The silver tripod was heavy to carry back on the train.
Dad had inherited it from his father but he already had  
The latest model of everything so it was passed to me.

Dad built a darkroom in the house, where the servants
Used to sleep in the 'olden' days. It was tiny but could
Fit the sink for chemicals and the cupboard for paper.

When everything went digital it became his office
And gallery for pictures taken on his Nikon worth more
Than my yearly wage. He hardly uses it now, he's busy

Taking money off the government who can only just
Afford his retirement. He will spend it on bikes and
More technology that he doesn't need or use.

Grandad died two years ago in august, he left behind
Trinkets and gadgets, some collectables but mostly tat.
His last request in the nursing home was for a camera.

We bought him a disposable one but by then he had
No idea how to use it. The film was never developed
They were not memories we wanted to keep in a box.

 

 

 

 

 

Sad indeed was the news I was told by Despina Theodorou,
who, with her husband, Marios, and her niece, Roula, lives
as a tenant in the second-floor apartment next door
in the house owned by Avraam and Antigoni Ignatiadis,
good and deeply caring friends of my mother and me
since we bought our own home here twenty-two years ago.
Her voice raspy over the telephone, Despina asked me
a question at half past nine o'clock of Wednesday night
that left me taken aback with a shocking surprise:
"You know Avraam died this morning at the hospital?"


Just the day before I had been talking with Cousin Mina
about how guilty and upset with myself I was feeling
because I had been putting off going to visit Avraam,
who was taken to Lenox Hill Hospital in Manhattan
a couple of weeks earlier with what I had assumed was
his usual problem—swollen legs and an ailing heart—
that had been plaguing him for two decades now,
after having more than one coronary-artery bypass
and a pacemaker inserted to keep his heart beating,
and yet always refusing to stop smoking incessantly.


Despina suggested that I pay Antigoni a visit
since at that moment other friends and some kin
were already there and I could hear the hubbub
through my dining-room window that faces hers,
so I slipped on shirt and pants and shoes and went,
suddenly feeling shyer than I've felt in years,
for my mother had always known what to do
in situations like these, and she is no longer here
to tell me what were the proper words I must use.
I found the words as I entered Antigoni's dwelling
and managed the appropriate greetings to all
who were present and trying to console Antigoni.
"May the Lord forgive him and give him rest,"
I said, and added the traditional "Life to you."  


Because of high costs, the wake would be held
for only a single day, Thursday, the next day,
two to five o'clock in the afternoon and then
seven to nine o'clock in the evening for people
who worked, and Avraam would be laid out
in a casket in the Antonopoulos Funeral Home.
My neighbor-friend Marios drove me there
while his son Theodoros, daughter Georgia,
and niece Roula drove over in another car;
Despina stayed home, having had surgery
earlier in the day for a bunion on her foot.
How thoroughly disconcerted I was feeling
as we entered the funeral chamber I cannot say,
for the silence that moment seemed deafening,
as if all attention was abruptly diverted to us.


Marios sat at the rear of the crowd where
his son, daughter, and niece found some chairs,
while I sat at a couch to the side from where
I could clearly see Avraam's casket at an angle,
and saw a scene cast in browns, tans, and golds
dimly lit with table lamps all around the room,
with a mass of humanity garbed in dark clothing,
women wearing black dresses or pants-suits,
men wearing black or dark-blue jackets or shirts,
and the background filled with Antigoni's sobs
as she wailed at Avraam, "Where are you going?
Why are you leaving me?" and then demanded,
"What will I do without you?  How will I live?"


The corner of the large chamber was opposite
from where I was sitting, and against it leaned
a long pole with a four-foot crucifix at its top,
directly behind the open-lidded brown casket,
on which was piled a huge mass of flowers,
as well as flowers running along each wall
that extended in both directions from the corner.
Feeling guilty that I could not feel sadder
than I was feeling at that moment, I sighed
and then rose from the couch with difficulty,
because of my pain-wracked knees and back,
and I strode with a limp to the open casket.


