—Poetry by R. Gerry Fabian, Doylestown, PA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of
Joe Nolan, Stockton, CA
SUMMER SYNCHRONICITY
Sitting on the concrete porch steps
mid-morning in the city.
The sun is high but not too hot yet.
A line of park Maples are in full leaf.
Down the block,
some radio preacher is
in full-throated radio passion.
The smell of cooking bacon
sneaks into the breeze.
A block down the street,
a young mother places
the bulging grocery bag down
to reposition a struggling stroller child.
Two guys turn the corner
wearing their ‘colors’ like armor.
Each step they take
is like walking through a puddle of ‘mean.’
The mother is blocking their path.
The one on the right
picks up the grocery bag
and when the mother turns
hands it to her gently.
It’s going to be that kind of day.
Sitting on the concrete porch steps
mid-morning in the city.
The sun is high but not too hot yet.
A line of park Maples are in full leaf.
Down the block,
some radio preacher is
in full-throated radio passion.
The smell of cooking bacon
sneaks into the breeze.
A block down the street,
a young mother places
the bulging grocery bag down
to reposition a struggling stroller child.
Two guys turn the corner
wearing their ‘colors’ like armor.
Each step they take
is like walking through a puddle of ‘mean.’
The mother is blocking their path.
The one on the right
picks up the grocery bag
and when the mother turns
hands it to her gently.
It’s going to be that kind of day.
GENTLY CLOSED DOORS
As a child
the irony of the “Good Humor” man’s
frown puzzled me.
But his bells percolated.
I always ran with a “liberty” dime.
Mother hated him and
scolded me.
It was a summer Monday
early and
Mother only had a quarter.
I was to “get a dime and nickel back!”
His white-suit Monday frown
found him without change.
He made me his last customer.
Ice cream in one hand
I RACED HOME.
Dime and nickel in the other
But it was melting all over
and my mother made me go back
to close the door,
“Gently.”
As a child
the irony of the “Good Humor” man’s
frown puzzled me.
But his bells percolated.
I always ran with a “liberty” dime.
Mother hated him and
scolded me.
It was a summer Monday
early and
Mother only had a quarter.
I was to “get a dime and nickel back!”
His white-suit Monday frown
found him without change.
He made me his last customer.
Ice cream in one hand
I RACED HOME.
Dime and nickel in the other
But it was melting all over
and my mother made me go back
to close the door,
“Gently.”
PUNCTURED EXPECTATIONS
The sun glints and gleams
through the window shade
a little stronger than last week.
My Brittany jumps off the bed
that he is not supposed to be on
and curls into his bed
but his eyes remain open.
I slowly shake sleep away,
rise, go to the bathroom,
shave, shower and return to dress.
The Britt follows me down the stairs.
Shaking kibble in his bowl, I feed him.
While he eats, I open the fridge,
get the V8 bottle, pour a glass
and then take my two meds
and five vitamin supplements.
Letting the Britt out, I sit down
and sip another small swallow of V8.
Now the shower should be running again.
Now I should be splitting English muffins.
The Britt scratches at the door.
I let him in.
Now soft, light footsteps
should be descending the stairs.
Now the muffins should pop
from the toaster in search of their butter.
And
now you should be giving me
that simple sunburst smile.
The sun glints and gleams
through the window shade
a little stronger than last week.
My Brittany jumps off the bed
that he is not supposed to be on
and curls into his bed
but his eyes remain open.
I slowly shake sleep away,
rise, go to the bathroom,
shave, shower and return to dress.
The Britt follows me down the stairs.
Shaking kibble in his bowl, I feed him.
While he eats, I open the fridge,
get the V8 bottle, pour a glass
and then take my two meds
and five vitamin supplements.
Letting the Britt out, I sit down
and sip another small swallow of V8.
Now the shower should be running again.
Now I should be splitting English muffins.
The Britt scratches at the door.
I let him in.
Now soft, light footsteps
should be descending the stairs.
Now the muffins should pop
from the toaster in search of their butter.
And
now you should be giving me
that simple sunburst smile.
OCTOBER CLOSURE
Now the leaves release.
The summer humidity
scurries south.
Chimney smoke scents the air.
Time jumps back an hour.
Mornings require a lined jacket.
The pine porch rocker
has only a few afternoons left
before revisiting the attic.
Geese pass overhead
honking and changing V formations.
My breath leaves a white trail
while summer,
the love of my life,
leaves me yet again.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CLIMBING FENCES
—R. Gerry Fabian
I am obsessed with fences.
They are everywhere.
I puzzle at their purpose.
My fascination turns inward.
I am burdened by fences.
The split rail fence of encounters
with chance friends and strangers,
the picket fence that guards
my closest contacts
and the chain link fence
that is psyche-electrified
to guard fears, failures
and what goes beyond regret.
____________________
Welcome to the Kitchen today to first-timer R. Gerry Fabian, a poet and novelist who has published four books of his poems: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound. In addition, he has published four novels: Getting Lucky (The Story), Memphis Masquerade, Seventh Sense and Ghost Girl. His web page is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com/ and he can be found on Twitter (@GerryFabian2); Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/gery3397/); Linkedin (https://www.linkedin.com/in/gerry-fabian-91353a131/) and Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010099476497/). He lives in Doylestown, PA. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Gerry, and don’t be a stranger!
____________________
—Medusa, remembering 9/11. Where, oh where, is that close-knit American spirit now?
And our condolences to our British SnakePal-Poets on the death of their fine monarch. The end of an era…
Now the leaves release.
The summer humidity
scurries south.
Chimney smoke scents the air.
Time jumps back an hour.
Mornings require a lined jacket.
The pine porch rocker
has only a few afternoons left
before revisiting the attic.
Geese pass overhead
honking and changing V formations.
My breath leaves a white trail
while summer,
the love of my life,
leaves me yet again.
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
CLIMBING FENCES
—R. Gerry Fabian
I am obsessed with fences.
They are everywhere.
I puzzle at their purpose.
My fascination turns inward.
I am burdened by fences.
The split rail fence of encounters
with chance friends and strangers,
the picket fence that guards
my closest contacts
and the chain link fence
that is psyche-electrified
to guard fears, failures
and what goes beyond regret.
____________________
Welcome to the Kitchen today to first-timer R. Gerry Fabian, a poet and novelist who has published four books of his poems: Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound. In addition, he has published four novels: Getting Lucky (The Story), Memphis Masquerade, Seventh Sense and Ghost Girl. His web page is https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com/ and he can be found on Twitter (@GerryFabian2); Instagram (https://www.instagram.com/gery3397/); Linkedin (https://www.linkedin.com/in/gerry-fabian-91353a131/) and Facebook (https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010099476497/). He lives in Doylestown, PA. Again, welcome to the Kitchen, Gerry, and don’t be a stranger!
____________________
—Medusa, remembering 9/11. Where, oh where, is that close-knit American spirit now?
And our condolences to our British SnakePal-Poets on the death of their fine monarch. The end of an era…
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
in the links at the top of this page.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
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that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
