Rosary Vine

Red rash burning on the
Cheek; marked by pain like
A leper, an adulteress, an
Outcast. Walking in the
Shadows, lurking in lament.

Don’t go there. Don’t ferret
Out the splinter, the blackened
Nail, the bitten tongue.

Don’t go there. Don’t discover
The corpse, tenderly resting
In the blushing water. Better
embrace the confusion, the mistruth.

The truth is best buried
in loamy soil beneath
the rosary vine.

Prison

Last night would not end,
Last night does not end,
cicadas crying endlessly,
and the dark sky highway

absolute with venus, mars,
and oblivion.

Beamish is driving, in the
dark, late, tired, traveling.
And my prison walls mounting,
an accusation left unanswered.

Kafka has slipped the courts
deftly, but I am contained;
no court appears, but I am
detained, without opportunity

to defend, to right wrongs.
Each intercourse surrounded
by soaring walls, moons circling,
deaf ears, dumb tongues.

Dawn gentles the dark. But the
accusations loom; then the tumblers
click. The knob twist and the wooden
door inhales. The stars evaporate

daylight blushes.

Trapped in a Bubble on Main Street

I turn into
Roy G. Biv.
shimmering in pink
slippery muscles,
stealing sunlight,
forging jagged spikes
to escape velocity,
hurling shurikens
at my reflection
trapped by Captain Bubblehead.

Choose Happy

I made a decision. I'm going to be happy.

It's not that I haven't been happy. But I think I want to be whistle-sweet-skipping happy. I choose happy. I choose warm, kind, and smart and dancing, laughing, giddy, silly, generous, Chaos is not clarity. Unkindness is not definition.

Civility and consideration, warmth and sweet consideration, soft ice cream, chocolate dipped strawberries, polite interactions with my family and friends, and laughter - lots and lots of laughter, and coffee.

I choose happy. I choose conversation and long forgiving hugs. I choose the lightening between the clouds and no strikes to the grounds, no roars of thunder. I choose heartbeat to heartbeat. I choose a thousand yellow daisies, a sea of daisies.

I choose happy.

My Mother Stopped Sipping

My mother died. Yesterday, today?
Everyday. Every day I cancel the writing
class - the only one I ever cancel -
to go see her. Every day, I get
up early, put on my blue jeans,
white cotton shirt, my flats.

I slip on my miraculous
metal to please her, a
talisman from my childhood.

I rouse Sara, 14 years old, and
say, "Dylan has had breakfast.
Watch him. I am going to visit
Grammie."

"Why," she stretches, a butterfly
escaping the cocoon. "Will she
know the difference?"

"She'll know." I turn on the
bedroom light, lacking kindness.
"Get up."

Long grey pavement turns to
coal black asphalt as the sun
rises and tall trees cathedral
the avenue.

Five miles away, I stop for a coffee,
no cream, no sugar,
I am doing penance.

Every day, black, no cream,
no sugar.

She is dying. She dies. I am
sipping piping hot Kona coffee
and turning the keys in the
ignition and my mother
stopped sipping.

My mother is dying,
yesterday, today.

Here is my best gift . . .

Silence, quiet, the long
absence, the end
of the echo.

Here is the hollow,
the carved out portion,
chambers emptied.

Buried in the muddy
bottom, stilled, calmed,
sounding no more.

Dear Eleanor

Dear Eleanor Rigby,

I understand completely. Truly, I do. However, I might have told you that waiting at the window is not nearly as lonely as sharing a table with no one who cares. You are a well read individual and so no doubt familiar with the quote “How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is / To have a thankless child! Away, away!”

King Lear cries this out to the heavens having just cursed his daughter. The irony in my own life is that I have for a very long time thought of myself as Cordelia; unable to utter my feelings “heave my heart into my mouth.”

I have never cursed my children and, in this case, am not even thinking of my daughter but rather my son. Yet, I long for just a bit of conversation over the meal that I have bought and cooked. Though I’ve no kingdom to divide amongst my progeny. The best they can hope is that I don’t end up a medical burden wanting their attention or a public embarrassment. I can’t guarantee them that either outcome is unlikely.