About two feet from the casket I paused
and crossed myself facing the icon at right,
which bore a strange image of Jesus Christ,
too modernistic for my own taste with no hint
of the usual Byzantine style I myself prefer,
so, wondering what funeral-home idiot chose it,
I kissed it and then turned my gaze at Avraam,
who was clad in a dark-blue suit and whose hair
was far too neatly combed than was normal,
and who looked so awfully thin, as I was told
to expect earlier by Marios, who had seen him
at the hospital only a couple of days earlier;
in the casket was a small cross of bright gold.


Laying my right hand over his crossed hands,
I leaned over and kissed Avraam on the forehead,
then turned to the left where Antigoni was sitting,
her young son, Stathis, standing at her right,
her older son, George, sitting at left next to her,
his wife, Panagiota, next to him, sister Maria
next to her, Maria's hubby at the end of the row.
Antigoni, with tear-filled eyes, got up, hugged me,
kissed both my cheeks as I did hers, and said,
"Thank you so much, Christo, for coming,"
while I, unable to find any appropriate words,
just nodded as she backed into her chair.
I nodded to Stathis, then shook George's hand
and said the traditional phrase, "Life to you,"
nodded to the rest of the family and trudged off,
looking at the couch for my place to sit.


As I was sitting, I scanned the seated crowd,  
wondering which of the women were single,  
since finding a wife has been on my mind of late,  
and then the artist took over and I studied  
some of the faces of both men and women  
that had unusual features and my hand itched  
to have a drawing pad and pencil in my hand  
so I could do some drawings of what I saw.  
Some individuals I knew passed by and said hi  
to me and asked after my health and made  
comments about how we are all destined  
to go to the same place, that is, into the earth,  
where our friend Avraam was about to go.


Perhaps midway through the wake session,
a bearded priest from Saint Markella church  
came to say a few prayers and blessings  
over Avraam in his casket, and I felt a bit  
annoyed that he spoke all his words swallowed,  
barely discernible, as if he were being chased  
by someone to hurry up and finish his task.  
His prayers were in Greek, which is the way  
I prefer to hear them, since for some reason  
Greek sounds somehow "holier" than English,
but, unfortunately, this priest just muttered  
only the first half of each word, as though  
it was a huge effort to say the complete word.
"Our Father, Who art in Heaven, hallowed
be Thy name," sounded much like, "OuFa'r,
wh'art'n He'n, ha'dbe Thy'm," and so on.


Much of the time, my mind seemed blank,
and I felt oh, so sleepy, but occasionally
I caught some whispering about Avraam:
"Oh, you know, whenever I walked by,
he used to call out to me and tell me
how glad he was to see me on his street."
"Oh, yes, he was so kind and friendly."
"You know, he was such a good man."
This whispering reminded me of how
Avraam often sat on his white plastic chair
at the top of his stoop and called out to me,
"Hey, Christo, where are you bound for?"
and I would reply, "Oh, just for groceries,"
or, "Just going to the bank to get some cash,"
or, "Uhm, I'm on the way to the doctor,"
and he would say, "That's good.  Get there
safely and then get yourself home safely."


It was almost ten o'clock when everyone
finally started to leave, prompted by the staff
of the funeral home, which had to close,
and one and all went up to Avraam's casket,
crossed themselves, kissed the icon of Jesus,
and paid their respects to still-sobbing Antigoni.
In my turn I again put my hands on Avraam's,
saying to him, "I know you will see my Mother
and my Yiayiá—please tell them I send them
my love, still love them both and always will,"
and then leaned over and stretched with effort
to kiss Avraam on the forehead, and went back
to Antigoni to bid her goodnight, and again
came the hug and the kisses on both cheeks
and the "Thank you for coming" and sobbing.


