
Finishes the course with a lop-sided gait
Up with the shod foot down with the bare
Returns winded, to the bench
“Where’s your shoe?” asks Number Two
“Somewhere between Greece and the Holy Land” she says
Then pauses, asks, “Are those whippoorwills, I hear?”
Fans out her bare toes against the cool tiles like she did in spring grass
While the sun warmed her back in a place where whippoorwills sang
“Those are doves, you old Twit! How can you mistake
Doves for whippoorwills?” Number One asks, and not too kindly
“The same way you think you’re Queen of this Castle,” Number Three says
And they all laugh, wrapping their sweaters in snug around their middles
Picking at strands of gray hair gone awry
“Tea time” says Number Three, “I’m chilled to the bone.”
Number One leads the way, stepping gingerly
Over the East Hall Shoe as if it may
Explode or levitate or multiply into millions
Of tiny, hopping shoes
That can’t be avoided
And all of them hold their breath
Until they reach the nursing station
“Tea” they say to the nurse, a foreigner in their land;
An Intruder of the Worst Sort
They name their flavors; Chamomile, Peppermint
And Cadmium yellow, says Number One
The Intruder, who knows that One
Has the soul of an artist
Makes her Lemon tea with three bags so
The water turns the color of daffodils
The bench sits empty
The shoe points north of Jerusalem
The Freedom Train, late again
Joy Arnett
March 2008
The three women have the look of
Those who sit endlessly in airports or train stations
Or on hard benches at bus stops waiting for something to arrive
That will take them anyplace from where they are
Sitting is interrupted by pacing or looking this way and that as if
Briskness of step or fervency of look will bring speed to the freedom train
Number Two leaves the painted wooden bench
Walking rapidly in a stilted rhythm
Up the South Hall across the East down the North
Completing the square while avoiding all lines in the tile
Until five squares are done
Stopping once or twice to peer into rooms as she goes
“Get the fuck out!” says the man on the end
She runs a little then
Returns to the bench, shoulders drooped, head hung low
Asks Number One the time
“I have a Timex,” says Number One “Takes a lickin’ and keeps on tickin’ ”
“Shut your pie hole!” says Number Three
Number One leans in, whispers, “Two fifteen and fourteen seconds.”
Smiles; leaves for her turn around the ward
Remembers a square dance, the sound of fiddling
The tapping of shoes, the polished sheen of the wood floors
A man with cowboy boots and a black hat
Remembers how her petticoats twirled, the whoosh of air against her thighs
Was he her husband?
Stops Mr. Green on the West Hall, says, “Are you my husband?”
“I’m God” he answers, joining in her second lap
“Tell me your sins and you’ll be white as snow.”
“Don’t want to be white or cold.” She says, pulling ahead
Happy when she returns to the bench, having been away so long
“You look lovely today,” she tells Number Three
Who returns the compliment with an evil stare
“The Devil Incarnate, “says Number Two
“Fuck off!” says Three
Then rises, half jogging, half walking on her Olympic course
Mumbling words in a secret code, for luck
Stopping to tie her shoe, finds she has lost nimbleness of hand
Fumbling, slips it off, rearranging the frayed laces
To point directly North and South
In the exact middle of the thirtieth tile on the East Hall
Finishes the course with a lop-sided gait
Up with the shod foot down with the bare
Returns winded, to the bench
“Where’s your shoe?” asks Number Two
“Somewhere between Greece and the Holy Land” she says
Then pauses, asks, “Are those whippoorwills, I hear?”
Fans out her bare toes against the cool tiles like she did in spring grass
While the sun warmed her back in a place where whippoorwills sang
“Those are doves, you old Twit! How can you mistake
Doves for whippoorwills?” Number One asks, and not too kindly
“The same way you think you’re Queen of this Castle,” Number Three says
And they all laugh, wrapping their sweaters in snug around their middles
Picking at strands of gray hair gone awry
“Tea time” says Number Three, “I’m chilled to the bone.”
