Wednesday, May 9, 2012
MOZART INHOBOKEN
Pat Spilseth writerscircle@mchsi.com
MOZART IN HOBOKEN
What happened to sass and tumultuous tumbles
in and out of love
and adventurous forays with reptilian characters
that lent such disturbance to my existence?
The scrappy spark of my youthful face
has receded and fallen in abandonment of years.
A jowled neck burrows into sagging shoulders
hoisting boned cups to perky awareness.
No longer a girl in bloom
I’m paralyzed with self-doubt
making me prey to wannabe yogis and bona fide geniuses
who temper my depressions with wit and affectionate wisdom.
They’ve been here too
and moved on to another plane or drug-induced planet,
a flight of fancy to other worlds of inspired minds.
Let’s be candid… but, gentle with our candor.
What happened to the tempestuous adolescent
gasping with laughter
at each indiscretion?
Sometimes I soar close to smoky beginnings
where I face all manner of monsters
with composed ferocity and gritty eloquence.
Sober, I cajole myself,
partaking in a few pleasures.
All grown up, I’ve become Mozart in Hoboken.
In my nearsighted, squinty view
It doesn’t pay to see things too clearly.
It’s too bright.
Tuesday, May 8, 2012
Broken Twigs Emptiness
POEM: BRANCHES February, 2012 Pat Spilseth
Broken twigs twist in the wind,
free fall
as squirrels jump and soar into empty air.
Skeleton fingers
scratch the sky.
This is the winter
that never was
No skaters;
a lone skier glides past
random fishing shacks
on the frozen lake
Danger lurks beneath the ice.
Power ridges buckle,
heave ice floats into monster piles,
flowing water drowns interlopers.
Beware
winter’s ice is not safe.
But it draws me
into its emptiness
Broken twigs twist in the wind,
free fall
as squirrels jump and soar into empty air.
Skeleton fingers
scratch the sky.
This is the winter
that never was
No skaters;
a lone skier glides past
random fishing shacks
on the frozen lake
Danger lurks beneath the ice.
Power ridges buckle,
heave ice floats into monster piles,
flowing water drowns interlopers.
Beware
winter’s ice is not safe.
But it draws me
into its emptiness
Tuesday, May 1, 2012
Prom Promises
FROM WHERE I SIT Prom Promises April 5, 2012 Pat Spilseth
It’s prom time. Can you still remember being sixteen or seventeen, getting ready for your magical evening at the prom? The annual high school prom is a rite of passage, one of those memorable rituals of American youth. Its anticipation is full of hopes and dreams few of us will ever forget, no matter if your prom date is Prince Charming or a dud.
I remember...
There I was, in my perfect hairdo, sprayed stiffly with Aqua Net, and a dab of Wind Song perfume purchased at the Corner Drug Store. My image in the full length mirror smiled back at me, dressed in a lovely, hand-me-down, white dress of tulle and satin. The garter belt holding up my tan nylons was scratchy, and the garters pinched, but I was determined to feel lovely. I slipped into my stiff, white 1” heeled slippers, making me just a tad taller that my anticipated date. I grimaced, but...oh, the pain was worth the breath-taking beauty I observed.
There was still time to practice in the mirror. Cocking my head slightly and trying to look dreamy, I put on various facial expressions: should I look demure, ecstatic, surprised, or engage in the latest look I’d read about in “Seventeen” magazine, my teenage Bible? I wasn’t quite comfortable with that flirty look, but “Seventeen” told me that it was the “look” a date was attracted to.
I’d read in the teenage glamour magazine that it was a good idea to practice smooching with a mirror, just in case my date tried to kiss me. One should be prepared. This would be my first kiss. I was a late bloomer. I’d dreamt about this earth-shaking event for months. I was a bit nervous. Just thinking about this monumental event made me blush! Pulling a tube of Pink Kisses lipstick from my white beaded, tiny clutch purse, I lathered color on my quivering lips. Licking my lips several times to make them glisten, as the magazine had told me to do, I hesitantly approached the mirror. Clutching the looking glass shakily with both hands, I pressed my fevered face to the cold mirror and pecked a kiss. That felt weird! I didn’t want to appear too “forward”...that could botch my reputation as a “nice” girl. I tried smacking the kiss with more force. But that sucking noise was a bit overpowering. The noise reminded me of embarrassing, offensive sounds I sure hoped wouldn’t happen to me on this magical evening.
I preferred thinking about the flowers he might bring. I loved daisies. Roses and carnations made me think of dead people. Would he choose a wrist corsage of inexpensive carnations or perhaps he’d bring a small bouquet of flowers from his mom’s garden. That would really be embarrassing! I hoped he wouldn’t pin the flowers on the bodice of my dress. Most high school boys I knew weren’t real smooth. I envisioned getting poked with the piercing pin and bleeding red blood on my white gown. I’d be utterly mortified!
Was that the doorbell? Maybe Mom will get it. Gee, I hope Dad is busy in his sheriff’s office, but what if Blackie and Verdi were sitting at the bars of their jail cell windows checking out my date? That would be totally mortifying! Johnny would have to go through the gauntlet of staring convicts behind bars leering at his suit, probably making snide comments, maybe whistling. Would he even come to the door to pick me up?
Clomping down the stairs from my upstairs bedroom to the kitchen door, I saw him. Gee Whiz...Johnny looked so handsome and grown up in his narrow black tie, starched white shirt and shiny black suit. WOW!