Eleanor, perhaps had we met earlier, we might have gone to walk through the museum together or to dance with the salsa dancers. We might have learned calligraphy or to tie knots. Perhaps we would have played "Old Mary Mack Mack Mack, All dressed in black, black, black." Instead, it seems we sit in our little spaces, seeing a bit of one another’s lives online. You are better gone.

Tonight I will post a line about you on my Facebook page. Most likely, I will hear from a few recent people who hardly know me, people who don’t know enough to know, well-meaning people who care but would not miss work if I died as you did Eleanor.

Eleanor, go back and do it over. You are but an imaginary being; if you live in a dream then make the dream as wild or whimsical as you desire. Do not stand at the window and look for his car or wait for a call. Get rid of all the things that will bury you. Dissolve them. Things mean nothing. And it seems people mean just a slight bit more. So perhaps you should let go of them as well. Leave your flat and move to the states; perhaps to a ranch in the southwest. Offer to walk and brush the horses for a bed and meals. Find a small child in need of a guardian in exchange for room and board. But do not stand still – do not turn into Lot’s wife; do not stand at the window, watching and waiting. Do not wait. Stop smiling politely. Stop asking questions about other people’s lives.

Live selfishly. Do marvelous things. Make art. Shut the door. Shut out the other voices and listen to your own. Paint everything with your favorite color. What is your favorite color, Eleanor? Plum – figgy brown – sage green – mercury silver? Paint the toaster and the door frame; move on and paint your desk, the kitchen cabinets; mark it all. Play your favorite song as many times as you like. Play it loudly; sing it to wake the dead.

Trust me, Eleanor. This is your only hope – to live as if you were the center of the universe. Otherwise you will expire as you did, at the hands of the vampires, the longing and wanting for things you cannot fulfill, cannot give enough or be enough. Turn on the lights, open the windows, and stay up all night singing and dancing. Choose you.

Don’t worry too much. No one will notice very much anyway.

Sincerely,

A friend

Take a Writing Course with Mary this summer - C'mon

Have you missed our time creating new works? Do you enjoy the company of other writers? Then come join me for one or both of the following summer treats.

WRG-313-301 Creative Journaling 6/15 - 6/29 Tuesday 6:30-9:00 PM
This is not a class to teach how to make homemade journals or to document your vacation. This is a writing class that uses journal activities to awaken the creative spark, to mine the depth of an undeveloped idea. The journal becomes a unique treasure chest of material. Surprise yourself. This class focuses on the artistic process and resources include Walking on Alligators and The Artists Way and several Anne LaMott exercises (plus some unique ideas of my own - challenge your creativity).

WRT 312-301 How to Write/Sell Short Stories 7/13-7/29 Tuesday and Thursday 6:30-9:00 PM
The short story market is one of the expanding markets in publishing. Digestible media (given the sparse time that consumers have available after work and family demands) that can be enjoyed is increasing in demand. Short story construction is sparse, tight, with close attention to meaningful details. Come write and polish a short story and get it into the marketplace in just three weeks.

Visit AACC to register.

Reading Tonight: b.b. bistro, Annapolis 6:30 PM

Come hear "Just Mary", and others, orate their writing prose. Then join Mary with a "Prosst" at Heroes, thereafter.

EVENT: Poetry reading followed by drinks at Heroes
Friday May 14th at B.B. Bistro, 110 Annapolis Street
6:30pm, Six meat-eating featured poets, listed below in height order:

Barbara DeCesare, who is her own worst enemy (which makes the restraining order very difficult to abide by)
Deanna Nikaido (who doesn't really eat meat)
Mary Bargteil (Just Mary)
Rebecca Gonzalez
Mike Snider
and
Hiram Larew

with special musical guest Naked Blue!

Each Friday in May, a different Annapolis coffeeshop will be hosting a free poetry event, with six featured readers, open mic, some music, surprise mystery guests and potentially naked Albanian jugglers, but we’re still working the green card issues.
Join Cliff, Rocky, open mic readers and a penetralia of past featured poets for THE CORNER OF POETRY AND MAIN , a celebration of five years of bringing the region’s best poets together with the Crabopolis community. Come and enjoy a brand of entertainment that is honest, unique, semi-spontaneous, and, at times, just plain weird (in a good way). Featured readers and open mic participants (that’s you!) will be recorded, and a compilation cd is in the offing.

