Tag Archives: poems

I keep thinking of used car salesmen

when I watch the news these days

how we turn  our cars over to them, the ones we don’t want or the ones causing us problems, it’s easier to take a loss than fix a broken car

salesmen shine things up for us…make things appear what they aren’t…kind of like Roy Kroch’s McDonald’s milkshake (his corporate version)

it looks like a milkshake, tastes like a milkshake, feels like a milkshake, but it’s not…its some packaged material designed to make somebody money

the used car salesmen smile brighter than the light bouncing off their shiny cars.               they have you at the door, they invite you in, you take the bait

not because you are stupid                                                                                                             but because you don’t know anything about cars                                                                       you didn’t go to school and learn about engines and their demise and you don’t know what questions to ask

but you need a car, you need to go to work, drive your kids to the doctor                             so you buy one, a car, it looks good enough, its all you’ve got money and time for

you sign the dotted line, the warranty is a 100 days, or something like that, you don’t care, you need the car

and then on the 101st day, the day after the first 100, the car stops working for you

it dies in the middle of an intersection, you can’t revive it

you lost in the end, not just your money, but your hope

your hope that this time would be different, that the gleaming smile from your used car salesman meant something

but there is no free lunch …you got what you paid for not its glittering marketing campaign

and sadly you can’t ask the questions you need to because you don’t know what they are.

@claireaperez@gmail.com

 

to bridge the space

there are two things
which I have found to 

bridge the space between dusk and dawn

between alone and not so alone

they whistle, these two

within the confines of their silent passage

to  solitary souls who

join their ears in unison to hear them:

the train and the radio!

How they met

img_6855

It was after the war
Ohio State had set up GI housing
There was a dance
The lights were low
The music live
They were dancing with their partners
A pause in the music, a silence in the room
They heard each other laugh
In the space of eternity
Dropped their partners
Began dancing with each other
And kept on dancing into their 90s

storms storm in #2

Cayuga Lake
Cayuga Lake
Cayuga Lake via iPad
Cayuga Lake via iPad

there is perhaps nothing like the impending storm

those moments when fear paralyzes us as we look
to the safe harbor
the sun shining a moment ago, the clouds now gathering
the distant rains far,but in sight
brace ourselves for the winds that will come
the rains that will beat us down
relentless
until once again, the clouds part
and the sun welcomes us to its warm embrace
copyright claireaperez@gmail.com  all rights:  photos

In celebration of people and words…

ee cummings quote

Poetry Month

Oprah has dedicated her current issue to poetry http://www.oprah.com/packages/the-power-ofpoetry.html

and so I am posting the poem Trees by Joyce Kilmer.  This remains my favorite poem and Mrs. Jordan made me memorize it and recite it to our fifth grade class at Hendy Avenue School.  I never looked at trees or poems the same again.  Go Mrs. Jordan wherever you are.



Tree tops in summer
Tree tops in summer

bu Joyce Kilmer

I think that I shall never see a poem as lovely as a tree

A tree whose hungry mouth is prest, Against the sweet earth’s flowing breast;

A tree that looks at God all day, And lifts her leafy arms to pray;

A tree that may in summer wear, A next of robins in her hair;

Upon whose bosom snow has lain; Who intimately lives with rain.

Poems are made by fools like me, But only God can make a tree.

author:  Joyce Kilmer

Today show hosts announce: June 17, 2011 will be the best day of the year.

Today, as they thumbed through a  magazine like The National Enquirer,  Kathy Lee and Hoda, the NBC talk show hosts,  declared that according to  what they were reading,  January 17 will be the worst day of the year and June 17 will  be the best  day of the year, that is the day I turn 5000000000000000.

I just finished Nora Ephron’s book entitled I Remember Nothing and Other Reflections and this is what my parody of her sounds like about the age of Fifty.  Fifty, I’m not suppose to turn 50, 50 is for old people.  Fifty is for my Mother and all the people wearing Alfred Dunner and elastic waist band pants.   Fifty is for people with severe chicken neck and a lot of grey hairs.  Fifty is for church suppers and the Friday night fish fry.  Hey wasn’t it just yesterday that I was 28 and my younger sister taunted me with the words:  “YOU WILL BE THIRTY, THIRTY.”   Nope, fifty is not for me. 

Molly  isn’t  turning 50, a few years younger, she fought a horrible cancer and died in her mid 20s.  Jim, my brother’s  friend and a gentle, fun, outgoing soul, he isn’t turning 50.  Somewhere in his 30s the lottery of life gave him a seizure  condition which caused an early death.  I thought of   these two as I drove to the dentist today.  It’s cold out, my lungs hurt from a recent bronchitis and I’m sure both, with their  enormous zest for life, would wish to be here and have a little lung pain and the gift of being 49.

Nora Ephron also points out in her book that she did not really get it until she was fifty.  “In fact looking back I was clueless until I was about fifty years old.”  The most ironic thing about aging is that as we get  it  more and more with each year, our bodies and minds let go of it.  It would make more sense if we got it when we were young and full of the energy needed to do something with it.    But then again, maybe we tried that and through time, realized certain truths that would have stymied us in our youth.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~here is a poem I wrote on New Year’s Eve, sad things happen but good things do to

Rubin’s Paper Store

picture of Rubin's paper store
Rubin’s actual paper store

Rubin’s Paper Store

 

Everyday from 8 to 3

You inside the store

of information pressed on pages.


 

Its musty, dark and crowded,

the racks entice

with scenes of Mexico

and lovely furnishings.


 

Slowly and peacefully,

one by one, they come

to escape into your world

 

Selections to locate

on who, what & where

they might be.


Security in the dinginess,

stale coffee smell all around

and your talk of the

gossip floating in town.


 

 

It’s a moment in time

frozen in minds,

hearts, and novels.


 

It is the same scene

moment to moment

day to day

year to year…


 

And then on a Saturday,

the end of the week,

the end of the day,

It vanishes.


 

With your last breath

you close the door

in Rubin’s Paper Store!

© claireaperez