Once again Elizabeth Valenzuela renders in poetic form a true slice of struggle and fulfillment in the world of the Unhoused.
Taylor
by Elizabeth Valenzuela
The woman met Taylor
During her visits with Dale at
Affifa’s Adult Family Home
He sat on the front porch every Sunday
Reviewing the Sunday Advertisements
A magnifying glass in his hand
But still wearing his only pair of
Eyeglasses
Both lenses shattered and yellowed with age
Dale would sell him one cigarette for a dollar
When Taylor asked him for one
But only if he was feeling generous
The woman started handing Taylor
Cigarettes behind Dale’s back
Sometimes one or two cigarettes and
On special occasions
A full pack
In return Taylor
Who always had a pocketful of
Werther’s caramels
Would slyly pass her a caramel
When she walked past him on her way out
After Dale died
The woman continued to stop by and see Taylor
He had never had a visitor in all the years he lived there
Having been previously unhoused
This is how the friendship started and it
Continued after James moved into
Dale’s old room
Serendipity in action
Déjà vu on display
In December Taylor showed her an ad
A remote control race car
He said he was Saving money to buy one
Santa brought him one for Christmas
He and James played with that remote control car
Then Taylor had a heart attack
He was taken to the hospital
He was unresponsive
He was in a coma for many weeks
No family came forward
The Hospital petitioned the Court to remove
Life support
Only the woman that stopped by for a daily visit
Stood vigil by his bed
The day the Court Order was issued
They transferred him to another room
And with him his photo
And information the woman had posted
So the hospital staff
Would know that Taylor was loved
The next few days
The woman sat by his side
Gently holding his hand
And telling him that she would be there if he lived
And that he would be ok
If he went
Toward the love
That was Waiting for him
On the other side
That it was all good
That he was loved
He was perfectly still in that hospital bed
Machines had been unplugged two days prior
One tear fell down his face
Silence
As the woman leaned in
To kiss his forehead
The next morning when she stopped by
His bed was empty
Wake (TIME) Rest
“I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow…” Roethke
What a restless Night!!! Oh, dear
Ah, well–we will persevere
Keep the fate and make the mess
Ever hoping ever blest
Afterword: What does it mean to keep the Fate and not the Faith? Adam Clayton Powell, long ago, said “Keep the faith, Baby…and spread it gently.” My late, great Outlaw Uncle, Paul, sent me a condolence note in 1983 after my father died, and he hand-wrote “Keep the faith Gary” in it. Keeping the Fate is as close as I can get: keeping vertical, plugging away for betterment, trying to enjoy and engage and become to create the best Fate I can. Here’s hoping you also do joyful Fate-Keeping, Friends.
Note: Both “James” and the preceding poem “Dale” featured in my last blog post are collaborations. Elizabeth Valenzuela and I have known each other for more than half a century. When I rented a car and made a road trip to the Great Northwest recently, Elizabeth arranged for my lodging in Seattle, and we had many conversations during my stay. Time and again, when Elizabeth told me of her work with the homeless (whom she calls “unhoused”–I probably will too once I get used to it), I thought to myself, “I really should have an audio recorder going.” Before I left Seattle I did a draft of the poem “Dale.” Elizabeth read it and made some important revisions, correcting errors of fact and providing more context, and contributed the photos of Dale’s memorial leaf and the pic of them both. Then she wrote a draft of “James,” adopting the style I’d used for “Dale,” and then it was my turn to revise, mostly for cadence and consistency with “Dale.” When Elizabeth asked me to post “James” to my blog I told her I would need to use her name, since she was the author. She graciously gave me permission to do so.
James
by Elizabeth Valenzuela
Two weeks after Dale passed
Dr. Goodman called the woman
Who had brought Dale to her
“Would you be willing to meet James
After you have taken the time to recover
From Dale?”
The Doctor had known Dale
When he was wild
Well before he became “Sweet Dale”
Under the woman’s care
The woman took a deep breath
And she said “I’ll meet him this week.”
So James became the new Dale.