Poet bios:

Just Mary is published in poetry, short story, and novella. Mary Lorraine Bargteil is troubled by her name, artifacts, and alignment. Frequently inconsistent, her creative efforts have resulted in publication in poetry, short story, novella, and essay. One of her creative objectives is to make books from existing materials and to excavate territories and characters where the artifacts are sketchy at best. Her most recent poetry collection, “Artifacts” was discovered when she was reading the unsubstantiated account of Lilith and broke her grandfather's Baltimore and Ohio railroad official china egg cup. She finds significance in things that are broken.

Mike Snider has written mostly rhyming, metrical poetry for 41 years and played music for 39 if you don't count those disastrous piano lessons at the age of 12, but only remembers one song of the three he wrote in all that time. Fortunately, he gets to perform the aptly named "Solitaire" with the eclectic folk-fusion band Fractal Folk. He blogs at Mike Snider's Formal Blog. Google knows the band and the blog.

Like so many poets, Hiram Larew is in love with all that isn't said. It's what's implied, sensed or downright absent that sticks around, haunts and teases. Leaping from place to place is good, too. So, of course, his favorite poet is Chopin and his favorite songster is Gerard Manley Hopkins with Dylan Thomas as fine backup. Larew is real short and squat. If you want to know any more about him, try yawning.

George Zinnemann - RIP

My sweet, wonderful George died. The only man I've ever loved who loved me and asked for nothing. I am utterly sad - bereft. It does not matter how old he was. It does not matter how it happened. All that matters is that he is gone - irretrievable y gone. And my folly is ever so apparent now - I judge myself. I do not fare well. But few of us would.

George, with his thin mustache, smiling lips, high cheekbones, and white hair; penetrating blue eyes that could accuse, condone, condemn, or wrinkle with humor. I never felt as if I had his full attention; as if some other occupation was occurring simultaneously; as if he were writing as we were talking, astutely observing and gathering material; discerning meaning and nuance; and never really putting all that much importance into it - at least on the surface of it.

George had an engaging writing style. On the surface, he may be speaking of the superstitions of Friday, the 13th, but the underbelly was the story was always deeper -- more true.

On the occasion of having spent a decade with my friends at Ginger Cove, sharing stories, memoirs, poetry, and laughter, George organized a surprise celebration. I was embarrassed because with every writing session at Ginger Cove, I learn more than I can teach. Experience is a demanding school and the lessons linger. George's lesson will last me a lifetime. George, I raise my glass to you.

Packing

Some days it is all I can do --
to not pack a bag and start walking away.

Today is particularly difficult. The squirrels are winning again. I am not filling the bird feeder again just so those manic squirrels can scramble over the eaves, gymnasts leaping, double backflip dismounts, shaking loose the seeds into the mounds of snow that now resemble heaps of mashed potatoes pocked with black peppercorns.

The tufted titmouse swoops in to the opposite side, makes a mad grab and wings away with a small purchase while the fat gray squirrel lounges on the opposite site gorging on the seeds; seeds treated with cayenne to discourage squirrels. These must be bandito squirrels with an appetite for southwest cuisine.

Nothing dissuades the squirrels. For weeks, Sally and I have kept a watch of sorts. Particularly during the heavy snows; standing our watch at the sliding glass door; watching the great gray maneuver the woods, take the porch railing, race toward the birdfeeder. I slide open the door and Sally races across the deck, chasing the squirrel back. But Sally is a poor sentry. When I am not watching, she does not whimper or even twitch her ears to alert me. She watches resigned behind the glass. And when she races out, she rarely barks so the squirrels leave the deck but the retreat is half-hearted. I see them stop halfway up the slope from the house; scamper up a tree, sit on a branch and twitter their tales at Sally. Now there is a troika of squirrels. It is futile. I cannot be a woman who stands at the sliding door all day protecting the seeds for the tufted titmouse, the cardinal and his lady, the doves that feed on the fallen seed, the black capped birds, the wrens.