Number One leads the way, stepping gingerly
Over the East Hall Shoe as if it may
Explode or levitate or multiply into millions
Of tiny, hopping shoes
That can’t be avoided
And all of them hold their breath
Until they reach the nursing station
“Tea” they say to the nurse, a foreigner in their land;
An Intruder of the Worst Sort
They name their flavors; Chamomile, Peppermint
And Cadmium yellow, says Number One
The Intruder, who knows that One
Has the soul of an artist
Makes her Lemon tea with three bags so
The water turns the color of daffodils
The bench sits empty
The shoe points north of Jerusalem
The Freedom Train, late again
Joy Arnett
March 2008
Diatribe
Diatribe
He stood in line for over three hours on December 26th to return the microwave
So I have to wear sunscreen but can cook with radiation? He said to the sales clerk
He cornered the local grocer- Garbage is piling up and what will happen to it?
Do you just Expect It to Disappear?
After this, the grocer gave my dad all his rotten fruits and vegetables
Three compost piles smoldered in the side yard
Throwing away coffee grounds and egg shells became a Major Offense
Do you KNOW the chemical composition of these pesticides?
He asked the owner of the lawn and garden shop.
You’re killing John Q. Public, can you live with that? He asked.
My mother complained she couldn’t go anywhere with him
Our resources are limited he muttered, turning down the heat
Are you trying to freeze me to death? Is this some kind of torture?
Just shoot me and get it over with, my mother yelled.
As he eyed the new cell phone tower on Grant’s Hill, he growled
One day they’ll be able to find us in a millisecond
Anyone and everyone will know our business
And don’t give me that placating look
He began refusing meat
Do you know what they’re feeding these animals? He asked.
Do I care? She answered, poking the chicken with the biggest fork she could find.
Joy Arnett
He stood in line for over three hours on December 26th to return the microwave
So I have to wear sunscreen but can cook with radiation? He said to the sales clerk
He cornered the local grocer- Garbage is piling up and what will happen to it?
Do you just Expect It to Disappear?
After this, the grocer gave my dad all his rotten fruits and vegetables
Three compost piles smoldered in the side yard
Throwing away coffee grounds and egg shells became a Major Offense
Do you KNOW the chemical composition of these pesticides?
He asked the owner of the lawn and garden shop.
You’re killing John Q. Public, can you live with that? He asked.
My mother complained she couldn’t go anywhere with him
Our resources are limited he muttered, turning down the heat
Are you trying to freeze me to death? Is this some kind of torture?
Just shoot me and get it over with, my mother yelled.
As he eyed the new cell phone tower on Grant’s Hill, he growled
One day they’ll be able to find us in a millisecond
Anyone and everyone will know our business
And don’t give me that placating look
He began refusing meat
Do you know what they’re feeding these animals? He asked.
Do I care? She answered, poking the chicken with the biggest fork she could find.
Joy Arnett
Night Watch
Night Watch
Every night at eleven she packs a suitcase
Not much; one change of clothes, her flannel pajamas
Toothbrush, deodorant and two pairs of socks rolled into tight white balls
At the last minute she hesitates, throws a lipstick in called Pink ‘n Pretty
The brown speckled suitcase is old with a clasp that sticks
Or pops open unexpectedly
She dresses warmly in a sweater and sweat pants,
Puts on her gray coat; pulls her stocking cap down over her ears
Double ties her shoes, scared of tripping on the laces
Walks slowly down the hall to the red leather chair by the door
Sits, keeping her suitcase within reach
They will be coming soon
“Need a little something to help you sleep?” I ask
“No thank you,” she answers politely
“Just waiting on my parents,
They’ll be taking me back home to the farm tonight.”
“Let me know then, if you need anything, OK?” I say
She smiles at me; nods
She is seventy-three
Orphaned since twelve
Waiting is her night ritual
One in which she is highly disciplined
To remain patient and dry-eyed
They will come, she is sure of it
Her mama taught her how to scrub and polish a floor
Until she could almost see her face in it
How to starch and iron linen napkins and tablecloths
How to draw just enough well water
That none was wasted
How to embroider and quilt
How to shuck corn and shell peas
Exactly where to plant tomatoes so they wouldn’t burn in the summer sun
And how to make a big pot of melt-in-your-mouth beans
Flavored with onions and fatback
How to separate cream and churn it into butter
How to knead the dough for bread
She had the job of brushing old Sam
Who would chase her in the field until she fell
Laughing while he licked her face
They would lay together his head on her stomach
Her hand patting his back
And look at the clouds; pick snapdragons on the way home
She scoots to the edge of her chair when she hears the elevator
But it is only the supervisor
The curving road from farm to town is full of winter danger
She wonders if black ice has formed
“There’s been an accident” a voice says
She pulls her hat tighter over her ears, covers them with both hands
“Shut up!” she yells
“Maggie, are you all right? I ask
When she doesn’t answer I brings tea, sits beside her
Maggie sips her tea looking sideways at me
“You look tired,” I say
“May I help you to bed?”