James had no known family
Unhoused
Body and brain ravaged
By Huntington’s
James was kind and sweet
He called the woman Hot Lips
(His ashes were laid to rest under an evergreen
Perennial Salvia, commonly known as “Hot Lips”)
He smoked constantly
He walked away
From his new Adult Family Home
Any number of times
At all hours of the day and night
The police drove him home a few times
He loved all things baseball
The Mariners especially
But smokers were not allowed
To smoke at Mariners games
So James swore to stop
If the woman took him to a game
Had his last cigarette
Before he boarded the train
And got a Mariner’s Jersey and hat
And a seat at the game
And never smoked again
Never even had to be reminded of his promise
Back from the game
He was transferred to a secure house
Which was for Level 3
Sex Offenders
James was not a sex offender
But housing
For the terminally ill unhoused
Was scarce
The woman went to see him
Every other day
Put on a brave face
Made it clear
That James was off limits
And she was most definitely off limits
James was languishing
Forlorn in body and spirit
The woman found him another placement
That would provide hospice care
When the time came
And James loved his new place
And thrived
The woman found James a program
That provided transportation
To an Activity Center twice a week
Where he found a girlfriend
Then promptly had to be medicated
To stop the hypersexuality
That is sometimes associated
With movement disorders such as his
Huntington’s Chorea
He was young and enjoyed this
Time in his life
Then James needed hospice care
He died peacefully
Curled up on his side
Next to the woman
Who kept vigil
A van came at 1:00 a.m.
They put James in a black body bag
And he was gone
Afterword
About James: he was born in 1978, possibly in Pennsylvania or Indiana. His full name is James Hamilton Sparks.
Huntington’s Chorea is a genetic disease. If a person has it, their offspring have a 50-50 chance of getting it as well. The most famous American to be so afflicted was Woodie Guthrie. His son Arlo was spared his affliction.
Dale
“Everyone counts or no one counts.” Michael Connelly
All day long the man was nasty
Spitting on the ground
Urinating on sidewalks
Obnoxious with cigarettes
Insulting
Cursing
With jerky motions
Now he was in a dark doorway
In Godawful clothing
On concrete
Cradling his head on a thin arm
His other hand tucked between his bony knees
For warmth
The woman had avoided him for years
Crossing the street when she saw him
That night she had quickly walked past him
But she looked back at him
From the safety of her car
She was pulled
To walk to him
To introduce herself
And to ask his name
“Dale, can I get you something?”
He was hungry and wanted pizza
Pizza with black olives and pepperoncini
And double pepperoni
And he told her where to get it
The woman hurried off into the cold night
She bought Dale’s pizza and brought it to him
And they stood in silence
And Dale was self-conscious
He would not touch his food till she was gone
Finally she told Dale she had to go
And Dale said,
“Will I see you tomorroW?”
And the woman said, “Yes.”
And many tomorrows later
Dale had an account at a coffee shop
And had been rescued from a ditch
And cleaned up after a winter
Spent in a porta potty
Had been evaluated
Diagnosed with Huntington’s Chorea
Housed but still sleeping with his boots on
And approaching
His journey’s end
And his caregivers
Called him “Sweet Dale”
Earlier in their journey
The woman went
To get him something
And she took much longer
Than she thought she would
When she returned at last
Dale turned to his unhoused friends
And said,
“I TOLD you
She would come back.”
snapshot
so this is after
a bowl of stewed carrots
and a cup of coffee
and before a shave and shower
that indeterminate time
when my drawing and i have a tussle
“redeeming love” is the name of the movie
that i watch and then pause to draw more
it is about gold-strike times
and a dirt farmer and a luscious prostitute
he is bound and resolute to marry her
she is scarred from abandonment
and the ugliness that goes with the life
it’s impossible to say
what influence watching the movie
has on my drawing
except that watching the movie is strangely soothing
because despite the tawdriness and pain
the title promises glory by the end
and i need that hope right now
for my drawing
(notice the word DEFEAT in lower right)
and my day
(seems like yesterday i did my laundry
and not four days ago
and i go out of town tomorrow
and haven’t booked a room yet
and i want to finish this drawing
and another more important drawing
and and and and and)
and my life
old guy getting older
full of stewed carrots
coffee
and redeeming hope
I hope it’s evident by now that “snap shot” as an acrostic has many different solutions. This one’s Snap is a Ginger Snap, and its Shot is the Ball Shot used in antique weaponry. Conjoin them and you get a Snapshot.
snap shot
slung projectiles do impress
nailing bone and hapless flesh
all too soon we both must go
piorrette et piorrot
Once again the French language comes to my rescue to rhyme a word that ends in o and a word that ends in t. I’m especially grateful for the David Bowie quotation “I am Piorrot. I am Everyman.” So the “we” the poem refers to is Everyman and Everywoman, and Everyone else. You and I, Friend. Though we must go all too soon, we are here in the eternal Now. May we use Now to the kindest advantage.
Here is one way “snap shot” might go. Were this image taken to its conclusion, the background would be made to evoke “bombs bursting in air” explosions, illustrating “war’s desolation,” backstopping these words:
snap shot
silhouettes and aftershocks
now reveal the cost of wrath
are we safe inside our box? o
potentates won’t stand for that
It seems to fit the acrostic, with immediacy in the Snap, and destructive chaos in the Shot.
