The Grandmother
My name is Ethyl and I am the matriarch of the family. I was sixty and I had just lost my loving husband, Herbert, of thirty-five years. After a respectful time, I decided to try and get my life in order. Early in our marriage I had successfully sold real estate. When I got pregnant with our child Herbert suggested that I stay at home and spend the time necessary to raise a loving family. Herbert continued with his radio career of spinning the top hits for the grooving generation. When he died Herbert left me with quite a nest egg and I did not need to get a job to help supplement my income. But I did need to reach out to feed my own passion.
I thought I could reconnect with my poetry which I had become proficient with back in college. By chance I found out about a weekly reading at the Ugly Mug coffee shop close to Chapman University in Orange, California. The reading was called Two Idiots Peddling Poetry and was hosted by Ben and Steve. This weekly reading had been going on for about sixteen years and they knew how to put on an effective reading. I decided to go out and investigate this reading and see if I could reattach myself with another great love of my life. I was drawn to the college youth and their love for the spoken word. Many of them were truly performance poets really taking the time and effort to engage the audience. It took me several weekly attendances to gain the courage to even bring one of my new poems to the reading. But it was the persistent urging of The Voice, Humberto Alvarez, who got me to get up in front of the room of forty experienced poets and deliver my poem with a broken voice. I was surprised when I received a roaring round of applause. I even got a louder response when Ben said:
"And Ethyl is a first-time reader."
Humberto was half my age and a Chapman Professor of Mathematics. On my third evening of taking a chance and delivering my poetry, I asked Humberto if he would like to go for some coffee after the reading. He accepted and we spent an enjoyable balance of the evening talking about poetry. The time passed easily and we soon were both looking at midnight arrivals at our homes.
Humberto invited me to other Orange County readings including the monthly Collin's Corner reading and the Muckenthaler reading. The Collins's open mic reading was situated back in Carbon Canyon and was held on picnic benches right outside the Collin’s Canyon convenience market on the second Saturday in the afternoon. The special attraction here was the several bikers who would come and share their poetry as well as their tattoos. I am afraid I grasped onto Humberto's arm a bit too tightly which he did not seem to mind. The poetry was good, the beer was cold, and the company was comforting. It was Biker McCain who Got up and read a poem which resonated with me. I went up to him and asked for a copy. He signed his copy with his Biker Handel and handed it to me.
Rhythms II
“Butterfly birds wing vigorously at dusk
large filmy moths of gray
in clusters quickly scattering
returning as they wend their way,…”
Radical Ratiocination, Betsy Ann Chowen
Woodpeckers’ tête-à-tête fete
Listens for meal’s telltale presence
Mourning Dove coos out a
Reassuring melody
Crows squawk across the valley
A great gathering at spy glass,
A territory challenge, those pesky seagulls.
The jay darts there, there
Lights on comfortable branch
Sashaying tail feathers
Glow turns to warmth
Spider exits lair
Weaves web
One more time
The light dances, calls
Mesmerizes prey in the moment
Ancient rhythms of hunter, quarry
Coalesce.
Creation tumbles exorably to chaos
Web’s Fresnel mottling lost
Quarry mindless drawn
Till warned at the last
Egg sack waits
For last precious store
Next generation and on.
~
Here is this hard knock’s biker who has connected with the peace and solitude of nature presenting a cathedral of opportunity. This was a powerful piece and I am sure that Biker McCain was pleased that this venue existed for his expression. I always measure the quality of the reading by the notations I make in my journal. They are only a brief phrase or an idea always associated with one of the poets. Many of these notations would later become new poems of my own.
The Muckenthaler reading always had a feature poet sandwiched between the open mic presenters. Here there was usually a musical accompaniment to help showcase the poetry. This event was held on the fourth Thursday of the month in the evening. The featured poet was another biker called Horse Duster and he handed out a free chap book of his poetry. Two of his poems The Church and Antinarc resonated within me.
The reading was held out on the patio and when the sun went down we held onto each other closely to help keep the cold at bay. This is where Humberto introduced me to dancing fingers. His fingers danced lightly upon my thigh as if searching expectantly for a partner. My hand naturally gravitated to his and our fingers entwined and moved to the feeling of the music as if we were dancing on a large dance floor all byourselves. Oh, the interplay of our fingers was marvelous and when we left the reading that first night we stayed in the parking lot taking our relationship to the next level. I was a schoolgirl once again enjoying a man as he made love to me.
The Church
MT 16:18 And I also say unto thee, that thou art Peter, and upon this rock I will build my church; and the gates of Hades shall not prevail against
How many times have I scorned you;
Turned my face away from You;
Reached for the worldly first?
You have shown Your infinite patience and Love.
May I walk with You Momently
Celebrating with You in Your house.
~
Antinarc
The needle tracks the grooves
Bump, bump, bump
Arriving at new place to scar
Puncturing flesh of tempest
For moments release from torture
Release from responsibility
A fix
Prior to rubber’s loosening
A thought rushes in
Downer will surely return
Too soon
Dose is doubled quickly
Then doubled again
Escape is near final
As EMTs work valiantly
On emaciated body
Searching, searching for a good vein
Narcan at the ready
Miracle of sentient recovery
Plunged forcibly
Through veins abused
A struggle… tug, Tug, TUG
Jerking away from nirvana
Pain returns, pain there, there
The lights, the Goddamned lights
The sounds
The flood of responsibility
Screaming, cursing, begging
Negotiating
Racked with pain
Struggling against bonds
Of no escape
Hate, hate, hate
As course of action is locked in
To face the many devils
Until they begin to quiet down
Only then, release
A promise:
To return…
To escape…
~
As our relationship continued to mature we chose hotel rooms over our cars. This gave us more freedom to be ourselves and allowed us to maintain a clandestine feeling. I really did not want my daughter Eloise or granddaughter Elsie to know I was having this relationship. I am not sure what I was afraid of other than Humberto was half my age. Humberto's home was shared with his wife Julian who was also a Chapman University Professor in the Music Department. It was hard for me to get Humberto to talk about his relationship with his wife. But eventually I understood that their marriage was more designed out of convenience and they had not had sex in many years. I was happy that I could provide an element that was missing in Humberto’s marriage and I was obviously content with the reciprocal love.
My life was now being expressed fully through my poetry as the community accepted my voice as having something important to share and I had someone who had awoken long dormant desires and my own self-worth.
My First book of poetry was put together with the help of Humberto. It was a collection of a few of my college age creations and of course my new poems which were inspired from my attendance at the various poetry readings. As a result, I was featured at the Ugly Mug. I suppose my feature was successful because I sold out on all fifteen copies of my book. After the reading we went directly to the hotel where it was my turn to make love to Humberto. He did not question my passion and we fell asleep in each other’s arms. Early in the morning I realized I had to come up with something to explain my overnight tardiness? By the time I arrived home at 6:00 am I had a well worked out excuse. Over the breakfast table with my daughter and granddaughter I shared…
“Mable my partner from the senior center where we work out to music three times per week finally accepted my invitation to attend the poetry reading. She partook a little bit too much of the wine which was available during the reading. I ended up driving her home and putting her in bed and then spending the night to make sure she was ok. I also was hopeful she would be well enough to give me a ride in the morning to my car. I was hoping I would make it home before you all got up.”
I really surprised myself at how easy it was for me to come up with a plausible lie. Elsie asked:
“Gram why didn’t you call?”
“Well the reading got out at 11:15pm and it was too late to call. I saw no reason to bother you.”
And the discussion about my tardiness ceased. My daughter and granddaughter had no reason to suspect me of anything. Humberto and I maintained our clandestine relationship for about three years.