The Muse Assembles
A collection of poetry
by Patricia Gomes
Flight of Fancy
A cacophony of birds summon me
from slumber on the treeless, concrete street
of my ago.
Pigeons ad nauseum, winged rodents
of the heavens.
Weightless sparrows, snacks for
Fluffy and Bootsy and
cats without names that live
behind the Polish market up the street.
The man there, throws them scraps
of bologna going a mite
green around the edges.
Beggars can't be choosers they say.
He, in turn, rewarded
with live-in exterminators…
and fleas.
The arrival of gulls is heralded
by fierce and piercing screeches.
They dine at the end of the block
behind the copper mill that pumps
it's metal-smelling wastes into the tiny
river behind it.
The one that feeds into the Atlantic.
They dine on tiny soft-shell clams
and sea worms and chunks of hard bread
thrown to them from the lunch pails
of the mill workers. The men like
to see the gulls hover, as if
held up by unseen hands.
Urban birds these, no branches on
which to perch; telephone wires
and clotheslines that can never bloom
provide impotent limbs.
And nests are built in gutters and
under eaves.
Ma trims my hair and we throw the
clippings out the
narrow, curtainless window
in the back hall, to the
hard-packed square of dirt three
floors below that we call a yard
so the birds can take it
to line their nests.
Waste not; want not.
There is another dusty square
just like ours to my left and
to my right and
to my left again and
it just keeps repeating until I
am dizzy. How does Ma keep from
falling out when she hangs the clothes?
The pigeons speckle the sidewalk
with their droppings and babies
shoved from the nest. The landlord
sends two men down every spring
to shovel it off. They curse his
name in low tones.
I walk by, stopping to retrieve
a hatchling from the pile,
unmindful of it's demise.
I walk five blocks before I find
a tree.
Five, unshaded blocks
that the heat will rise from
and hover, shimmering
in August noon.
I place my scrawny-necked treasure
down gently at the
foot of this big, old tree
and cover it with a damp sheet
of newspaper. To keep the cats at bay.
© P. Gomes 2001
"The Calm Before…"
Rolling, thick fog
coils, blankets the sand,
dampens sound,
stills the breeze.
The air congeals above this
shroud 'til only low-tide smells
remain:
seaweed and clams,
fishy and vile.
My tongs are not
visible to me,
but I'll bet they are to the crabs
that pinch,
scurrying sideways home
before the storm.
And so, I climb the high dune
above the mist,
grabbing at
l
o
n
g
and
s
k
i
n
n
y
patches of sharp grass sprouting
piecemeal
for leverage.
Across the sea
the other side of the bay has
vanished
behind this mist and I don't mind one bit.
Encased and covered by this vapor,
the world belongs only to me.
© P. Gomes 2001
Mariners Myth
Atlantis gold,
gathered in scallop-shell baskets
by giggling mermaids
with green, flowing tresses
is adorned
with Neptune's silhouette;
a gift from the Gods.
Atlantis pearls,
bounced from snout-to-snout
of young, mischievous dolphins
slippery from the sea,
catch the rays of the sun
and the eye of a gull that swoops
returning them to Olympus.
Atlantis treasures,
long buried, are dropped
at the feet of the Goddess Tethys,
she, who parented the seas with Oceanus,
tosses them back to her mermaid daughters,
her dolphin sons, and the games continue
in their Atlantisian playground.
© P. Gomes 2001
An April Morning (For Katherine)
She makes toast on top of the stove,
no electric gadgets for her.
The bread is warm and soft
as it must be,
easy on what few teeth remain.
She will dip this breakfast
in her tea. The cup she holds has
a permanent brown ring half an
inch below the rim. It has been
"her cup" for twenty years.
Her daughter, Frances, bought it special
on the only vacation
Fran had ever taken.
The cup says "Bermuda"
splashed in wide red strokes on both sides.
Frances passed on four years ago.
Through the window
she can see the forsythia
in full flower, glow with their own light.
Aged bushes, thick and showy
form a barrier, providing
shelter with dense yellow lushness.
Her son, Edward planted these as
a birthday gift. A day long past.
Edward died, far from home.
Alone in a 1 BDR, furnished, heat
included APT, isolated
from the demons that spoke
only to him. Soulless; solace
at last - in Thorazine.
"My name is Katherine,"
she says aloud. To no one, just
to hear the sound of it.
"I was called Mother, once"
She tells a robin, perched
upon the weathered sill.
