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Monday, March 18, 2013

18 MAR 13

Habemus Papam ...
The news on TV is of the new pope
and his official investiture at a mass
to be held tomorrow. 
Francis I.
The seventh pope in my lifetime.

Cannot get excited about it.
Just another old man in a white cassock,
who resides in Rome,
and mumbles beatitudes in Latin.


PS: The date is 27 May 13.
This Pope may change my mind about the effectiveness
of his office. He's already reaching out to atheists and
informing them that Heaven may also accept them if they
are truly good people, though they be unbelievers.

Friday, March 15, 2013

15 MAR 13

The Ides ...
The subject is rememberance.

I wrote this on the Tuesday just past ... the 12th:

A death in the family
Not unexpected but coming
Sooner than was thought
Looking out

Through the glass there is rain
Gray skies and rotting piles of snow
A fitting day to take one's leave
Of strife and wear and woe

The death written about was of one Richard Keane,
my son-in-law's father ... claimed by Alzheimer's
... a long and hard road to have walked.
Condolences to his surviving family ...
especially to his widow, Joan.

More ...
Today I came across a facebook page dedicated to
Barbara's niece, Amelia Geocos, who died three years ago.
Passing strange ... it was we two who were first informed of her death.
Apparently, Barbara's name was the first "Geocos" that the hospital found in the directory.
The call came in the very early hours of the morning ...
phone calls at that time are never a good thing.

                                                            Amelia Geocos

From the facebook page ... a poem:

"On Every Street Corner
(For Amelia)

Snow falls on your bicycle,
it must be ready to take off.

Fingernails and flecks
of skin, irises,

Your mix tapes.
Winter wine
and red doves,

So much belly laughter.

Your apartment filled
with the clothes you made-

Hand-sewn crosses
over long, draping dresses,
the blond wig

You wore in Lower East Side
theatres. Your heart-print
on every street corner.

It’s past Christmas now,
empty kitchen table
at your folk’s place.

We took the clothes from your closet
and threw them into bags.

Your name welled inside us-
graffiti lit in red and pink.

In the evening the sun dips
behind the buildings,

You call to me:
I am here, shining-
A sharp stone.

Suddenly cherries
are trinkets of sadness.

Sour drinks
and long nights,

City lights blur
with a blind glow

Perhaps knowing
you sang beneath them.

I see you on the corner
with your latest haircut.

Short again. Sheared close
to your face." 

Poem by Leila Ortiz