SOMEBODY

SOMEBODY

 susan ambrosino

Somebody is alone,

drifting down the wide river in a small boat,

seized by the reckless beauty

of a teenager's desire to drop out of school,

turn and walk away,

garbage can overflowing.

Somebody trips over tree roots,

lands on hands and knees,

plummets down a well,

climbs.

Somebody stands in the sun,

bends, lifts, leans, pivots,

is so pitiful in fragility, so amazing in resilience.

Pizza and white wine…. pasta and red,

sloshy head and stomach full,

somebody moves on

into the insect noise keeping night air alive.

Somebody earned the freedom to take road trips,

peanut butter in the car, endless highway, cheap motel,

counting utility poles in groups of ten,

watching for cops,

limitless as heaven or god,

the soul,

the smell of lilacs,

weeping willows in August,

prayer,

limitless as listening to water drip,

hours spent in the hammock.

Somebody is moving through trees,

wondering if anyone sees the earth's fear of humans spreading

across its flesh.

But somebody must be back in time for Macy's ½ day sale

which ends at 1pm.

Somebody persists and persists.

WEDNESDAY ?

WEDNESDAY ?

 susan ambrosino

But what does it mean to be able to say:

You can be there, every Wednesday,

from this one on into the future of many Wednesdays,

you will continue to come and be there,

be present, and participate,

do it, and practice ?

Something else must have ended.

Wednesdays must have become suddenly

free.

And is that a good thing

as things come and go

as Wednesdays come and go

and change ?

Very long ago it used to be that Wednesday

was a short day of school

followed by a long afternoon of catechism class.

Then Wednesday meant the week was half over

or the day to put the recycles out

or a day of no work if you worked on Saturdays

or the day to pick up your unemployment check,

the day you attended poetry class, Shakespeare, or English literature.

Most important of all, it just occurs to you,

Wednesday was the day your daughter was born.

But that was only one Wednesday.

And now Wednesday’s are free again.

You are free to be present and practice,

do it and participate,

on a Wednesday.

There still is Monday and Tuesday, and Friday and Saturday,

But now you have Wednesday back too…..

And you realize Wednesday has become your soul,

your soul, which is so often lost,

then found again, then lost again,  

only to be discovered hiding in a basement room with no windows,

many damp smells, spiders crawling around,

hoping someone finds it, perhaps on a Wednesday,

brings it a sandwich,

asks it to come upstairs for awhile, have a talk.

The soul goes upstairs, whistles to the mind and body to follow,

It tries to start over, wakes up each Wednesday, believes in itself,

believes in Wednesday again, gives itself a hug,

goes on its way

out the door

on

Wednesday
free.

TO BE VIEWED FROM THE GREAT HEIGHT OF OLD AGE

TO BE VIEWED FROM THE GREAT HEIGHT OF OLD AGE

 susan ambrosino

To be viewed from the great height of old age

like your father's bones in a Bronx cemetery

the damage done long ago persists for decades,

one wall-eye veering off the wrong way

like the direction his life took

picking at the seams of her until

she came apart with a sudden wrenching.

Your Mother broke the dinner plate, cutting herself, in anger

his philosophy of life limited to hatred,

of blacks, rich folks, Jews, in-laws,

what he wasn't is what you've evolved into

the ominous presence of him too much for an eleven year old to bear,

but he died before he snapped you in two,

now your two beautiful olive skinned kids,

make you round again, seamless, without end,

you are the immortal protector,

you live forever in them, they go on because of you,

they dance for you now, make you  real.

Notepaper and computer screens don't argue,

poetry is a habit forming sensation,

a long aaahhh

hot milk salving your strength,

the carbohydrate comfort of pasta, bread, rice

a sticky metaphoric substance.

no one to raise eyebrows at you,

no one to drop a jaw with a silent Oh ! and change the subject,

no one to quietly turn away

no one unable to answer what you just said.

People remember what they want to remember,

they've all been there, at one time or another,

even those who believe they're strolling through a garden,

talking about the scents, the colors, the fresh air,

when you know they've no path, no gate, no way in.

Shelved books lined up in a decisive statement of who you are,

defined by what you've browsed, bought, kept, read over and over,

it helped you see the person hiding below.

Your Jean Paul Sartre novel now fallen into unknown hands,

probably sold for a quarter when you needed some cash fast,

but then, you reached The Age Of Reason ages ago.

You miss Silversheene, King Of The Sled Dogs, want him back now,

The sound of your husband's breath at night

announcing aliveness so close to you,

the sound of your name in a sharp whisper

Sue, wake up,

not to rise, after all, but to actually awaken,

though the world is full of chatter,

flawed human hearts taking pleasure in believing small lies of each other

for the pointlessness of winning or losing.