But wait! What’s that under his arms? Is he trying to be funny? Standing tall, dark, and handsome with a crooked smile on his face, my Johnny looked embarrassed. Hobbling on crutches, he knocked at the kitchen door. Stammering an apology for being late, he explained that he’d sprained his ankle at the baseball game after school. Shuttering, I knew, deep in my heart, that my prom evening was doomed.
But remember, there’s still hope for the kiss...
Pasting a smile on my disappointed face, we limped through the Grand March at the Lakeside Ballroom while parents snapped flashbulb photos of their dressed up kids with Brownie cameras. Johnny quickly grabbed a booth, asked for a bucket of ice, and we spent the night with his foot on ice to keep the swelling down. Looking back, I believe that the last place on earth Johnny wanted to be was at the high school prom at the Lakeside Ballroom. It wouldn’t have mattered if his date had been Sandra Dee or Farah Fawcett. Johnny groaned, grimacing in pain as he added freezing ice to the bucket.
Dream on, girls...Enjoy your night of glamour and romance. You’ll be gorgeous. Assuredly, his Mom has told him how to behave and practiced dancing with him. Pretend your date is Prince Charming, dancing with his beautiful princess. As “Seventeen” magazines advised me back in 1962, just put on a smile and have fun! 868
It’s prom time. Can you still remember being sixteen or seventeen, getting ready for your magical evening at the prom? The annual high school prom is a rite of passage, one of those memorable rituals of American youth. Its anticipation is full of hopes and dreams few of us will ever forget, no matter if your prom date is Prince Charming or a dud.
I remember...
There I was, in my perfect hairdo, sprayed stiffly with Aqua Net, and a dab of Wind Song perfume purchased at the Corner Drug Store. My image in the full length mirror smiled back at me, dressed in a lovely, hand-me-down, white dress of tulle and satin. The garter belt holding up my tan nylons was scratchy, and the garters pinched, but I was determined to feel lovely. I slipped into my stiff, white 1” heeled slippers, making me just a tad taller that my anticipated date. I grimaced, but...oh, the pain was worth the breath-taking beauty I observed.
There was still time to practice in the mirror. Cocking my head slightly and trying to look dreamy, I put on various facial expressions: should I look demure, ecstatic, surprised, or engage in the latest look I’d read about in “Seventeen” magazine, my teenage Bible? I wasn’t quite comfortable with that flirty look, but “Seventeen” told me that it was the “look” a date was attracted to.
I’d read in the teenage glamour magazine that it was a good idea to practice smooching with a mirror, just in case my date tried to kiss me. One should be prepared. This would be my first kiss. I was a late bloomer. I’d dreamt about this earth-shaking event for months. I was a bit nervous. Just thinking about this monumental event made me blush! Pulling a tube of Pink Kisses lipstick from my white beaded, tiny clutch purse, I lathered color on my quivering lips. Licking my lips several times to make them glisten, as the magazine had told me to do, I hesitantly approached the mirror. Clutching the looking glass shakily with both hands, I pressed my fevered face to the cold mirror and pecked a kiss. That felt weird! I didn’t want to appear too “forward”...that could botch my reputation as a “nice” girl. I tried smacking the kiss with more force. But that sucking noise was a bit overpowering. The noise reminded me of embarrassing, offensive sounds I sure hoped wouldn’t happen to me on this magical evening.
I preferred thinking about the flowers he might bring. I loved daisies. Roses and carnations made me think of dead people. Would he choose a wrist corsage of inexpensive carnations or perhaps he’d bring a small bouquet of flowers from his mom’s garden. That would really be embarrassing! I hoped he wouldn’t pin the flowers on the bodice of my dress. Most high school boys I knew weren’t real smooth. I envisioned getting poked with the piercing pin and bleeding red blood on my white gown. I’d be utterly mortified!
Was that the doorbell? Maybe Mom will get it. Gee, I hope Dad is busy in his sheriff’s office, but what if Blackie and Verdi were sitting at the bars of their jail cell windows checking out my date? That would be totally mortifying! Johnny would have to go through the gauntlet of staring convicts behind bars leering at his suit, probably making snide comments, maybe whistling. Would he even come to the door to pick me up?
Clomping down the stairs from my upstairs bedroom to the kitchen door, I saw him. Gee Whiz...Johnny looked so handsome and grown up in his narrow black tie, starched white shirt and shiny black suit. WOW!
But wait! What’s that under his arms? Is he trying to be funny? Standing tall, dark, and handsome with a crooked smile on his face, my Johnny looked embarrassed. Hobbling on crutches, he knocked at the kitchen door. Stammering an apology for being late, he explained that he’d sprained his ankle at the baseball game after school. Shuttering, I knew, deep in my heart, that my prom evening was doomed.
But remember, there’s still hope for the kiss...
Pasting a smile on my disappointed face, we limped through the Grand March at the Lakeside Ballroom while parents snapped flashbulb photos of their dressed up kids with Brownie cameras. Johnny quickly grabbed a booth, asked for a bucket of ice, and we spent the night with his foot on ice to keep the swelling down. Looking back, I believe that the last place on earth Johnny wanted to be was at the high school prom at the Lakeside Ballroom. It wouldn’t have mattered if his date had been Sandra Dee or Farah Fawcett. Johnny groaned, grimacing in pain as he added freezing ice to the bucket.
Dream on, girls...Enjoy your night of glamour and romance. You’ll be gorgeous. Assuredly, his Mom has told him how to behave and practiced dancing with him. Pretend your date is Prince Charming, dancing with his beautiful princess. As “Seventeen” magazines advised me back in 1962, just put on a smile and have fun! 868
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