I walk with Maggie down the long hall
Holding onto her elbow with a light touch
Turn down her bed; help her into a gown
Maggie looks at me, says
“Maybe they’ll come tomorrow,
When the roads aren’t so icy.”
Joy Arnett
March 2008
Every night at eleven she packs a suitcase
Not much; one change of clothes, her flannel pajamas
Toothbrush, deodorant and two pairs of socks rolled into tight white balls
At the last minute she hesitates, throws a lipstick in called Pink ‘n Pretty
The brown speckled suitcase is old with a clasp that sticks
Or pops open unexpectedly
She dresses warmly in a sweater and sweat pants,
Puts on her gray coat; pulls her stocking cap down over her ears
Double ties her shoes, scared of tripping on the laces
Walks slowly down the hall to the red leather chair by the door
Sits, keeping her suitcase within reach
They will be coming soon
“Need a little something to help you sleep?” I ask
“No thank you,” she answers politely
“Just waiting on my parents,
They’ll be taking me back home to the farm tonight.”
“Let me know then, if you need anything, OK?” I say
She smiles at me; nods
She is seventy-three
Orphaned since twelve
Waiting is her night ritual
One in which she is highly disciplined
To remain patient and dry-eyed
They will come, she is sure of it
Her mama taught her how to scrub and polish a floor
Until she could almost see her face in it
How to starch and iron linen napkins and tablecloths
How to draw just enough well water
That none was wasted
How to embroider and quilt
How to shuck corn and shell peas
Exactly where to plant tomatoes so they wouldn’t burn in the summer sun
And how to make a big pot of melt-in-your-mouth beans
Flavored with onions and fatback
How to separate cream and churn it into butter
How to knead the dough for bread
She had the job of brushing old Sam
Who would chase her in the field until she fell
Laughing while he licked her face
They would lay together his head on her stomach
Her hand patting his back
And look at the clouds; pick snapdragons on the way home
She scoots to the edge of her chair when she hears the elevator
But it is only the supervisor
The curving road from farm to town is full of winter danger
She wonders if black ice has formed
“There’s been an accident” a voice says
She pulls her hat tighter over her ears, covers them with both hands
“Shut up!” she yells
“Maggie, are you all right? I ask
When she doesn’t answer I brings tea, sits beside her
Maggie sips her tea looking sideways at me
“You look tired,” I say
“May I help you to bed?”
I walk with Maggie down the long hall
Holding onto her elbow with a light touch
Turn down her bed; help her into a gown
Maggie looks at me, says
“Maybe they’ll come tomorrow,
When the roads aren’t so icy.”
Joy Arnett
March 2008
A Far Different Wait
A Far Different Wait
I have waited for children three times
Gone in and out of doctor’s rooms
Climbed up and down from exam tables
Imagined what each baby would be like
Wondered about the color of their eyes,
The number of their fingers and toes (hoped for ten of each)
Looked discreetly away from the Enquirer at the check stand
When the headlines said: “BABY BORN WITH TWO HEADS”
Worried about what kind of mother I would be
Worried that I had a hidden gene of destruction that would
Annihilate all of us
Found out I didn’t
I know more about you than I knew about your aunts and uncles
While I was waiting for them
I know your eyes are the blue of the watercolor I painted with yesterday
A picture of classic Winnie the Pooh for your room
I know your hair is the color of sun kissed sand
And that your disposition is made of smiles
That you are easy to love
I know you cut your first tooth on Father’s Day
I rocked you through it and several more
I know that when I came home from work you looked for me
With a gleam in your eye, like a little star
Just before you’d smile and reach for me
I can’t wait for you to be here
We will read Pooh out loud
We will build wonderful castles of blocks
Watch birds and squirrels
Eat Matzah Ball Soup and warm sweet Challah
I will write you stories with pictures
That we can color to our heart’s content
We will relax into our lives as if we were floating on water
Our faces made warm by the sun
We will laugh often and loudly not caring what people think
And hug each other anytime we want
Someday I will tell you the story of how we came to be
Joy Arnett
May, 2009
I have waited for children three times
