NYC Crowding
—Poetry by Ann Wehrman, Sacramento, CA
—Photos by Chris Feldman
IN APPRECIATION
today I got my COVID-19 vaccination
walked to the site
appreciating the outing
so rarely—too rarely—
go outside these days
it’s been one year now
sheltering in place
unseasonably warm for early March
blue sky, tender breeze
grass and shrubs exuded oxygen
smelling like manna
I tasted their sweet fragrance, rich with life
I walked closer, brushed the shrubs
ran my fingers through their leaves
caressing them gratefully as I passed by
down long sidewalks
Exposition Boulevard, built for giants
buildings, streets all jumbo-sized
meant for drivers—no one walks in this city
though word is out that
driving increases pollution
damages the environment
Sacramento’s stuck in the 19th century
Wild West mentality remains
though we made full circle
upon reaching the Pacific
there’s no new land to run to
leaving this destroyed
only known land
ours to heal, appreciate, care for
today I got my COVID-19 vaccination
walked to the site
appreciating the outing
so rarely—too rarely—
go outside these days
it’s been one year now
sheltering in place
unseasonably warm for early March
blue sky, tender breeze
grass and shrubs exuded oxygen
smelling like manna
I tasted their sweet fragrance, rich with life
I walked closer, brushed the shrubs
ran my fingers through their leaves
caressing them gratefully as I passed by
down long sidewalks
Exposition Boulevard, built for giants
buildings, streets all jumbo-sized
meant for drivers—no one walks in this city
though word is out that
driving increases pollution
damages the environment
Sacramento’s stuck in the 19th century
Wild West mentality remains
though we made full circle
upon reaching the Pacific
there’s no new land to run to
leaving this destroyed
only known land
ours to heal, appreciate, care for
Rainy Day
FUNDRAISING IN CHICAGO, 1976
first autumn on the Mobile Fundraising Team
selling roses, Clark Street at night
dinner: quick plate at a cool vegetarian restaurant
sentimental memories of meals with lovers
life before the Church—another universe
furtive sex w/myself in a gas station bathroom
hope the door lock holds
no privacy in shared sleeping quarters
my mind blank, hurrying
blank filthy walls, bare bulb, damp floor, illicit relief
hope no one will notice
cold fat raindrops, puddles on the sidewalk
streetlights gleam, car horns blare
excitement, glamourous nightlife
bleary-eyed with exhaustion, still fundraising
cross an intersection at midnight
spot a $100 bill on the street
decide to keep this gift from spirit
Shadow of the Cross
IN THE WARMTH OF THE DONUT SHOP,
WAITING FOR THE VAN
After Nighthawks by Edward Hopper
perched on a high stool at one end of a long, oval counter
I sipped a cup of coffee
after midnight, icy Chicago winter
afraid the place would close, I nodded into my coffee
terrified of falling asleep and being robbed or missing the van
too cold to wait outside
after fundraising, the night’s last run
quick burger in the van, then told
Go out again; you can do it!
I hated the late work, already exhausted
had fundraised on foot all day
sold many boxes of candy
I peered around at the faces
tired, hard, old men, all strangers
I, too, was tired, my eighth month as a volunteer
warm shop fragrant with sugar and coffee
offered anonymity, a sense of safety
if only I could have cried
talked through what the hell had happened to me
talked to someone whom I could trust
who could have helped me make sense of it all
but I saw no one strong enough
neither family, past lovers, or friends
so I leaped into the long trial of faith, endured it
my head sank toward the linoleum counter
so warm in the donut shop, finally getting warm
like falling asleep in a blizzard, just give in
WAITING FOR THE VAN
After Nighthawks by Edward Hopper
perched on a high stool at one end of a long, oval counter
I sipped a cup of coffee
after midnight, icy Chicago winter
afraid the place would close, I nodded into my coffee
terrified of falling asleep and being robbed or missing the van
too cold to wait outside
after fundraising, the night’s last run
quick burger in the van, then told
Go out again; you can do it!
