Arthur Saves
1987 SE Portland OR
The flow of hair, fold of robe,
With the glow of deep love
Jesus' sad eyes beam down on his children.
The dwindling Baptists, bend old heads,
look up at Jesus,
believing God on their side.
“We need to sell our church,”
said the Baptists
with shrinking hearts and empty pews
“We want to buy your church,”
said the Gays
With full pockets and growing spirits
“We don’t want your money”
said the Baptists
believing God doesn't want the Gays
to put their you-know-whats, you-know-where.
“We need to sell our church”
said the Baptists
with smudged souls and empty pockets.
“I want to buy your church”
said my Dad
believing both God and the Baptists
could put their heads up their you-know-where.
“We want your money,”
said the Baptists
with glad hearts and grasping hands
“We want the church”
said the Gays
with their heads lifted to you-know-where
So it came to pass that Arthur Lind, my Straight Dad, saved the church.
The flow of hair, fold of robe,
With the glow of deep love
Jesus' glad eyes beam down on his children.
Morning Glory Cafe
Astoria, Oregon 2024
Where have all the flowers gone? They’ve gone to young girls, everyone.
I barely tolerate Becky, her perennial perky smile dispensing a senseless sunflower of everlasting love. My peony burst briefly. Glorious, fast petals drop. A long-lasting pink mess. The flour flecks her apron as if she does not know how. how brief the bloom,
I am here, sipping latte, in the Morning Glory Cafe. Becky, my flour child, bakes baby croissants just for me, warm and buttery. Red curls escape her cap, Becky dispenses my morning hug. Flour flies on my black blouse.
I was there, white robe, getting high, my cheeks pink, young wild hair caught in the wind. Sipping tea on the Haight watching paint-faced hippies tuning In, turning on, dropping out.
The love-fest bursts. At the Funeral of the Summer of Love, we carried a coffin, cold and plain. We kneeled in the cross-section of Haight and Ashbury tossing flowers.
Where have all the flowers gone? They’ve gone to young girls, everyone.
Picking for Memories
I quietly close the door to Nell’s room in the cold institution. I sit by her sleeping side, her mouth slack, spittle at its side. I close my eyes.
With a swoosh, I slide down the smooth waxed tunnel of Nell’s ear, dropping onto the landscape of my sister’s once brainy brain. Through a twisted web of hardening plague, I swing my pick, tap my trowel. My third-eye beam scans for stories once told around flickering fires, scents of pine. I scan for hope, a hole where the past might live warm and bright. I tap. I tap, Sweat and toil, my hope fatigues. Tap. tap. Shards fly. A gaping ravine opens. With megaphone hands, I shout down, down into the darkness, “Remember the cute chipmunk who shared our graham crackers, nibbled at crumbs. How you whispered to her "I'll remember you, this moment will live forever.” My echo rebounds.
Alone, I trudge onward, the path stinking of decaying dying cells. Suddenly a sign of old life etched on a hardened stone, Kneeling close, I brush away the dust. A daisy, half plucked, as if Nell had stopped mid-chant. Loves me. Loves me not. In the center, a hole. I place my lips to the stone and call, hope without hope. “Nell, dear Nell, remember the smell of scorched marshmallows, the sweetness of the messy smores. Remember. Remember.” My yearning ear to the hole, Do I hear the twitch of a searching nose? A whiff of a memory alive? Then clearly, distinctly in the soft hollow of my ear, Nell’s sweet voice reverberates one miracle word, “Yum.”
I Remember - At 80
Opening the door to greet my day
My cheeks are flush
My brain is mush
Am I ready to go?
I do not know.
What did I forget?
I fret
I wander into my white bathroom to find a hint
I swirl my tongue tasting sweet peppermint.
Yes, I brushed my teeth
I did not forget
Ahh, I need not fret
I saunter to my yellow kitchen and touch my belly
It’s full of toast and sweet jelly
Yes, I ate my breakfast
I did not forget
Ahh, I need not fret
I glare at myself in the hall mirror ready to scold
I’m wearing scarf, mittens and hat ready for cold
I did not forget
Ah, I need not fret
Am I ready to go?
I still do not know
What did I forget?
I fret
I search my heart for courage and ease
It’s dark with doubt I cannot appease
Ahh. I did not pray
On my knees, I find peace
My fears and doubts release
I will not forget
I will not fret
I open the door to greet the day
Everything will be Okay
What I Wore
Astoria, Oregon Nov 13, 2021
I’m ready-to-be-born, scrunching feet first tight in a ball, wearing a sac of blood and fluid. I wonder what my story will be?
I’m six months, propped up in my straw carriage, wearing a beret askew, a New York Times placed in my hands. I wonder what I’ll need to learn?
I’m two, a model posing for a magazine, wearing a pink pinafore, a petite yellow broom in my hand, pretending to be a housewife. I wonder where the dirt will be?
I’m six, standing on the porch of our yellow suburban house, wearing saddle shoes and a circular skirt my mother adorned with a pink poodle. I wonder if I’ll be as smart and pretty as the other kids?
I’m sixteen, sitting on the circular couch of our suburban house waiting for Danny, wearing pantyhose to flatten my tummy, a pointy bra to lift my boobs and stiff hairspray to steady my nerves.. I wonder if Danny will kiss me.
I’m eighteen, sitting with friends in my dorm in a hippie college, wearing a peasant blouse without a bra. I wonder who will take my virginity.
I’m twenty-two, getting high on Haight Street, wearing a tie-dyed shirt, a boa and a stoned-out grin. I wonder how far my mind will expand.
I’m twenty-four, laying on a bed next to a guy who picked me up hitchhiking wearing nothing but firm tits and moisture between my legs. I wonder if I should get my diaphragm from my purse.
I’m twenty-five, lounging on the couch, wearing a motherly glow and a pink maternity dress embroidered with loves-me love-me-not daisies. I wonder why Richard loves me and my baby Jessica.
I’m twenty-eight, planting carrots on a commune, wearing Jessica on my back, Richard's baby in my belly. I wonder if we can live off of the land.
I’m twenty-seven, nesting in a house on a hill in Astoria, waving to Richard and the girls, wearing a proud-to-bring-home-the bacon grin. I wonder if nuclear family life fits too tight.
I’m thirty-five, single and managing a college program, wearing rotating blue, rose, and aqua blazers. I wonder if there’s a rip running up my pantyhose.
I’m sixty-five, bathing in the Tuscan sun visiting my daughter and grand-daughter, wearing Nonna joy and terror for this world in faded hippie tatters. I wonder where the years have gone.
I’m seventy, scrunched on a pink velvet couch in a memoir class, wearing fear of muddy memories and shocking scenes. I wonder if I should I hide the dirt.
I’m eighty, in Astoria watching the Columbia roll by, wearing wisdom wrinkles and a purple cane with bling. I wonder how my story will end.
Comments