Marios took me and a woman whose name
I did not catch to drop her off at her home
and then brought me home and alerted me
he would call me the next morning, Friday,
to take me along to Saint Markella Church
for Avraam's funeral service, and then
to Saint Michael's Cemetery for the burial,
and finally to Stamatis Restaurant in Astoria
where the Makaria, or Memorial Luncheon,
would be held for the family and the friends.
As it turned out, his wife, Despina, insisted
on coming along, too, in spite of the surgery
from the day before and the continuing pains.


At home I ate half a pint of chocolate ice-cream
for supper along with some Pepsi-Cola soda,
then turned on my computer and visited
the SparkNotes "Your Poetry" site and while
online I decided to write a free-verse poem
about my experience at the wake for Avraam.
Later, I recalled how when Má and I bought
this house twenty-two years ago and moved in,
Avraam used to check up on Má to make sure
she was all right while she was home alone
and I was away at work most of the day,
and I reminded myself how good a friend
he had been to the new next-door neighbors.


After waking up earlier than usual on Friday
and watching the soap-opera Guiding Light
and telephoning my Cousin Mina to tell her
about the wake the night before, a call
came from Despina to remind me I should
be ready at a quarter to twelve noontime
so we could leave on time for the church
and I assured her I would be quite ready.
Her son Doros drove her and her sister,
Chrysalia, to church while Marios drove
his brother-in-law John Joanides and me.
Despina had to be brought into church
with a wheelchair that turned out to be
the one that Avraam himself had used.


The Greek Orthodox service for the deceased
involves prayers that the person who died
be forgiven any sins committed consciously
or unconsciously by deeds, words, or thoughts,
and that his soul be at rest in a place of verdure
where there is no darkness, only the light
of God and Jesus Christ and the Holy Spirit,
not unlike the image of the Elysian Fields
from Greek mythology that I can recall,
except that this place of rest is Paradisiacal.
The service held my attention partly because
this very day marked exactly one year since
my own dear Mother had passed away.


Antigoni continued her sobbing and wailing
all through the service, and when it ended,
everyone passed by the open casket placed
in front of the altar in a sideways position
and, like everyone else, I said my farewell
to Avraam and stretched to kiss his forehead,
and paid my respects to the crying Antigoni
and her family sitting in the front pew.
Then the casket was closed and sealed
and the attendants rolled it out of the church
followed by the priest, whose prayers
were louder and clearer this time.


It was a day far too hot to be endured
when we arrived at Saint Michael's Cemetery,
where we all gathered around the open plot
over which the casket had been positioned,
and following the final prayers and the
chanting of "Eternal be his Memory,"
we all threw a flower upon the casket
as it was slowly lowered into the grave,
and I found myself wishing for cool rain,
which seems more appropriate for burial
than does ninety-degree temperature.


Later, entering Stamatis Restaurant gave
us all a feeling of relief, for air-conditioning
was performing its welcome task, cooling us
as we all headed for the chairs and tables.
The priest uttered the required meal prayer
and chanted "Eternal be his Memory" thrice,
and then we raised a small glass of cognac
and toasted the dearly departed Avraam,
then a hubbub began as people talked,
many of them sharing memories of Avraam,
but at our table, Marios's brother-in-law
launched a rather heated conversation about  
the current Greek Orthodox Archbishop
and his failure to promote use of Greek,
and then how much a marvelous conqueror
was Alexander the Great, who spread the
Hellenic language far and wide in his time.


A woman across the table stressed that Alex
caused a lot of deaths of innocent people
and even murdered his own best friend,
to which I added he was very inebriated
and feverish at that moment, and John
the obsessed one denied any such thing.
Meanwhile, the meal consisted of salad,
a large portion of fillet of sole, rice with peas,
fried potatoes, and red wine, and when
I said white wine was more appropriate,
everyone else at the table declared loudly
that red wine was better for the heart,
so I shut my mouth and enjoyed eating.


