—Poetry by Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA
—Photos of Merced River
Courtesy of Public Domain
—Photos of Merced River
Courtesy of Public Domain
LIFEFLIGHT
i go back
through the written years
the daily notes
endless pages
and see myself,
an incredible view
wings spread
gliding
all those days
hundreds, thousands
of emotions
the colors, shades
dim
to blinding
it seems
my mind traveled everywhere
and yet,
i never left
a while ago
a concerned friend
called
in the midst of my review
the pages turning,
dazzling my tired eyes
he said to me,
“I knew you’d be there,
stuck in that room”
and i said,
“No,
you’re wrong,
i’m not here,
i go back
through the written years
the daily notes
endless pages
and see myself,
an incredible view
wings spread
gliding
all those days
hundreds, thousands
of emotions
the colors, shades
dim
to blinding
it seems
my mind traveled everywhere
and yet,
i never left
a while ago
a concerned friend
called
in the midst of my review
the pages turning,
dazzling my tired eyes
he said to me,
“I knew you’d be there,
stuck in that room”
and i said,
“No,
you’re wrong,
i’m not here,
i’m flying”
UNDER THE FREEWAY
(Merced, CA)
Years ago
when Mama talked about someone,
I’d stop her occasionally
and ask
where this person lived
She’d wave her arm a direction
left or right, and say,
“Ohh, they lived over there, under the freeway”
At first I thought
it was people
who lived underground,
which sounded strange,
but didn’t question it
I realized, as I grew older
she must’ve meant homeless people
camped out
a long time ago,
under the overpass
Why would I doubt it?
we were poor, so in Mama’s day,
pitifully poorer
Years later
home from college one day,
Mama was telling me a story
about my relatives, and said
they too
lived under the freeway
“Wait a minute, tio Vicente and tia Lupe
lived under the freeway?” I asked
I knew for a fact
they didn’t,
so that had to be wrong
“Just the other side of 13th”
she answered,
pointing towards M Street
I look out the kitchen window
of our house,
the projects on 12th & K
and about fifty feet away
was the massive presence,
of Highway 99
“Si Mijo,” she says,
waving her arms and pointing
that direction again,
“Before the new 99
smashed down all their houses,
they lived right there,
under the freeway”
I’d stop her occasionally
and ask
where this person lived
She’d wave her arm a direction
left or right, and say,
“Ohh, they lived over there, under the freeway”
At first I thought
it was people
who lived underground,
which sounded strange,
but didn’t question it
I realized, as I grew older
she must’ve meant homeless people
camped out
a long time ago,
under the overpass
Why would I doubt it?
we were poor, so in Mama’s day,
pitifully poorer
Years later
home from college one day,
Mama was telling me a story
about my relatives, and said
they too
lived under the freeway
“Wait a minute, tio Vicente and tia Lupe
lived under the freeway?” I asked
I knew for a fact
they didn’t,
so that had to be wrong
“Just the other side of 13th”
she answered,
pointing towards M Street
I look out the kitchen window
of our house,
the projects on 12th & K
and about fifty feet away
was the massive presence,
of Highway 99
“Si Mijo,” she says,
waving her arms and pointing
that direction again,
“Before the new 99
smashed down all their houses,
they lived right there,
under the freeway”
HEARTLAND
i realize
after decades away
thousands of trips home,
Highway 99,
that stretch of road
between Sacramento and Merced,
is now part of me
and constant
holidays, family events
numbing, traumatizing
funerals,
on the 99, always the 99,
i realize
the winding rivers of my youth
flowing all directions
in Merced County,
are also constant
like the river
by Henderson Park
family gatherings,
rafting
or the river in Winton,
by Shaffer Bridge
where we swam,
just down the road
from the sweet potato fields,
we worked
and further down
in Ballico,
another bridge,
the river
where we catfished,
went swimming
near the asparagus fields,
where Daddy worked
and later, as a teenager
drinking, driving
the backroads through Snelling,
along the river,
that led to Mariposa,
and higher,
all the way to Yosemite
from there
the powerful, mesmerizing
Merced River
that rages down the mountains
from Yosemite,
caressing rocks, boulders
to glistening jewels,
flowing wildly, mightily
to the lower valley,
that feeds
into all the streams and rivers
of my childhood
i realize now,
it’s always been
the Merced River
and the 99
that bind,
connect,
converge,
take me home
SUPERMAN
Yesterday,
a story in the Sacramento Bee
said a man saved another man
from a horrible fire.
A man on the side of the road
trapped in a burning car.
People standing there,
frozen, watching him screaming,
burning to death.
Suddenly, another car stops,
a man jumps out,
races into the flames,
busts out a window,
and pulls the man to safety.
“He came out of nowhere,”
a witness said,
“Like Superman!”
The newspaper didn’t say
He was a Mexican immigrant
who spoke no English,
because he was.