Gone in and out of doctor’s rooms
Climbed up and down from exam tables
Imagined what each baby would be like
Wondered about the color of their eyes,
The number of their fingers and toes (hoped for ten of each)
Looked discreetly away from the Enquirer at the check stand
When the headlines said: “BABY BORN WITH TWO HEADS”
Worried about what kind of mother I would be
Worried that I had a hidden gene of destruction that would
Annihilate all of us
Found out I didn’t
I know more about you than I knew about your aunts and uncles
While I was waiting for them
I know your eyes are the blue of the watercolor I painted with yesterday
A picture of classic Winnie the Pooh for your room
I know your hair is the color of sun kissed sand
And that your disposition is made of smiles
That you are easy to love
I know you cut your first tooth on Father’s Day
I rocked you through it and several more
I know that when I came home from work you looked for me
With a gleam in your eye, like a little star
Just before you’d smile and reach for me
I can’t wait for you to be here
We will read Pooh out loud
We will build wonderful castles of blocks
Watch birds and squirrels
Eat Matzah Ball Soup and warm sweet Challah
I will write you stories with pictures
That we can color to our heart’s content
We will relax into our lives as if we were floating on water
Our faces made warm by the sun
We will laugh often and loudly not caring what people think
And hug each other anytime we want
Someday I will tell you the story of how we came to be
Joy Arnett
May, 2009
Sidewalking
Side Walking
My sister was nine. I was six.
We were sent to the store for Coca-Cola
My sister carried the green glass bottles carefully
I remember the clink of them as we walked, making up a language all our own
Laughing at the nonsensical sound of the words
Thinking we may fool the housewife walking past into thinking
We were from Russia
Neither of us noticed the cracked hump of pavement on the corner
My sister went down hard; first to her knees then to her belly
Arms splayed out as if she were playing catch, glass crushed beneath her
Coke and blood trickled past the white toes of my Keds
“Get Mother!” she screamed.
I ran fast down twenty-fifth and over the tracks to twenty-forth
Hollering, “Mother, Help!” a full block before I reached the house.
She was sitting on a green chair smoking a Pall Mall
In Bermuda shorts the color of watermelon
I breathed out the fall, the glass, the blood
She looked at me as if I had said, “Nice day today, huh?” and sent me to my room.
It’s funny what you remember
Water from the kitchen tap, the clattering of dishes in the sink
The absence of the opening and closing of doors
No sounds of fumbling through the medicine chest
It took a long time for my sister to come home
She was sent to bed without supper, the cost of the coke subtracted from her allowance
My food stuck in my throat. I pushed green peas around my plate.
“How was your day?” asked my Father
“Not so bad,” she said.
Joy Arnett
October, 2008
Portland, Or
My sister was nine. I was six.
We were sent to the store for Coca-Cola
My sister carried the green glass bottles carefully
I remember the clink of them as we walked, making up a language all our own
Laughing at the nonsensical sound of the words
Thinking we may fool the housewife walking past into thinking
We were from Russia
Neither of us noticed the cracked hump of pavement on the corner
My sister went down hard; first to her knees then to her belly
Arms splayed out as if she were playing catch, glass crushed beneath her
Coke and blood trickled past the white toes of my Keds
“Get Mother!” she screamed.
I ran fast down twenty-fifth and over the tracks to twenty-forth
Hollering, “Mother, Help!” a full block before I reached the house.
She was sitting on a green chair smoking a Pall Mall
In Bermuda shorts the color of watermelon
I breathed out the fall, the glass, the blood
She looked at me as if I had said, “Nice day today, huh?” and sent me to my room.
It’s funny what you remember
Water from the kitchen tap, the clattering of dishes in the sink
The absence of the opening and closing of doors
No sounds of fumbling through the medicine chest
It took a long time for my sister to come home
She was sent to bed without supper, the cost of the coke subtracted from her allowance
My food stuck in my throat. I pushed green peas around my plate.
“How was your day?” asked my Father
“Not so bad,” she said.