Marios had to get home to take a nap
because he had to leave for work at four—
he is a head waiter at a theater-district
restaurant, Frankie and Johnnie's, located
down in the Broadway area of Manhattan—
so he ushered us, his group, up and out.
As I bade Antigoni adios, I told her,
"Remember, be a good girl—don't forget
Avraam's soul merely took off what is
much like a coat, our flesh and bones,
and since our souls have no limitations,
his soul is with you and inside you always."
She nodded understanding and hugged me
and again kissed my cheeks as I did hers,
and then I was out the door with Marios,
headed for the car and the way home.


Farewell, Avraam.  You have been a good
friend since the first day we arrived and
became your neighbors.  May the Lord
forgive you and bless you and receive you
into His Bosom.  Eternal be your Memory.

 

 

 

 

there is a beautiful girl in my bed,
but i am staring out the window
into the street to see the hot cars
move in from the right and slide
to the left, the opposite of latin writing.

and the lilac bushes in my yard are losing their flowers,
yet there is a beautiful girl in my bed.

one hot car stops and the driver's door opens
and she picks up something off the road.
i make up stories for her:
   an environmentalist picking up Mcdonald's wrappers,
   saving them from the Gulf of Gutter.
   there are bags and bags of recycled bits in the back-
   seat - a wide sample of the city's life. she isn't an
   environmentalist but a nosy collector.
she gets in and drives the 10 feet to the intersection to stop again,
all the while there is a beautiful girl in my bed.

a black father and a black child walk on the white curb
and the child picks up an old, deteriorating lilac  
and says something to his father, holding it out.
i make up the words:
   his mother would like this (wouldn't she?)
   and his father's improper smile says:
   not from you or me.
   excited and deaf, the boy puts this rotting thing in his pocket and  
they walk away.

just then, a beautiful girl in my bed touches my arm, and i jump and she smiles - the kind that says:
   whaddya looking at.
and i say out loud:
the 8th st street cleaners.

but the beautiful girl closes her eyes, the way that says:
   i am too tired to ask and too tired to care.

 

 

 

 

But let them sleepe, Lord, and mee mourne a space,
For, if above all these, my sinnes abound,
'Tis late to aske abundance of thy grace,
When wee are there

I.  

The soul is like the white on a zebra.  
Or is it the black? I suddenly  
Find myself doubting my eternity.  

II.

Dark rooms, ghost-green fires:  
Dust explodes, forming a shadow
With a penis; its rib echoes  
Into a shadow, well endowed.
Some fruit tastes good; why hide your desires?  
Setting the kids down  
The man and woman tell them fables
And bring their leaves to the table.  
A snake deals cards; he's still able,
And the fire makes Eve an evening gown.  
Adam holds his cards
To the table, willing to bluff  
To the river; but unless he has nuts,  
She won't see his hand; she just takes his cut.  
Eve can't know why he tries to hide so hard.  
Glowing, she is proud  
Of her top pair, and she throws down Jacks
To a faceless board of red and black,  
And he sighs, wanting his cards back,  
Kings of Hearts and Clubs "For crying out loud!"  

Dark rooms, ghost-green fires:  
Eight cheetahs circle as they bite
Each other's tails, sacrificing sight  
To close eyes at each turn towards the light;  
In the darkness, they're like a flaming gyre.  
A fawn crouches down  
By the fire, and her shadow cries
Against the wall, catching the cheetahs' eyes;  
But over time, their saliva dries,
And the fire alone stands up to make sound.  

Goliath's head watches  
With Holofernes' head, as their bodies  
Wrestle 'cross the floor of the lobby.
Two women watch, claiming it's a hobby;
The bodies writhe 'round with engrossed crotches.  
Gray mice run around
Their heads, forming a dust figure-eight,  
But they won't recognize the shape;
They chew through walls, creating gates,
And they fill the holes by pushing rock around.  

Dark rooms, ghost-green fires:
William Turner is resigned
To smearing ashes in divine
Motions because man's soul wants a sign.
Zebras hang it by invisible wires.  