Of Sondra, not a thing remains,
save the children.
Three were born,
three were left, the youngest
in infancy to be nestled beneath
a surrogate bosom.
Yearly visits they sit
with hands in their laps -
strangers by blood come
bearing useless gifts
that will stay forever
in their pretty boxes.
She has a recollection. A glimpse of
a dimpled-cheek,
the tinkle of a little girl's laughter.
Dependant upon an
unreliable memory.
"Sondra had her father's green eyes."
The robin tilts his head.
Then flies away.
Once a month the town sends
a traveling nurse
to check her vitals.
Pronouncing a clean Bill of Health,
she pats the wrinkled hand.
"You'll bury us all, Mrs. Spin."
Katherine longs to tell this one
that "Mrs. Spin" passed on -
and left
this hollow core.
Edward,
Frances,
Sondra.
Edward,
Frances,
Sondra.
She chants their names, creating a mantra.
A single tear splashes
unnoticed into the cup
as she brushes the crumbs off the table.
© P. Gomes 2001
1/9th = Mendacity
Euterpe whispers in the dark.
"Come write for me."
I hear her chant,
cover my ears to shut her out.
Liar, this muse!
I'll not allow this sister to disturb
my slumber for folly.
Yea, I know this trickery well.
She implores me to boot-up the Compaq
and call forth reams of nothingness,
unsuitable for publishing.
Euterpe giggles whilst I stare
at the blinking cursor,
withholding all blessings. She teases and pesters.
Obedient slave, I work the keyboard
under her watchful, mocking eye.
Euterpe perches atop the monitor,
swaying to phantom tunes.
I yearn to swat her, dash her to the floor…
I don't.
I can't!
Like the gambler, I place my chips on a fairy tale,
hoping this time to get lucky.
© P. Gomes 2001
TANKAS
For the Eye
Ocean waves in gray
roll over the backs of gulls
perching on the sand.
Ruffled drab feathers reflect
colors of sky and water.
© P. Gomes 2001
For the Nose
Spring has come at
last;
new grass growing overnight
Lilacs burst forward
rewarding us with perfume.
Soft pastels paint the landscape.
© P. Gomes 2001
Star Gazer
Give me the Night
with its promise of release.
Cat-stretch
under indigo sky.
Steadfast Orion,
awaits in silence
the arching of my back,
knowing
that when it happens
Virgo will turn her head,
pretend not to hear my small gasp.
Give me the dark
to paint on blank canvas
fantasies best hidden
from Dawn's prying gaze
and the constraints of the Sun.
Berenice gave her hair
to the heavens, while I
offer nothing,
yet take
what I choose.
© P. Gomes 2001
Configurations in Real Time
Rumor has it the pot is bottomless.
Dented and dinged, the huge iron pot
bubbles all day on the very back burner.
Steam erupts in a thick, white cloud
when the lid is lifted;
it hits the ceiling and spreads outward,
bringing whiffs of garlic,
onion and tomato.
The family gathers in dribs and drabs,
Fran first, then Eddie and his kids.
Each new arrival instigates
the raising of the lid,
to sniff, to taste, to stir.
Add another cup of water
to stretch it in case someone brings
a new step-child or an old friend.
Here comes Oncle Marcel,
pigeon feathers stuck in his cap.
Aesthetic improvement over
the aluminum foil headband, yet
still repels the ultra-high frequency
from alien's lasers -
or, so I am told.
Later, I'll walk with him,
hold on to his arm,
listen to his manifest while
prospecting for "good" stones.
We'll place them in a circle
by the front door -
the correct arrangement will keep
hurricanes at bay -
or, so he tells me.
We ladle our soup? stew? into
Memere's chipped bowls,
tiny cracks weave through their
apple blossom pattern.
The chicken is merely slivers now, and
we will dip hunks of crusty bread baked fresh
by Simone, the over-zealous
wife of cousin Peter. She works
so hard at pleasing us.
We will talk. All at once. And laugh…
when the wine goes to Eddie's head.
We'll cluck "pourve enfant" at the little one,
who got socked by a bigger one.
Oncle will burp, or fart sending the kids
into hysterics, earning him
a vile look from his sister, Rita,
and adoration from the nephews.
We gather here. We talk,
we live, love, laugh, divorce,
remarry…and some
will pass away. Not an empty
chair, even then,
for we hold them close still,
in this, Our Home.
© Patricia Gomes 2001
Listing of Poems
An April Morning (For Katherine)