I hated the late work, already exhausted
had fundraised on foot all day
sold many boxes of candy
I peered around at the faces
tired, hard, old men, all strangers
I, too, was tired, my eighth month as a volunteer
warm shop fragrant with sugar and coffee
offered anonymity, a sense of safety
if only I could have cried
talked through what the hell had happened to me
talked to someone whom I could trust
who could have helped me make sense of it all
but I saw no one strong enough
neither family, past lovers, or friends
so I leaped into the long trial of faith, endured it
my head sank toward the linoleum counter
so warm in the donut shop, finally getting warm
like falling asleep in a blizzard, just give in
On Edge
INSOMNIA
Sleepless again, I open the window; sunrise softens late winter’s chill, air sweet and clean. I am a porcelain cup too close to the edge of the table. My heart defies every schedule I try to force on it. Hard-earned stability pales in value; I crave air, life, movement, love. I want to wear myself out walking in the sun and wind, leave this desk behind. Energy beats in my veins—pools stagnant in my belly, legs. I should be wrestling, dancing, caressing, loving, living with you, not spending years at home, circumspect, alone. My soul is hungry; I stir the morning oats, add raisins, try to appease it.
Sleepless again, I open the window; sunrise softens late winter’s chill, air sweet and clean. I am a porcelain cup too close to the edge of the table. My heart defies every schedule I try to force on it. Hard-earned stability pales in value; I crave air, life, movement, love. I want to wear myself out walking in the sun and wind, leave this desk behind. Energy beats in my veins—pools stagnant in my belly, legs. I should be wrestling, dancing, caressing, loving, living with you, not spending years at home, circumspect, alone. My soul is hungry; I stir the morning oats, add raisins, try to appease it.
Laundry
ITSY-BITSY
spider crouches on the light switch
maybe it’s warm
in a broken-down laundry room
in an overpriced apartment complex
in a mega-metropolis
filled with millionaires, bustling families
college students, homeless
I live here alone in a tiny studio
priced at “market rate,” or so they justify
five times what my parents paid each month
for our four-bedroom country home
decades ago, when I was in high school
laundry room smells of bleach and mold
I bring paper towels
wipe kids’ candy residue from the table
stand, fold my underwear
through the window
sunset fills my eyes with splendor
twilight grows, I hurry
wanting my warm room, yellow lamp, music, books
my spider friend seems to have moved slightly
or is that my fancy?
has sat on that same light switch for months
whenever I do laundry I check for her
immense patience, a keen mind
seem to emanate from the spider
alive or dead—I’m not going to find out
friend, counselor as I walk through these
slow days alone
my uplifted heart a bowl of sorrow
eyes filled with glory and gratitude
spider crouches on the light switch
maybe it’s warm
in a broken-down laundry room
in an overpriced apartment complex
in a mega-metropolis
filled with millionaires, bustling families
college students, homeless
I live here alone in a tiny studio
priced at “market rate,” or so they justify
five times what my parents paid each month
for our four-bedroom country home
decades ago, when I was in high school
laundry room smells of bleach and mold
I bring paper towels
wipe kids’ candy residue from the table
stand, fold my underwear
through the window
sunset fills my eyes with splendor
twilight grows, I hurry
wanting my warm room, yellow lamp, music, books
my spider friend seems to have moved slightly
or is that my fancy?
has sat on that same light switch for months
whenever I do laundry I check for her
immense patience, a keen mind
seem to emanate from the spider
alive or dead—I’m not going to find out
friend, counselor as I walk through these
slow days alone
my uplifted heart a bowl of sorrow
eyes filled with glory and gratitude
Rainy Day Bird Hopscotch
I WENT OUTSIDE TODAY
I went outside today, almost one year since
COVID-19 became a household name
since sheltering in place, staying home all the time
lockdown, or whatever you want to call it, became a way of life
I rent a small studio in a complex with hundreds of apartments
in a city with millions of residents, yet my days are spent alone now
it’s been a year since COVID-19
I am alive at 66, and lucky
perhaps I had COVID-19
a year ago, when it began in the US
but when I called, my doctor said
don’t come in, it’s probably allergies
don’t come in unless you are very sick
so I continued my teaching work online
slept a lot, powered through it
coughing all the time, waking up struggling to breath
used meditation breath—longer exhalations
bent over, lowered my head, to relax and to breathe
sick for weeks, months to recover; I still feel some effects
I’ve gotten in the habit of staying inside
no one to visit, no activities allowed, can’t browse the mall stores
bus service limited but I kept the pass active
go outside less and less often
breath indoor air, temperature-controlled, central heat and air
I miss being outside so much, no words will convey how
on today’s walk, I greedily gulped sweet, fresh oxygen-rich air
sun enveloped me in a golden blanket of warmth
grass smelled green, tender
one bird, then another, and a flirtatious squirrel greeted me
today I went outside
I walked to the corner and back, around thirty minutes
tired out my legs and hip joints
a good tired—muscles will strengthen
maybe I will go out again tomorrow
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, I will try again tomorrow.