I am no catcher in the rye. I can barely catch myself; barely keep myself from fleeing for sweeter ground. The seemingly fragile feathered beauties thrived here long before I feed them. Even the robins came back too soon this year, but they survived the heavy snows. Already the earth has warmed and they gather on the slope behind my house and feast. I am inconsequential.

Cardinals

A bird feeder hangs off my deck now. Now I have a new responsibility. The birds have found the feeder and will have an expectation. If I deny them in winter, one or more may not find enough food under the snow, in the cold.

I've been watching them arrive, swoping in and taking off, taking turns. Then one late afternoon, the cardinals arrived.

I had received a poem (not directly - strange how at times a message arrives via a messenger and not directly). All the elements seem to come together in a cosmic sense - although if one is going to hang a bird feeder and one also gets a poem about birds, the reach is not so far.

Cardinals by John L. Stanizzi

I had seen them in the tree,
and heard they mate for life,
so I hung a bird feeder
and waited.
By the third day,
sparrows and purple finches
hovered and jockeyed
like a swarm of bees
fighting over one flower.
So I hung another feeder,
but the squabbling continued
and the seed spilled
like a shower
of tiny meteors
onto the ground
where starlings
had congregated,
and blue jays,
annoyed at the world,
disrupted everyone
except the mourning doves,
who ambled around
like plump old women
poking for the firmest
head of lettuce.

Then early one evening
they came,
the only ones—
she stood
on the periphery
of the small galaxy of seed;
he hopped
among the nuggets,
calmly chose
one seed at a time,
carried it to her,
placed it in her beak;
she, head tilted,
accepted it.
Then they fluffed,
hopped together,
did it all over again.

And filled with love,
I phoned to tell you,
over and over,
about each time
he celebrated
being there,
all alone,
with her.

Beautiful sentiment. Cardinals mating for life. But most cardinal life expectancy is only a year, so one turn through the four season - one walk in the spring rain, one moment of daffodils, one hot summer at the beach, one rush of fall crisp air and brilliant leaves, one first winter snowfall and snuggling by the crackling fire, and then spring again and with the crocuses - new love.

But the poem is not merely about whether or not cardinals may mate for life; it is about the sharing of the moment. The sharing of the seeds between the birds and the desire to share the sharing with one who would understand - that it matters. The other element that strikes me is the repetition, "over and over."

Can I trust you?

I have a little trust - a snug few to whom I would give a key to my home, a diary to hold in trust, a secret. There are not too many. Few as five, I think.

That makes for a small gate; a narrow space. I wish for less caution, more faith. I have partitioned out sectors of trust. When posed with the question, "Do you trust me?" I always countered, "With what?"

Trust you to pick up the dry cleaning?
Trust you to not embarrass me in front of my friends?
Trust you to give me credit for my work on the proposal?
Trust you to lift me out of the road if I am injured?
Trust , , ,
I make a fool of myself and you keep the story to yourself?
that you will challenge me to not give up?
for forgiveness and acceptance?
that if I hold out my heart, you will not drop it?

Can you trust me?
With what?
You can trust that if I promise something, I will do it.
You can trust that if I tell you something is absolutely true, it is.
But I don't promise lightly and the "truth" is so malleable given the light in this universe.

My Christmas wish this year is to develop an ability to trust and to extend my ability to be trustworthy. What size stocking do you suppose I need for that?

Chinese eloquence

You live at the beginning of the Yangtze River,

I live at the end of the Yangtze River.

I miss you every day, as I cannot see you.

We both drink this water.

When will this water evaporate?

When will this sorrow end?

I hope that your heart is the same as mine

So that we won't lessen this ache of missing each other.

attributed to the Chinese Poet LuPo

Life with Children

Here is what I know about divorce, about children, about life with children. Whatever age.

You show up. That is sometimes 90% of the equation. Showing up may not seem so important - until that moment - when you survey the room seeking the one, the one support, the bit of witness to your life that means you lived. That your life had meaning because those eyes were present, embracing, recording.

