Two poems written at Rincon Market plus one

These are in the format of a "tricube": 3 syllables, 3 lines, 3 stanzas.  Thanks to Writer's Digest 9/2016.

Two Poems written 4.28.17 (while the Sawmill Fire burns SE of Tucson)
1.
The cookie
crumbles is
the saying.

It means life
falls into
parts, not whole.

So live it
in moments
not decades.

2.
The wind blows
ashes from
the valley

Where flames fly
grasses burn
horses run.

It is Spring:
white poppies
bend, break, burn.


Poem written 8.21.16 (late summer in Tucson)

The grey stone
rolled over
the mountain.

Silver clouds
trailing the
gentle winds

A monarch
flutters as
rain ripples.

Reckoning

This poem was written in response to the March/April Writer's Digest Poetic Asides description by Robert Lee Brewer for the poetic form:  dizain.  The form requires 10 lines, with 8-10 syllables the rhyme scheme of ababbccdcd.  This was fun for me to do and I was surprised by the message that emerged, as indicated in the title of the poem.

It was Easter morning at my house
Neighbors bringing berries and wine,
Our gray cat sleeping like a mouse.
He is imagining the first time
He tries to catch one on a day so fine
As this--when the sun shines, church bells ring.
I put aside what tomorrow will bring:
More of the same or a fanfare of fear?
When will the rocks begin to sing?
When will the mad crowds begin to cheer?

The Brandy Still Flows...

this is an "original" erasure story by Anita C. Fonte based on the original written by Corey Kilgannon, New York Times, 4/8/2017 "The Brandy Still Flows at His Fountain of Youth". The "erasure story" is a concept developed by Austin Kleon in his book, Steal Like An Artist.

photo by Anita C. Fonte at Ralph P. Fonte's birthday, Tucson, Arizona, February, 2013

******

"The problem with turning 107 is that you can't work no more."

Until a few years ago, he tended Mario's parking lot, while working as a waiter of sorts.  Besides Mario's on Wednesdays, he goes on Saturday nights to Pasquale's Rigoletto restaurant down the block, where he dances with his girlfriend and performs burlesque songs.

He is Jewish and was raised by Yiddish speaking parents in Brooklyn, but now is more conversant in Italian.  He jokes that he was born Jewish but will die Italian.  Regarding his health, he said that more or less, "everything works."

"People plan, God laughs," he said.

Early Spring in the Sonoran Desert

Creosote bushes frame the edges on Sunrise Drive.

Mulberry feathers open from 

bottom branches of trees in the plaza.

Pink flowers are dampened by fountain spray

where St. Philip stands,

cross in hand 

as Lenten Bells ring:

It’s time for penance.

I give up nothing.

Instead,

I open to the season 

teasing me to trust,

to wander a bit off the well-worn path

considering--

how it would feel to fly like the red-tailed hawk 

searching for prey, 

finding it--

outside the shadows.

(from Poets & Writers Prompt, March/April 2017)

Two more scenes from Vanessa's story

It was in Gallery 244, for European Painting and Sculpture: The Girl by the Window by the Window by Edvard Munch.  Mama had not liked it, saying “Oh, Vivi, she looks so alone in the picture.  Let’s go see Monet with his yellows and orange haystacks”.

But I liked the colors of blues and grey and the girl…what was she seeing in the shadows, what was she feeling?

Now, as I gaze at it, I know she is me at twelve years old.  I am looking out my bedroom window in our neighborhood of Little Italy, seeing the man in the street.  He wears a dark suit and fedora and his watch and cigarette shine in the street light. I knew him then, and now, as Mr. E.  He is there to protect me from Papa’s enemies.  I didn’t understand what Papa did that makes men angry at him, but I do now.  Papa manages millions of accounts for businesses all over the world, especially in Chicago, New York, and these days, Russia.  

Back then, when I was twelve, I knew only this—Papa was downstairs as Mama lay in her bed they rolled in from the ambulance yesterday.  I could hear Papa weeping, but my tears were roped tight in my throat, my neck still bandaged. 

A few weeks before, I was in the car with Mama as it crashed into a wall, glass shattering into my neck.  They say the car brakes were not working, even though it was a new car Papa had bought for her in the late spring. Mama was driving me home from a symphony concert and she was happy; I was happy.  But all that changed with the crash.  Mama’s head slammed into the car door.  The doctors at the hospital said her brain was bleeding and they couldn’t stop it.  So she came home to die.

“Amazingly evocative, don’t you think?”