Suppose, though, we’d had enough of war, and rumors of war. We might take the same acrostic and evoke something more sweet and innocent:
snap shot
sage & salt & sassafras
nature spices up our hash
applesauce & ice cream too
pastries make a passe-partout
And the background would be pastoral, and perhaps there’d be a spot illustration of an Ice Cream Social. The acrostic works with a little stretching, since Ginger Snaps are cookies, and Jello Shots are “desserts.”
Does the artist want to Work, at getting a point across and influencing away from violence, or Play, doing some feel-good ain’t-it-great-to-be-alive uplift? Is she or he or they more or less an artist for going against the grain of natural inclination for the sake of a soapbox, or taking the easy way out and producing a more free-flowing expression?
Friends, THIS artist wants to do it all. If you look over my nearly two thousand blog posts, you’ll see my spectrum ranges from Goofissimo to Muy Serioso. Slapdash and meticulous; flighty and pondersome; looking into the Abyss and daydreaming about the Stars. As Walt Whitman pointed out, he contradicts himself because he is Large and contains Multitudes.
And so it is with you, Friends. Hope you have plenty of Love and Enjoyment in and among your Multitudes! 🙂
Most Tuesdays I do a feature in a Facebook group called Poets All Call. It’s called Title Tuesday, and I invite my fellow Poets to write poems using my titles as prompts. Today I had so much fun with it that I now want to share it with my WordPress readership. So without further Ado…
Title Tuesday, 8 March 2022
“Hey Good Lookin
What cha got cookin?
How about cookin somethin up with me?”
Hank Senior
Friends, I’ve been doing a lot of Crock-Pot cooking lately. Today I am also Crock-Potting poem titles, changing one word of famous game shows to fit the theme.
The Spice Is Right
Let’s Make a Meal
Wheel of Four-Cheese
You Bet Your Lime
The Spatch Game
Spatch is short for Spatula.
Just have fun, Kids. And for more fun for all of us, post a pic of what YOU are Cookin, just like I did.
My Big Brother from Another Mother, Bob Kabchef, shared my poem “vapor trail” with his readership today, prefacing it with a description that tickles me: “The guy’s a veritable volcano of virgin verbaciousness.” Thing is, though, volcanic though I may be sometimes, I owe a lot to Bob throwing title prompts at me, during a weekly event that I produce for our Facebook poetry group Poets All Call. Yesterday he offered a bouquet of titles, three of which were
Eloosive
Pasta your prime
I never knew that
Funny how the mind works. “Write a poem, Gary” will yield brain fog, confusion, and unproductiveness. But “Write a bunch of poems using these titles, Gary” and I am off to the races. I cranked these out in less than an hour.
Eloosive
The loosely-jointed burglar
Squeezed thruogh the junkyard’s crevices
A dog much like a murderer
Was also on the premises
A silent lethal frothing beast
With much adrenaline released
His mission: see the thief deceased
But Burgle-Man was wily;
The challenge made him smiley.
He topped a mound of carcasses
Of Ford and Studebaker
The doggoe climbed sans barkuses
To make the thief meet maker
But slipped on chrome, an effort-ender
The thief said, “Thank you, Freddy Fender!”
He knew the dog would change his gender
If given half a chance;
Best leave this scrappy dance.
The thief slunk out of sight, and grabbed
A carburetor, slinging
It to a heap away, which clabbed
And rung a tone for zinging
And Hellhound was beguiled away
And our eloosive thief ran très
Vite to the fence and up, to sway
Atop, and yelled “Yoo Hoo,
Au ‘voir, O Doggie-Poo!”
Pasta your prime
One minute on the microwave
Another on your lips
A lifetime in your fat so brave
Engirdling your hips.
The pasta you so willfully
Devoured in your youthfulness
Metabolized so skillfully
And vanished, in all truthfulness,
But as the decades drift on by
We slow, we stroll, we’re no so spry,
And pleasures stir and goodies fry
And sing a glutton’s lullaby
Inveigling in its rhyme,
Your ribs are Pasta Prime.
I never knew that
I never knew that
Nor did I know this
Nor the other thing
But it’s not for lack of trying
And sifting through
A lifetime of Thisses
And all those Thats
And the host of Other Things
For that particular That
This specific This
And the like-no-other Other Thing
That we all wonder
And whisper
And worship
About:
This Unknowable
That Indescribable
Other Thing
On the Other Side.
****
Many thanks to my Big Bro Bob, who is a fine and expressive poet in his own right!
One with Clay, Image and Text 