You were there. You witnessed or offered a ride, a peppermint, a hug, a nod, a knowing eye, a band-aid in your purse, a credit card - a different route out of town, a simple piece of tape. Because you were present, you were available to offer assistance - sometimes it is a towel, a hair clip, a quarter for the phone, an absolute nod across the pool that says you can win this one, an extra sweater/jacket you brought to wrap them, late nights on the couch with ear pain and a warm compress, hours of listening to lyrics and it all means so much to you and to them - that your hearts are a rainbow or a dark star. But you own them together.

BUT IF you are not there - in the difficult place -because it will be difficult -
the acerbic response - the dropped welcome of disdain - the limp handshake of disregard - I know them well. This is the geography of divorce - but not of children. That is not their geography.

My daughter remembers that I was there - that she smiled - that we hugged - despite the broken sugar bowl, despite the cluster of longings. Today, we know that I would never desert her. Not because I stayed with her father who was brutal, but because, despite the hostility. despite the humiliation, I would post - I would stand and witness and be available - the rest was water on the back of a duck - but that scant moment when she looked at me and we understood one another are testimony - stronger than any scripture.

My son and his father took a different path - we were stronger and more inclined to see the child first. We held Dylan - regardless of our loss or anger or disappointment with one another - so he is the luckiest of the lucky. Embraced. Dylan was embraced by us both and his siblings. So we all held on to this place so much that even in this place of "disaffection" - there is always affection.

I remember my arms around the necks of each of my children - Adam, Sara, Tara, and Dylan. I reached each one into the air. I have been privileged to share childhood with them - born anew. And together we learned so much.

Those moments will be among those when I am dying. I showed up. And I witnessed. And I did not lie to them. I won't lie to them. They can count on that. Steady and true. That is all I have. When I can offer.

Shakespeare in the Park

Mimes are the only truth I understand anymore - where actions speak.

Overcast skies and a tousle of raindrops were welcome for our outing to the Maryland Renaissance Festival on Saturday. Every year, it seems more people are in costume. My first visit was when my daughter, Sara, was only 4 years old. The Renn Fest was a novelty then and many thought it a strange way to spend a day.

Sara, my son, Dylan, Dylan's friend Jessica, and Ken (ex-husband) set off to see Shakespeare Scum, the glassblower, to eat food "on a stick", to shop for Renaissance wear, to see other shows and to people watch.

We started at Ken's house, where he cooked breakfast and presented Sara with her birthday present - Sara, the crafty, is thrilled to have such a wonderful sewing machine.



The glassblower put me in mind to write a story titled, "The Glassblower's Lover." She's a leather maker and sews his leather shorts. He brings her flowers in the vase he made the same color as her eyes.



Ken generously found proper crowns for Sara and me. The last time I had a flower head dresses from the Renn Fest, I had not yet seen 30. I kept it on through the evening.



Sara got her henna tattoo. I was tempted by the tree of life or the Chinese symbol for lucky, but resisted tagging my body, even temporarily. Sara has such lovely hands and her artist was very skilled.


And this lady has her baby in waiting tattooed. She shimmered.





Shakespeare Scum did not disappoint with the bloody drama, Othello, a tightly constructed domestic drama about a blond innocent wife and a husband misguided into suspicion and jealousy by those who pose as his friends.
"Trifles light as air
Are to the jealous confirmations strong
As proofs of holy writ."
Othello, 3. 3

I was offered a stellar assortment of knights to remember. But, though I may blush to admit it, although the courage and honor of these knights be evident, I rejected them all for this shimmering prospect - this awesome display of charm, refinement, and resources as befitting to a woman of my needs.

Then we head off to dinner at the Melting Pot. I had never dined there, so it was a unique experience for me. However, Dylan is a pro and is comfortable in the steam fog of the pots.

Ken and I did love once upon a time, and in this time we still regard all the gifts that union presented with gratitude - and mutual respect and kindness toward one another. What is more remarkable - that a divorced couple could spend happy time together with their family or that traditions from the 1500-1700 would be so popular? What will be the entertainment venue for those in 2500? 3000?