—Mary Anne Radmacher
_______________________
Our thanks this morning to Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for their take on the pandemic!
Today at 6pm, Sac. Poetry Center’s MarieWriters workshop for poets at all levels meets with host David Quinley: us02web.zoom.us/j/671443996/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/2757173551202746/?acontext={"source"%3A"29"%2C"ref_notif_type"%3A"event_calendar_create"%2C"action_history"%3A"null"}¬if_id=1617789557017627¬if_t=event_calendar_create&ref=notif/.
It has come to my attention that the longstanding Cal. Federation of Chaparral Poets is holding its convention online this year on April 16-17, and they want you to register by this Friday, April 9 at www.chaparralpoets.org/Convention10.html/. Check in there for a listing of events and presenters, including a workshop by Sue Daly. Chaparral Poets is a California organization that has met for many, many years. Members and non-members are welcome to this annual event.
_______________________
—Medusa
I went outside today, almost one year since
COVID-19 became a household name
since sheltering in place, staying home all the time
lockdown, or whatever you want to call it, became a way of life
I rent a small studio in a complex with hundreds of apartments
in a city with millions of residents, yet my days are spent alone now
it’s been a year since COVID-19
I am alive at 66, and lucky
perhaps I had COVID-19
a year ago, when it began in the US
but when I called, my doctor said
don’t come in, it’s probably allergies
don’t come in unless you are very sick
so I continued my teaching work online
slept a lot, powered through it
coughing all the time, waking up struggling to breath
used meditation breath—longer exhalations
bent over, lowered my head, to relax and to breathe
sick for weeks, months to recover; I still feel some effects
I’ve gotten in the habit of staying inside
no one to visit, no activities allowed, can’t browse the mall stores
bus service limited but I kept the pass active
go outside less and less often
breath indoor air, temperature-controlled, central heat and air
I miss being outside so much, no words will convey how
on today’s walk, I greedily gulped sweet, fresh oxygen-rich air
sun enveloped me in a golden blanket of warmth
grass smelled green, tender
one bird, then another, and a flirtatious squirrel greeted me
today I went outside
I walked to the corner and back, around thirty minutes
tired out my legs and hip joints
a good tired—muscles will strengthen
maybe I will go out again tomorrow
______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, I will try again tomorrow.
—Mary Anne Radmacher
_______________________
Our thanks this morning to Ann Wehrman and Chris Feldman for their take on the pandemic!
Today at 6pm, Sac. Poetry Center’s MarieWriters workshop for poets at all levels meets with host David Quinley: us02web.zoom.us/j/671443996/. Facebook info: www.facebook.com/events/2757173551202746/?acontext={"source"%3A"29"%2C"ref_notif_type"%3A"event_calendar_create"%2C"action_history"%3A"null"}¬if_id=1617789557017627¬if_t=event_calendar_create&ref=notif/.
It has come to my attention that the longstanding Cal. Federation of Chaparral Poets is holding its convention online this year on April 16-17, and they want you to register by this Friday, April 9 at www.chaparralpoets.org/Convention10.html/. Check in there for a listing of events and presenters, including a workshop by Sue Daly. Chaparral Poets is a California organization that has met for many, many years. Members and non-members are welcome to this annual event.
_______________________
—Medusa
Nighthawks
—Painting by Edward Hopper
—Painting by Edward Hopper
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