Tortilla Mornings

 —Poetry by Charles Mariano, Sacramento, CA
—Public Domain Photos Courtesy of Medusa

 

 

ALL AT ONCE

sometimes
when putting various collections
of words together

i revisit old pages (too many)
heartbreaking last days
with Mama
before she slipped away

painfully private moments
consumed with sadness
sitting alone at a Denny’s
just outside of town,

or in parking lots
away from her, all of it
windows sealed, suffocating tight,

no one hears the loudness
of my tears
falling,
smearing the pages

after her last, exhaled breath
i packed away the sadness
in my heavy notebook,
tried to heal

each year
i’d look through them
trying to decide,
whether to share the words
outside
my sealed windows

“You should put them in a book,”
a friend suggested

“No,” I said, “That’s too much heartache
all at once”

so now, in every book,
i take a page or two,
of Mama
and sprinkle gently, lovingly
everywhere

 

 

 

 

GALLOWS

went over
all the terrible pages
downsized
on this screen

and that other pile
over there,
waiting nervously
in the wings

Last Chance Station
before death, by deletion

one by one
twenty-eight docs, and
at least a dozen
stumbled to the light
to plead their case
“I was grand illusion,
awestruck
by deceptive possibilities…”
one said
“I was born
from the deepest,
darkest depths
of pain and suffering…”
said another

“I was inspired
unexpectedly,
by a wild, dizzying blur
of arms and legs…”
it cried
i surveyed the field
of damaged writing
then,
with steely-eyed glare
raised the blade
and screamed,
“Off With Their Heads!”

 

 

 

 

LATE BLOOMER

all through Merced High School
when it came to cool,
i wasn’t

bad clothes, bad hair,
couldn’t even talk right

about the coolest thing i ever did
was not stare
and keep my mouth shut

did people talk behind my back?
probably
did people feel sorry for me?
no,
i mean yeah, maybe

back then, being cool
meant more than one thing,
and not the temperature

all through high school
i didn’t drink or smoke weed
which was a small miracle
for the times

i mean, the song, “Talkin ‘bout my generation,”
was My generation

so i might’ve been considered square,
or close to it,
definitely clueless

eventually i woke up,
i think

to be cool,
you can’t just say
“I’m cool,”
someone has to say it
like an introduction

“That’s Charlie, he’s cool”
as in, not square

the highest level
of cool
someone could say about me
was,

“That’s Charlie, he’s good people”

which was sort of
a bundled stamp of approval  
good guy, cool, hip, and best of all,
not a narc
 
what i wanted to do at first,
when introduced like that,
was point out
how grammatically incorrect,
the phrase was, and say,

“But I’m not people, I’m just one person”

luckily,
kept my mouth shut

being cool
took practice

 

 

 

 

SCARED STRAIGHT

when very young,
living in a shack
on Cone Avenue
in Merced,
too young,
to know much about
anything,
i remember watching
Creature from the Black Lagoon
on tv
the first time
that movie
scared the pants off me!
then, late night tv
the opening music
to the Twilight Zone
all those weird, twirling shapes,
coming at you,
then Rod Serling’s voice

right there, you knew
things
were about to get
terrifying

his spooky face,
that strange music,
a tinkling, pulsating beat,

scared the pants off me!
or the first time
i saw Veronica Lake
in a movie,
long, glistening hair,
swept to the side,
one eye peeking out
drawing me
closer

i stared at the screen,
frozen

scared the pants off me!  

 

 

 

 

THE LIGHT

been walking
a lot lately
visualizing, imagining
taking notes
standing at crosswalks
lost in thought,
waiting for the green

the light changes,
take two steps
then something hits me
hard
a car, or light-rail

i’m flying
head over heels
then slammed
to the pavement,
headfirst
red, watery shapes,
all talking at once
someone’s looking down
saying something,
shaking their head
it occurs to me
that i’m leaving,
and i’m fine with it,
time to go…
suddenly,
in one last,
desperate heave
i yell,

“Wait! I’m Not Finished!”

 

 

 

 

TORTILLA HEAVEN

there are few things
in life, so tantalizingly
pleasing,
than the aroma
of fresh tortillas
burning on the comal
masa
rolled flat, patted,
stretched perfectly round,
by hand,

of course,
it’s not just the smell
that sends my eyes
rolling backward
in a dreamlike trance,

it’s warm, loving memory
of my youth
in the projects
at 1231 K Street, in Merced

it’s that house, where the aroma
is strongest
the familiar knocking
of Mama,
banging the rolling pin (palote)
back and forth on the table,

a scarf, wrapped around her head
like Aunt Jemima,
the Spanish radio station,
playing in the background

didn’t need an alarm clock,
because i’d be up at the sound
of the palote banging,
eyes closed, i’d float out of bed,
down the hallway to the kitchen,

and find Mama
rolling torts like a machine,
a big stack of hot, fresh ones
for breakfast

the food was always
delicious,
but it’s the tortilla’s
overpowering aroma
that pulled me up
from a warm bed,
impossible to resist

every morning,
i’d stand at the kitchen doorway
begging
for a fresh tortilla

she’d smile
then nod her head

i’d pick one from the stack,
melt a piece of butter in it,
fold the bottom, so it doesn’t leak
devour it,
then get ready for school

those days are long gone now,
like Mama

recently,
while in someone’s home
i caught the familiar smell
of fresh tortillas
burning on a comal,
drove me crazy

almost closed my eyes
and begged, for just one

it was a deep
heartfelt longing,
heavenly senses
from another house,

of sleepy-eyed,
tortilla mornings,
with Mama

____________________

Today’s LittleNip:

The mother’s heart is the child’s schoolroom.

—Henry Ward Beecher

____________________

—Medusa, with welcome back and thanks to Charles Mariano for today’s fine poetry!

 

 

 

 

For future 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
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?
Guidelines are at the top of this page
at the Placating the Gorgon link;
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!