It is the very error of the moon;
She comes more nearer earth than she was wont,
And makes men mad.
Othello, 5. 2

Elsewhere

Your bed has been left undressed
for long enough, the undergarment
exposed, slipping off the shoulder.
elastic clustering up white cotton.

When younger, I troubled that you
would be snatched away; unforeseeable
tragedy everywhere. An empty tricycle
at the curb; foot prints racing into
the surf; a school bus driver with
heroin riddled arms; troubled I
would lose you from neglect.

All the while, loosing was taking
hold; learning karate kicks, mud
encrusted bike and you flying over
the handlebars; "Mad Dog" on the
soccer field, red lacrosse cleats and

fearless encounters. No need for
bedtime stories, hugs, talismans.
All the while, loosening; all the while
your liquid movements were scrattering
mercury; all the while tendons cabled
and untethered the stanchions.

I dressed your bed today, secured the
elastic, butter soft sheets, fleece
for winter chill. I vacuumed the
carpet, dusted the chess set, and
looked out the window. When I walk by
the door, I imagine both of us elsewhere.

Age and Arrogance

All these years, I believed that I was turning into my mother; age spot by age spot, hair a bit thinner, waist a bit wider, even the delicate drop of the fragile flesh along the of jowl line. Then last weekend at the annual family reunion at the Field and Stream Club, I saw my father's sisters and saw my future - at least a portion of the portrait.

Years ago, in my arrogance of indestructible youth, I felt elevated, superior, to see their hair graying, the skin growing delicate as tissue, their female shapes losing their waistlines. In my heart of darkness, I chortled with glee to see the four sisters deposited in the rocking chairs on the porch of the clubhouse while in what I thought to be my superior youth, I ventured down the slope to explore the river, to run with the children, to demonstrate my superior vitality, strength, and spirit.

I berated their outdated fashion; the hairstyle that had not been updated since 1950, the sensible shoes, the fabric that stretches. Their stories were too long, mundane, and too long ago for me to bother. Not to mention my father who carries on and on and on and on -- fathering seven children, going from modest Riveria Beach rancher to Taneytown farm, battling his demons and his disease and not succumbing.

Superior vitality, strength and spirit; I've had role models in my life. I thought I only had my mother and she is still the pinnacle as far as I am concerned. But it is easy to be strong and superior in youth and even in mid-life; the descent of the slope requires the firmest of conviction, Herculean tenacity, and an ego like silly putty that contracts and expands with the every day surprise in the mirror.

"Lost love is still love."

We still feel it. It does not stop.

That moment when your heart floods, swells. It matters not that the beloved is no longer in your aspect or that the beloved has been lost to you. Your heart swells with utter conviction, rounding and full as the day you fell.

So his hand does not brush the hair back from your brow or cup your chin; so she does not place her cool hand on the back of your neck or frame your chin with her soft palms; the loud laughter in an empty living room as if someone else was there - she is there/he is there; in the morning in the crook of your neck, in the small of your back, the space waits. The beloved voice, "You can do this," "Everything the same," "Don't worry," and "I love you. I love you. I love you."

Lost love is still love - still - ever - always.

Careful

Be careful what . . .

If only she were dying
so life would glitter,
so minutia would drift
away with no remorse.

Love would sing in
her veins, without restraint.
She would gather all the
flowers, save one. She
would spill her affection

tenacious as daffodil fronds.
If only the end of her life
slid by in her rear view
mirror, if only this breath

was most treasured. On her
table; lip gloss, nail clipper, text
books, calendar, the Gunniwolf, spent
Beanpod candle.

Missing; your lips,
tender words.

Also a FinePix camera, two
check books, three memory sticks, one
unicorn bookmark, Virgil Cain’s
card, Contemporary American Poets,
Energizer 9 volt.

Better buried. There are things to
ignore. Quiet days. Endless night.
The pink tabs on the pages
of The Little Prince, a bruise that
quickens; dark shadows

under the eye, cornsilk discharge from
her breast, a lost lens cap. We know. We
know before knowing what we
know. Love and loss. Known.