—Public Domain Illustrations
—Poetry by Linda Klein, Los Angeles, CA
THE CLOWN
A clown slathers his face
with white, shiny goo.
He covers it all.
They won't have a clue,
lines from fatigue,
and pale, sagging skin.
His sadness is hidden within.
He draws happy eyes, free
from life's woe, wide with surprise,
they sparkle and glow.
Then there's the nose,
a bright red bulb, shiny
as if he had guzzled a bottle of wine.
He had, in fact, put down a glass or two,
and that was perfectly fine.
Some blush on his cheeks
to make him look merry.
It's what the crowd seeks and desires.
Rouge them like berries!
A large, laughing mouth
curved at the corners.
So red, wide, and round,
it would coax out a giggle from mourners,
mourners—like him.
A loss from which
he will never recover.
She was his reason to live
and his lover.
He shouldn't be here,
feeling so much a fool,
putting on a false face,
soft brushstrokes to hide a tear pool.
Hah, hah! Finished at last.
He fluffs his ruffled collar.
His floppy black shoes flap jauntily
out to the stage on cue
as his waiting audience
applauds and hollers,
for this is what clowns
are expected to do.
A clown slathers his face
with white, shiny goo.
He covers it all.
They won't have a clue,
lines from fatigue,
and pale, sagging skin.
His sadness is hidden within.
He draws happy eyes, free
from life's woe, wide with surprise,
they sparkle and glow.
Then there's the nose,
a bright red bulb, shiny
as if he had guzzled a bottle of wine.
He had, in fact, put down a glass or two,
and that was perfectly fine.
Some blush on his cheeks
to make him look merry.
It's what the crowd seeks and desires.
Rouge them like berries!
A large, laughing mouth
curved at the corners.
So red, wide, and round,
it would coax out a giggle from mourners,
mourners—like him.
A loss from which
he will never recover.
She was his reason to live
and his lover.
He shouldn't be here,
feeling so much a fool,
putting on a false face,
soft brushstrokes to hide a tear pool.
Hah, hah! Finished at last.
He fluffs his ruffled collar.
His floppy black shoes flap jauntily
out to the stage on cue
as his waiting audience
applauds and hollers,
for this is what clowns
are expected to do.
IT LISTENS, ACCEPTS
Absorbs, but never utters a word,
it must trust, be content just to receive
a luxurious splatter of butter,
a thick layer of cream cheese, or mayo
spread over its pale, often charred,
porous face, which brightens with
any additions and leaves
expressions of pleasure
to its garrulously grateful eater.
Dipped into a sloppy soup or stew,
how can it help but be torn with emotion?
Yet it maintains its calm appearance.
At times it joins with another
to deliver a delicious protein filling,
neat, practical, and transportable,
that will sustain and satisfy.
It is the staple, silent conveyor
of nourishment, and basically
sensible roughage, ethereal bread.
ELEGY FOR ANTONIO GONZALES
Convivial Sr. Gonzales taught first-year Spanish
at West Los Angeles College.
I remember his warmth and his honesty,
his pride of family and heritage,
his need to tell who he was and what he had suffered.
Antonio Gonzales was a Cuban refugee
who had fled Fidel Castro's regime.
A journalist in his native country,
Gonzales could write nothing but the truth.
He wanted to warn his countrymen of the evils
perpetrated against them under Castro's rule.
He longed for freedom and democracy for all Cubanos.
Gonzales' admired older brother, Alejandro,
a lawyer and activist, had been murdered;
his body never recovered, he became one of
"los desaparacidos," the disappeared ones.
Soon Antonio became the subject of threats against his own life.
One morning Antonio kissed his wife and children goodbye.
He left Cuba not knowing if he would ever see them again,
to begin a lonely life in Los Angeles.
Finally, after four years, they were able to join him.
Gonzales found employment teaching
the flowing, romantic language of his homeland,
not just the words, but the culture, ideals, and ideas.
I was fortunate to be one of his students.
I recall to this day, his handsome, smiling face,
his brave story, and his belief that we must
love all our fellow human beings as familia.
We were encouraged to share our stories as well.
He arranged class parties where we tasted
plantanos, flan, and other Latin treats, and
we brought foods from our own cultures to share.
One evening his daughter, Maria Alicia, attended a party.
Alicia called him Poppy.
After that we all began calling him Poppy.
He didn't mind. He loved being a father figure to us.
One day I noticed a bump on Poppy's brown forehead,
lifting his worry lines, and asked him about it.
He replied that it was nothing to be concerned about,
but his normal joviality was gone for a while.
I shouldn't have asked, I thought.
He saw my expression changed and he teased
that an alien was hiding under his skin.
"An illegal alien?" I asked.
Poppy laughed and called out "Hotchis?"
meaning, "How did you guess?"
It was one of his stock replies that
never failed to make us giggle.
Months later, after our class ended,
I learned Poppy Gonzales died
from skin cancer that began
with a lump on his forehead.
He was only fifty-two years old.
My first thought was that now he could
never return to his beloved Cuba
to live there en liberdad.
I hoped that his children would return
one day and spend time there in
remembrance of their Poppy and ours.
THE GREEN REPORT
When I was young, I saw the world in vibrant shades of green.
Abundant verdant forests kept our air fresh and clean.
There were moss-covered tree trunks, dew-dappled leaves
in emerald hues that sang from budding bushes,
and echoed in silver-green streams.
Crashing waves sprayed green seafoam
in clear waters, where lively fish swam and spawned.
Green provided nourishment with vegetation,
symbolized renewal, epitomized continuation.
Through the years of our existence on earth
we have neglected conservation inhibiting green's rebirth.
Hot weather and lack of rain brought devastating fires.
Shriveled and dull, once wondrous woodlands
have dwindled, far from full. Moldy, mildewed, wasted
with decay, the greens I see today are tinged brown and gray.
Green no longer sings. It sulks.
The Jolly Green Giant is so defiant,
he's become the Incredible Hulk.
FRANKIE’S METHOD
I remember a cartoon—a funny little man
kicked himself repeatedly in the rear end,
an awkward exercise indeed.
He had to hold on to the back
of a sturdy chair, so as not to
fall forward on his face.
"What're you doin', Frankie?" asked Willis,
who feared for his friend's sanity.
"I'm givin' me mind a 'oliday, you old codger."
Frankie explained.
"It's a way to take me mind off me problems.
I kick meself in me arse until it 'urts, and
then whatever was worrying me
doesn't matter at all. Things resolve
themselves one way or t'other…
We must all find our own way."
Frankie's way does not suit me.
I'm not keen on inflicting pain on myself,
and were I to use his method, I would have
a great deal of trouble sitting down to read or write,
which is what I do to escape from my worries.
Curled up in a comfortable chair, I enter another world
and live there for a while, just long enough to forget
what was bothering me. Poor Frankie, he did teach me,
everyone must find their own way.
____________________________
Today’s LittleNip:
In a gentle way, you can shake the world.
—Mahatma Gandhi
____________________________
—Medusa, thanking Linda Klein from L.A. for her fine poetry today!
Tonight, 8pm, Poetry in Davis presents Poetry Tonight with Myah Daniels, Jorge Quintana, and Angela James on ZOOM. To participate, visit ucdavisdss.zoom.us/my/andyojones at 8 PM, or a few minutes before, if you wish to chat with the host and the other attendees. Info: www.facebook.com/events/543814299625894/?notif_t=plan_user_invited¬if_id=1591197721435375/.
"...in emerald hues..."
—Public Domain Photo
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