Mrs. Brown's trying  
To teach a circle of kids to read,
But they contend that they can't see  
The letters, let alone the words they need
To make any sense out of the writings.  

"Hard to find your way . . .  
You know, what, with the darkness,"
Sighs Queen Bell, adjusting her harness,  
Looking at herself in the varnished  
Floor. She spins in circles all day.  
Dark rooms, ghost-green fires:  
Ponce de Leon comes strutting in,  
Saying he's Columbus righting our sins,  
Though he lost his hat to the wind.
(Columbus couldn't make the queen a liar.)

Dark rooms, ghost-green fires:  
Ty Cobb drags in a girl he's raped
And tells her to open the drapes.
No light comes in; no darkness escapes,
But he tells her to not look so tired.

He nods at the photographer he's hired
And smirks like Joe Dimaggio;
The girl pouts like Marilyn Monroe;  
And they look their parts in the shadows.  
Dark rooms, ghost-green fires.

The wine pours like dust,
Quenching every thirst and quenching none,
Glowing like a powder, devil sun;
Its stream ending where it had begun.
Still, it is best in these walls of false musts.  
Solomon, richer
And wiser than any flesh we admire,  
Crouches down to sing to the fire
While a thousand women never tire
Of waiting on his glance, their faces: pictures.  

And phoenix is crow,
And crow and dove, in a mutual flame,
Bow in the fire, chanting names
And dreams as if they were the same.
All know, and none know, where their prayers will go.

Dark rooms, ghost-green fires:  
Your eyes are the color of the flames,
So you resign your head to hang.
Without context, what beauty's in our names?
What beauty's in our skin when the light expires?  

A king once lived here,
But no one recognizes His name;
Still, men adjust the portraits that hang
On the walls that the fire will claim,
And looking outside, even the rain's not clear.

 

Celery is Better than Crack by : oldhorsediva

 

Vegetables I Vegetables Oh oh vegetables I love me some vegetables But I have to go My mom needs me Something about shining a light on a cat What the hell is she talking about? Vegetables II Vegetables Oh oh vegetables Know your vegetables: Tomato, spinach, cucumber, lettuce, turnip, broccoli, cabbage, squash, potato, brussels sprouts, asparagus, radish, carrot, garlic, peas, okra, cauliflower, onion... Vegetables help defeat parasitic fungi! Vegetables III "always smokin' that 'dro weed" left my arterioles dirty with little fingers touching my heart I like 'em in a pile with bread and meat And mustard 'cause it's decent and has a strong taste Vegetables IV Vegetables Oh oh vegetables Make for smaller fingers If I'm sad I eat some avocado It's high in omega-3 fatty acid My brain likes that stuff Yeah Vegetables V Vegetables Oh oh vegetables What the fuck's capsicum? riiiiiiing riiiiiing 'sup?               You wanna hang out? I guess But not right now My mom needs me to do something               What? I don't know, something about shining a light on a cat               What the fuck? Yeah               I hate it when that happens Um…yeah What are you doin'?               Right now? Yeah               Takin' out the trash               You? Writing               Writing? Yeah               What are you writing about? Vegetables               Vegetables? Yeah               Okay               What's that sound? I'm also listening to music               Rap music? Yeah               You don't like rap music I like it at least as much as I like vegetables. My Oldest Birthday   By : oldhorsediva I wonder what day of the week I was born on God, I suppose it doesn't matter I spent $13.71 today on deodorant and a pack of mini-cassette tapes and read in the newspaper about immigration Reform in 1986. It was old and dried-out like my skin is starting to feel so I ripped a piece off and stuffed it in my pocket When I take it out I can hear Bill King speak: "It's almost as if today's politicians are resurrecting the transcripts and speeches from 1986" I'm pretty sure I was born in 1987 Jesus, I'm almost 20 It'll be a Tuesday when I am and when I am I think it'll have been 20 years since... Monday?