Joy Arnett
October, 2008
Portland, Or
Conversations
She believes she can rotate time
With words whispered hoarsely or spoken as if
She is attending high tea
Converses nightly with her father
Though he is twenty summers dead
Believes her hospital robe, a satin dressing gown
Her plain olive socks, pumps of the finest brocade
Refusing breakfast, she goes to the window
At the end of the east hall
Looks only at the floor as she walks
As if her path is hidden in the orange and brown speckled linoleum
Mutters nonsense words and half-syllables
With a lilting cadence that shoots upwards then descends
Like a feather floating to the earth
Mumbles and mutters until she reaches the window frame
Leans against the polished mahogany
Rubs one finger gently, across the grain
Her eyes follow a dappling of shadows around the birch tree
Come to rest on a cardinal
Perched on the roughly hewn birdfeeder
In the Common Yard
“Birds fly over barbed wire.” She says to no one in particular
Follows this with an incantation of sorts;
“Spirit of bird, red like fire
Carry away on scarlet wings
The cursed wire that binds
The land holding a thousand
Wanting thoughts that see no harvest.”
Stays at the window long after the cardinal leaves
Until dusk gathers like magician’s smoke around the fence posts
Until both the birch and the feeder slip into gray
Like something lost at sea
And thinks she remembers
Losing something
But can’t remember what
Stays watching until the clouds roll back
Until twinkling diamonds appear
These she blesses with a beautiful mish-mash of sounds
Loving equally, the brilliance and the dark
When she finally lets staff escort her back to her room
She giggles at the echo of their footsteps
Interrupting the silence
In the middle of the night
She asks for tea thick with cream
Unruly auburn curls fall over the frayed collar of her robe
As she tilts her head bringing lips to cup
Takes a noiseless, delicate
Refined sip
Before allowing her father to speak
He speaks loudly of vendors and beggars
The noise and bustle of the shoe repair shop
Speaks until she smells the earthy scent of leather
The slightly musty odor of aged wood
Feels the heat from the stove warming her shoulders
Sees the bright flowered curtains her mother made
And the yellow shop sign with its bold brown lettering
Stands quietly by when the butcher rushes in
He has lost a heel; can her father repair it now?
Understands that her father feels obliged to help his neighbor
As he mends the shoe quickly with twelve tiny nails
Holds his hands up to the butcher, shaking his head
Who would take payment for so small a thing?
The butcher’s beefy hands leave bloody prints on the counter
She talks with the postman when he comes
Apologizing for the lateness of his delivery
With the fishermen who tell her that the salmon are running
And with Mrs. Stein who offers her a dozen roses at half price
This she answers with a cascade of laughter
For what would she do with roses in such a place as this?
Where bedtime tea is served in paper cups?
Joy Arnett
January 2008
With words whispered hoarsely or spoken as if
She is attending high tea
Converses nightly with her father
Though he is twenty summers dead
Believes her hospital robe, a satin dressing gown
Her plain olive socks, pumps of the finest brocade
Refusing breakfast, she goes to the window
At the end of the east hall
Looks only at the floor as she walks
As if her path is hidden in the orange and brown speckled linoleum
Mutters nonsense words and half-syllables
With a lilting cadence that shoots upwards then descends
Like a feather floating to the earth
Mumbles and mutters until she reaches the window frame
Leans against the polished mahogany
Rubs one finger gently, across the grain
Her eyes follow a dappling of shadows around the birch tree
Come to rest on a cardinal
Perched on the roughly hewn birdfeeder
In the Common Yard
“Birds fly over barbed wire.” She says to no one in particular
Follows this with an incantation of sorts;
“Spirit of bird, red like fire
Carry away on scarlet wings
The cursed wire that binds
The land holding a thousand
Wanting thoughts that see no harvest.”
Stays at the window long after the cardinal leaves
Until dusk gathers like magician’s smoke around the fence posts
Until both the birch and the feeder slip into gray
Like something lost at sea
And thinks she remembers
Losing something
But can’t remember what
Stays watching until the clouds roll back
Until twinkling diamonds appear
These she blesses with a beautiful mish-mash of sounds
Loving equally, the brilliance and the dark
When she finally lets staff escort her back to her room
She giggles at the echo of their footsteps
Interrupting the silence
In the middle of the night
She asks for tea thick with cream
Unruly auburn curls fall over the frayed collar of her robe
As she tilts her head bringing lips to cup
Takes a noiseless, delicate
Refined sip
Before allowing her father to speak
He speaks loudly of vendors and beggars
The noise and bustle of the shoe repair shop
Speaks until she smells the earthy scent of leather
The slightly musty odor of aged wood
Feels the heat from the stove warming her shoulders
Sees the bright flowered curtains her mother made
And the yellow shop sign with its bold brown lettering
Stands quietly by when the butcher rushes in
He has lost a heel; can her father repair it now?