A voice startled me. I turned and saw a man with glasses, hands drawn across his back, revealing a blue and grey striped tie.  I noticed it was knotted European-style, like Papa’s with the skinny end of the tie hanging longer than the front-facing wider side.  For years, I would watch Papa make his tie before going to work, before going to Mass, and I often tie my scarves in a similar fashion.  I look at the man’s face: blue eyes, dark brown hair with reddish natural highlights, slightly tussled under a blue knit cap.  His face is still flushed from the outside cold.  It is a nice face with a smile that turns down a bit at the edges, as if he is practicing it. 

I nod, but remain silent.

“Yes.  I like this one by Munch very much,” he continues.

“Well, maybe ‘like’ is too strong a word for it.  But it’s one of my favorites in this wing.  I also like Monet,” I add, as if to bring Mama into the room.

“Sure.  Monet’s good.  But Munch goes deeper, finds a way to suggest a feeling, usually with shadows.  I get that.”

I am surprised he does.

Paterson-inspired Poems

A few Lines

Butterflies settle on her stone ear.

They flutter against her cheek.

She sits against a cool wall

in the warm spring sun.

Yellow flowers border the wall.

Wind blows, flower stems bend.

Butterflies scatter.

NOTE:  The first line (with pronoun change) is attributed to "Paterson" by William Carlos Williams.

The Movie

In the theater,

dark lights

and the rustle 

of a tissue as

tears fall.

Friends and Lovers

The story shows

people at the neighborhood bar, 

playing pool or chess.

Two lovers argue

in the dim corner.

Outside, and English bulldog

puts his paws on the sidewalk

and sleeps.

In the End

He opens the blank book

to small possibilities

written in pen.

The water falls

on the other side

of a rusty chain link fence.

Vanessa's opening page

I rewrote my first draft which was in 3rd person/omniscient with past tense to first person and past tense.  Learning, as I go, how important POV (point of view) is to the voice of my story.

The ice storm was dripping into its third day. I wasn’t content to stay inside my apartment practicing the Vivaldi flute solo or reading Tolstoy, so I wrapped three woolen scarves around my ears and scarred neck, tucked the edges under my orange fleece jacket, and declared to Sam, my well-fed cat—

“I refuse to be held a captive any longer.”  Closed spaces brought back tremors in my hands and I had seen them tremble a few minutes earlier.

Out the door and into the cold.  But not for long.  My favorite café was just around the corner and I walked into the warm setting with a smile.

“Hi, Nate.  Busy day today for you, right?”

Pressing steamed coffee into a latte, Nate nodded, his brown eyes flashing a welcome to me.

After ordering my chai latte and warmed up from the inside, I made this a quick café visit and hailed a cab as I exited.

“Where to, miss?  Somewhere warm for you, I hope,” the cabbie asked as I slid into the back seat.

He switched on the meter and turned the heat fan up to high.

“Art Institute, please.  And thanks for that extra blast. It feels good.”

Driving down the slick roads took the usual ten minute ride a bit longer, but I was cozy in the cab and finishing my latte.  I began to anticipate my usual visit to the museum.  It was a favorite place to enjoy afternoons with Mama, and, since her passing three years ago, it had become a more important “artist’s date” to keep.

Mama had shown her own watercolors at small suburban galleries, but I hadn’t inherited the visual talent.  Instead, I’d watch her paint to classical music and felt soothed by flute sonatas even as a toddler.  So, when the time came to pursue my artistic training, I left my crayons in my desk and started elementary school Saturday lessons with Mr. Petri.  He was first flutist in the Chicago Symphony and, Mama had insisted to Papa, “We want the best for our little, Vivi.”

“The best for her at this age is to listen to her Papa and not fuss when we go to Mass,” was his reply.  But Mama had scoffed at the reminder of my rebellious shortcomings and so began my twenty year journey to first chair in the Symphony.

“Here we are, safe and sound,” repeated the cabbie.  He may have announced our arrival twice, but I was caught up in my memories.

“Oh, sorry.  Here you go.”  I paid the driver and scrambled out the cab, watching my steps on the slick steps.  The paired lions had frost on their manes and ice formed on their moustached mouths.  I gently patted one of the paws—a habit I’d learned from Mama and kept through the years. 

“Thanks for guarding the beauties inside,” I whispered as I passed the regal statues.

Inside the lobby, I sighed as I shook off the scarves, unbuttoned my coat and walked over to the coat checker.  My heart fluttered a bit as I anticipated my walk through the hallways to the painting that linked me to my past.