It can make you want to stop knitting,

leave the sweater draped over the couch, one sleeve missing,

never rake another leaf, trim another shrub, or pull another weed,

let the car run out of gas,

don't cook, clean, bathe, brush your teeth .…

Imagine the sound of  Beethoven's Fur Eloise  drifting through the room.

YOU CAN'T BELIEVE YOU HAVE HIM

YOU CAN'T BELIEVE YOU HAVE HIM

 susan ambrosino

you can’t believe you have him

a tiny grandbaby with ten toes

so perfect they look like little pearls lined up all in a row

and there’s ten fingers as well

little chubby stubs

so wide

it looks like he has too many fingers when he grips

a toy so hard

in his need to own it

to play

like never before anyone ever played

like nobody ever had a baby like this before

you had a grandbaby like this.

CINDERELLA AND HER COACH HANDBAG

CINDERELLA AND HER COACH HANDBAG

 susan ambrosino

It's odd coming home again suspecting

you never left your desk, your sofa, or

your own private pulse, flying the same plane

to the same sunny spot that doesn't require a passport.

Sauvignon Blanc is as far as you got, maybe

a little Cabernet, or both, mixed with some

mildly wild talk, some senseless laughter

then a bit of fast driving, taking the turns sharp,

arriving home at a time only you think is late,

like eight, when others are leaving to go out.

You like remaining awake in the night.

You have your own private crazy,

perhaps everyone does, you wouldn’t know.

The silence at night is a hushing in the depths of the inner ear.

It’s a habit forming sensation, no one

to raise eyebrows at you, no one

to quietly turn away, no one

need answer.

It is easy to find peace in the avoidance of people,

but to find it in chaos, that is hard.

Humans are what they are,

some are rain, some are earthquakes.

You try so hard to be a tree lined path leading to a cabin in the woods.

But you need to have flaws, or you’d be a technician.

Why would you want to be perfect ?

So you keep the make-up bag, the high-heeled shoes, the trendy clothes.

You keep Cinderella and her Coach handbag,

you still are good.

You sleep eight hours every night, you still are virtuous.

Must you question everything ?

You took one volume of the encyclopedia

Britannica to read in bed each night for many years.

Now you seek no-mind.

Put this on your calendar:

do not look at the person ahead of you,

do not look at the person behind you,

look up at the sky,

look down at your feet.

Put this on your calendar:

Be snow, be lightening

be wind, mud, avalanche, tsunami.

At least you have a partner to dance with

who can lift you off your feet,

swing you upside down,

blood pulsing, pen scratching,

while you imagine what you write has some meaning,

could ever matter to anyone

but yourself.

Is it ego ? indulgence ? a touch of  madness ?

Are you still fifteen ?

Still an orphan child hoping to be found ?

Cinderella waiting for your husband to come home

with his paycheck

which he gives to you without blinking

without thinking

until the leaves fall still from no breeze

the curtains drop down with no breath

the sun settles into dusk, into night,

into earth ?

A THINKING BLINDNESS

A THINKING BLINDNESS

 susan ambrosino

The lights have gone out.

It could be the 13th century.

You've become a thinking blindness

walking around dark corridors

sneaking up on yourself

holding out your hand

hoping it will not touch something

unexpected.

This is how it should be.

The words come when the mind shifts over

to the primal dark.

Never share any percentage of yourself.

Never give up any small part of the thing that you are.

Think.

Talk to yourself.

Listen.

Settle into the shape of the dark,

into the shape of the body,

the internal organs floating.

It is so easy to see the depth of color in the darkness.

You could pluck the best color for the moment,

intuitively,

each finger knowing what comes next,

grass

pebbles

pond water

sun.

What is it about the color green ?

for the wife who talks so much

that you can't hear the person who doesn't speak at all.

Your ways are important to no one but yourself.

You have a lovely house,

and you're oh so happy

to be coming home again.

NOBODY IN PARTICULAR

NOBODY IN PARTICULAR

 susan ambrosino

Start with less

then add less and less

each day

until you have even less,

living in the town next to nowhere,

someone who knows no one,

with more of that strange invention of god,

called Time.

Look around

and look and look.

See how everything fits together nicely

in a neat package,

seamlessly.

The sky meets the horizon.

The trees touch the sky.

The trees root in the earth.

All living beings wrap themselves around

everything else

and live touching, touching, touching

each other

and it all breathes in and out

in and out

in and out together.

Wind blows east.

Wind blows west.

The sun comes up.

The moon goes down.

The earth tilts one way as it

spins in a floating flash of fiery

infinity,

every warmth provided.

God is a very small thing

that you will notice

when you are alone and silent,

when you are nobody in particular,

a clean slate rising each day

leaving the body behind.

Only by balancing can we move.

Only by moving can we balance.

Don't believe what you don't believe

even though everyone else believes it.