Tomorrow is Sept. 29th

In September She was born on an orange day And they named her the first To be a mother. She said yes, and welcomed. It was with strident pride. She welcomed, A song, any song, for a dance. She welcomed, Call, any call, for a shared smile. She welcomed, Smile, any smile, for shared sweet tears. And on the day of orange and reds, she Is named Mary For always to be the mother. To always be the grand-est. Mother. DEDICATED TO MY GRANDMOTHER, MARY J. HADDAD, FOR HER 88TH BIRTHDAY, 2012

We rounded the corner and he sensed it, smelled it, craved it. His intensity painted our steppings, which direction to follow? I led us home and he followed with ears up and neck straight not his typical comportment, not when there is no other dog in sight, squirrel scampering across the street, new friend to meet. He stood tense as I removed his collar and went into the closet to find his brush. He stood tense and cooperatively as I brushed him rough and loving pillows of hair billow in the cold wind on an unusual june 4th day. I often feel blessed in these moments of simplicity. helping my loving dog shed his winter coat, preparing for the summer that has come and gone and will come again as all things do. He patiently waited until he felt my satisfaction. And he bolted in his greyhoud speed to the opposite end of the driveway, my neighborhood called out to tell me it was a black cat he was trying to find and we watched him as he "innocently" searched in his untamed symmetry. I adore him. "Where's the cat? Where's the cat?". And he stares back at me with open eyes to swallow the everything that I want to pour into him. Like baby Gavin, his eyes wide and joyful, rubbing him belly and the belly of the character book, "Where's the cat? Where's the cat? meow meow".

Filamena

Every day I walk by the old Q and F Tailor Shop. Through the windows, peaking in, to aged brown frames of dusty family photos visiting with ferns, begonias, and bamboo crowded into corners of the store front. And yesterday, I opened the cracked glass door. Filamena was in the back pinning pants for another customer. I listened for a moment to the radio tell stories of government mistrust, Rhode Island corrupt politics, I hesitated to say hello wondering if the store was closed for the day and I had entered and stood unannounced. "Hello," I said to the back of the room. She picked up her head and walked towards me- memories of Sister Henrietta, my second grade teacher creeping into my body from the way her skirt fell, her bare legs and casual sneakered shoes. We discussed a blazer, we discussed my pant length, we talked business. And then I asked her, "How long have you had this shop here?" as I looked around at the multitude of sewing machines, tables, spools, plastic covered garments. She told me she opened it probably before I was born- 1985. And I lit up- the exact year I was born- something in her was born. We smiled sincerely to one another- suddenly a love seed, planted. And Filamena and I spent the next hour and half or two standing in her shop, she speaking of her life, me listening. The details of her home destroyed by a bomb- it was WWII, Italy- the war that took her father- the fight and hatred in the world that created a trajectory for her life- her struggle, her pain, her inspiration, her passion, her adventure, her sadness.
That day after the bomb dropped, and her family opened their eyes to nothing but the clothing that lay on their skin, and the voices that came from their mouths and the touch of one another's hands- until that was lost as well. Taken on a truck by unknown men in suits speaking of their manipulated minds, she was separated from her mother for 4 months, lost, orphaned. To be reunited later- how tender her words of her mother were spoken. Filly her mother called her, was taught to sew, as her mother sewed her First Communion dress and the suit for her brother- pride for her to sit and stand and walk with the other children, in this town outside Rome. A young seamstress a tailor, wants to defy all odds- go to the place that was spoken of a treasured land that was near impossible to stand on. Her passport is given, stamped by her unknown first cousin-a blessing he was assigned her case- and she arrives in the United States. Alone, with no familiar face, she finds her space, she takes her space, what has already been created for her in the world- the world of her choosing. I give Filly a hug goodbye. Our special meeting, my new neighbor. Till Saturday comes, I will pick up my pants, shortened, from my new friend.

100 years

I asked her to tell me, the secret.
I asked her to tell me, how I too could live in this way
joyful. a life
sprouting seeds to spread for love of others
of moments
of breathe.

And she told me.
For to not compare oneself to others.
Not to count the ways
in which another face
another voice
a different name
could possibly
be more.
She told me.
To know what you have
you can be thankful.

She told me.
And I remembered.

Not for granted are the toes
of my bending steps,
and the orange and red autumn trees
that walk me home,
perhaps in the hand of a new friend
with shared laughs,
the tear that I may drop from my eye,
when she soars back to dance among old friends,
and the push of water in my ocean swim,
where the reflection of my sister resides.

She told me.
And I listen.

Resting in peace. Isabelle Elias. 100 years and 4 months.

I write

I watch and
I eat
I play and make
I draw
I eat
I play and walk
I eat
I read
I listen
I drink
I write of the bore that
is a day of today
where the cycle is of this
cycle of doldrums
and destitute
meaning in a walk, a draw, an eat, a read, and a write.

what I've got

a stomach of gnarled fibers
runs its way around

picking fine details of encrypted
old sounds

all six legs
striding for the
final
let go

an end.
we find it.
to slow-ly

beating the sounds

breaking teeth

with a soothing smoothing.

We are settled here.
we settle all where
we settle in our pattern of

footsteppings.

random raindrops

Random Raindrops

travel slowly into unchosen puddles
streaming along a path provided
by something set
before.
and then
they cross other larger streams
of raindrops losing their own
way and loosening
to the pull.

Maybe we will pass through the pond of drops.
Or maybe we will look for another
and miss.
Or the footsteps will find the same ground, untimely.

Or the ocean will flood into the feet of those who are strongly planted
and
the fruits
will then gloriously swallow the sun.