Understands that her father feels obliged to help his neighbor
As he mends the shoe quickly with twelve tiny nails
Holds his hands up to the butcher, shaking his head
Who would take payment for so small a thing?
The butcher’s beefy hands leave bloody prints on the counter
She talks with the postman when he comes
Apologizing for the lateness of his delivery
With the fishermen who tell her that the salmon are running
And with Mrs. Stein who offers her a dozen roses at half price
This she answers with a cascade of laughter
For what would she do with roses in such a place as this?
Where bedtime tea is served in paper cups?
Joy Arnett
January 2008
Jimmy
It’s your fault he’s the way he is, my mother says to him
If you’d just left well enough alone
His skull wouldn’t have been bashed in
Give it a rest, he says, I wasn’t operating the damn crane
You’re the one got him the job, she says, louder now
For chrissake, Martha, it was a goddam accident
In my mind I can see her jaw set in a firm straight line,
Her eyes turning as cold and hard as railroad steel,
She will turn her back on him
Pretending to busy herself with some menial kitchen task
Footsteps pound up the stairs, pass my room
At least I pray for his healing, she yells after him
On my knees day in and day out!
Do you even pray anymore?
My father does not answer this question
We waited for six hours on the day of the accident to see him
The Nurse avoided our eyes when she ushered us into ICU
Sideswiped specifics in favor of “He may never be the same”
Neurosurgeons was better at delivering truth
“Damaged extensively beyond repair,” is what they said
My mother hovered; hands flitting about like finches
Moving the way people do when they don’t know who or what to touch
He was on life support, they explained, until he could breathe on his own
He’d be better off dead, I thought; then I cried
For thinking such a shameful thing
Dad and I visit him every Saturday
I look at the trees as we drive
Watch the leaves turn from green to crimson-gold
As they circle on wind drifts to the ground
Study the limbs heavy with snow
We drive 2.6 miles on State Street
To the place where the hopeless wait
For visits from the helpless
Dad sits awhile before we go in
Says the engine needs to idle, sighs a lot
Tries to connect with me
Asks me how school is going
I tell him my algebra teacher sucks and I hate P.E.
When the silence gets awkward, we go in
Ride the Otis elevator up to the tenth floor
Jimmy is in the day room, slumped over in his wheelchair
Like someone stole his backbone
He has on a bright orange shirt and purple sweat pants
Sheesh, I say, who dressed you?
He squints up at me, gives me a crooked grin, asks me my name
I’m Anna, I say
Dad says, I’m your Dad before Jimmy can ask who he is
My dad isn’t sure where he fits in anymore
We sit down to play cards and I shuffle the deck
What’s your name? Jimmy says to me again
This is my brother, not the one who helped me with my homework
Or the one who could explain math to me better than my teacher or the one
That used to hide behind the closet door and scare the dickens out of me
His hands shake so hard I’m afraid he will drop his cards
But he hangs on to every one of them
We play King’s Corner and he bellows with laughter
Then I have to draw again and again
He has to bend way over to see his cards
Never misses the Kings
Beats my butt every time
Joy Arnett
Asylum at St. Remy
I wish I had lived in your time
Brought you my knowledge of Lithium
Or my psychiatric nurse’s listening ear.
But then,
Your brush may have never gone awry
Painting battle skies
Beams shooting willy- nilly
Stars skipping across canvas pinwheels
Clouds dripping cerulean blue
On the sleeping village
Rampant unspent energy
Jailed between earth and sky
Madness lingering
Behind the orb’s smile
What was it like?
Staring into the night
Through asylum glass
Tapping out
The SOS of your soul?
Brought you my knowledge of Lithium
Or my psychiatric nurse’s listening ear.
But then,
Your brush may have never gone awry
Painting battle skies
Beams shooting willy- nilly
Stars skipping across canvas pinwheels
Clouds dripping cerulean blue
On the sleeping village
Rampant unspent energy
Jailed between earth and sky
Madness lingering
Behind the orb’s smile
What was it like?
Staring into the night
Through asylum glass
Tapping out
The SOS of your soul?
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