It didn’t say
he dove into the fire
to save a white man.
It didn’t say a Catholic man
saved a Christian man,
or poor man
saved a rich man.
He was just a man.
Through a translator
they asked this hero
why he risked his life
diving into the fire.
“He needed help,
so I helped him,”
he answered simply.
Not a brown face,
or a purple face,
a human face.
Able to leap
religion, race,
insane, stupid politics
in a single bound.
More powerful
than runaway hate,
…Superman
(Poem reprinted from Song of the San Joaquin, 2009;
Sacramento Bee article referenced was pub. 8/14/2006)
MIJA
at some point
all the silly faces
giggles and laughter
will stop,
and my little girl
will look past me,
move on
for today, though,
this sunshine
and funny songs,
six years and counting,
loves me to pieces
wish i could bottle up
her adoration,
pure innocence
“grandpa?”
“yes mijita”
“i sang a new song today
in school”
“you did, that’s great,
sing it to me”
“i love my grandpa,
he loves me too…
we go to the park and laugh
and plaaaayy,
i love my grandpa,
he loves me toooo”
she stops, looks up at me
with that goofy smile,
my heart, in her tiny hands
“please, please, never grow up,”
i whisper
“what grandpa?”
“that was great, mija,
sing it to me again”
FOOTPRINTS
don’t want to get into
why
it felt so bad
that we were poor
why
i wore ugly shoes
and pants
that fit too big,
with holes
that brown duplex
on 12th and K
we lived in,
government housing
for those
woefully without
why
it bothered me
yesterday
when i drove by
saw every building
leveled,
an empty lot
i stopped
took it all in
the air
hauntingly quiet
it’s all gone now
like Mama
and my childhood
nothing’s forever
family gatherings
Mama cooking up a storm
in that small kitchen
the black neighbors
the McMartins,
the Harrises
magnificently poor,
like us
shared tables,
best friends
a variety of music
Trio Los Panchos,
Nat King Cole,
James Brown,
blared
out our windows
the sweet smell
of capirotada and barbecue
wafting, curling
a framed picture
of JFK
next to the Virgin Mary
a lit candle in the middle
Thanksgiving, Christmas,
countless birthdays
that ugly house
filled to the brim
with warm memories
every loving inch
don’t want to get into
why
this empty lot bothers me
why my chest aches
for every last
precious piece
i see Mama at the window
her foodstained apron,
hair in bobbypins
her scarf
wrapped tight around her head
like Aunt Jemimah,
waving goodbye
____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
INVISIBLE
—Charles Mariano
it’s so easy
to not see them,
farmworkers
in the fields
but they’re there
always there
rows and rows
of stick figures
against the sun
bundled, faceless
chopping, picking,
dying
it’s okay,
it’s them, not you
just turn your head
slightly,
drive by
pretend…
they’re not there
__________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Charles Mariano for his fine poetry today! Charlie’s book, Between Here and There: Central Valley Off the 99, is available at https://emiliosoltero.blogspot.com/2021/04/charlie-marianos-new-book-between-here.html/.
INVISIBLE
—Charles Mariano
it’s so easy
to not see them,
farmworkers
in the fields
but they’re there
always there
rows and rows
of stick figures
against the sun
bundled, faceless
chopping, picking,
dying
it’s okay,
it’s them, not you
just turn your head
slightly,
drive by
pretend…
they’re not there
__________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to Charles Mariano for his fine poetry today! Charlie’s book, Between Here and There: Central Valley Off the 99, is available at https://emiliosoltero.blogspot.com/2021/04/charlie-marianos-new-book-between-here.html/.
For upcoming poetry happenings in
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
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Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
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Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
Northern California and otherwheres,
click on
UPCOMING NORCAL EVENTS
(http://medusaskitchen.blogspot.com/p/wtf.html)
in the links at the top of this page—
and keep an eye on this link and on
the daily Kitchen for happenings
that might pop up
—or get changed!—
during the week.
Photos in this column can be enlarged by
clicking on them once, then clicking on the x
in the top right corner to come back to Medusa.
Find previous four-or-so posts by scrolling down
under today; or there's an "Older Posts" button
at the bottom of this column; or find previous poets
by typing the name of the poet or poem
into the little beige box at the top
left-hand side of today’s post; or go to
Medusa’s Rapsheet at the bottom of
the blue column at the right
to find the date you want.
Would you like to be a SnakePal?
All you have to do is send poetry and/or
photos and artwork to
kathykieth@hotmail.com. We post
work from all over the world—including
that which was previously published—
and collaborations are welcome.
Just remember:
the snakes of Medusa are always hungry—
for poetry, of course!
(A cookie from the Kitchen for today)
silent as a cloud,
puma stalks deer
in gathering twilight
silent as a cloud,
puma stalks deer
in gathering twilight
