New Poems to keep ya involved

It has been quite a while since I have posted anything new. There is a reason for this, and I expect in a few weeks to be writing more about Hypertension and my medicalized life.

But in the meantime, just to be active (or something!) here is some of the latest poetry I've been working on. Warning: some of it's kinda grim. But, to be positive, writing it sure helped ME feel better! Hope I haven't gone Weldon Kees on ya!!

He wanted a taste

He stood outside

on a very cold day

steamy breath

smoking air

searched for cigarette butts

in the building entrance ashtray

parka several times patched

eyes hopeful for treasure

he picked out the good butts

checked each carefully

put it in a bag if it measured up

cancer sticks we call them

searching through garbage for poison

until he found enough

the taste of the life

mostly smoked cancer sticks

back in his room

hearing the shared toilet flush

he placed a plastic bag over his head

the one he put the butts in

one by one he lit them

enjoyed the taste, a taste

the bag held in

better to enjoy, a last puff

then he put the butt down

grasped the plastic tight around his neck

and waited for life to finally be done

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

See me no more

As his mom wakes her eyes brighten

she sees him now

standing by her nursing home bed

she is so happy to see him

he does not want to see her

he wishes she was still asleep

she loves him, he loves her

love makes it worse

when he sees her blank eyes

or when he sees she knows

what she has lost

fleeting memories of what she had been

he answers her same questions

works at chatting

pushes her wheelchair

hoping it will soon be over

wishing it was him instead

knowing it will be

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Why are we alone

ever struggled

wondered how

your friends

become smoke

vanishing

burning fire

drives smoke away

ever fought the good fight

you v. the world

principle v. reality

the loneliness

cripples your heart

friends avoid you

you deny them

why desert you

in your need

they do not want your pain

they can not help anyway

and when you feel better

you will come around

friends exist to betray you

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Bob Solves Living in Fear

Bob lived in fear

fear of home invasions

fear of muggers

no violence in his life

but tv was full of it

Bob bought a gun

Bob watched the news

the Virginia Tech Massacre

shootings everywhere

his outside was sunny

his tv darkness was spreading

Bob looked at the gun

Bob was afraid most at work

fear of clients

meeting the public

he was paid to serve

nothing ever happened but

Bob loaded the gun

Bob held the gun

shiny heavy black metal

everyone wanted him afraid

everyone on tv

Bob pointed the gun

Bob shot the tv

Victor Schwartzman

Victors@mts.net

Love: boon or pain in the ass?

we love rules as much as fences

love has two basic rules:

your partner is always right

forgive your partner’s mistakes

people have died trying to figure it out

love is

waiting for your partner to be ready

though your partner rushed you

phoning mom

when she can‘t remember how to answer the phone

love is thinking of the other person first

when the other person doesn’t remember you

love is putting your needs on the back burner

while you’re in the deep fat fryer

love is understanding
what can’t

or won’t

be done for you

love: boon or pain in the ass

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Forgetting what is important

Every day he phones

mom in the nursing home

10 am - 10:30 am

most days she forgets

did he call yesterday?

really?

why, he hasn’t called in a week

she tells cousins to phone him

asking if something is wrong

he phones every day

because he loves her

wants to hear her voice

feels guilty he doesn’t see her enough

and she forgets

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Two poems related by email

Subject line not enough for this email

I have to enter a body

before I am allowed

to send an email

a subject line is not enough

I have to enter a body

but entering a body

is not to be taken lightly

whose body do I have to enter

is it the body of an internet employee

does she or he get a bonus

the things you do for work

now I have performance anxiety

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Email to Cousin Lew

Hey Lew, thanks for the jokes

funny!

all the same up here, pretty much

mom probably had more t.i.a.s

mini strokes, they call them

she was not answering questions yesterday

staring into I don’t know what

her own world, her new world

dropped by her place today

just to see again, to know

she was not surprised when

I walked into her nursing home room

though I said nothing about coming

it was like, oh you’re here, that’s nice

she's very quiet

never reads, doesn’t even watch much tv

sleeps a lot

could be worse

she's still here

not in any pain

sigh

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Several Poems

Wondering what I've been up to? Here are some poems. There will be more Hypertension stuff coming up soon!

Life Partners

1.

I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting

the worker was a pain in the ass

we bend over backwards to help him

all he does is file grievances

three more years to retirement

it’s like leaves falling in autumn

I waste a lot of time raking up

what he leaves on me

I wasn’t looking forward to the meeting

the manager is a pain in the ass

I’ve bent over backwards to avoid problems

all he does is ignore me

I dream of freedom

It’s like showers falling in spring

I waste a lot of time mopping up

what he showers on me

2.

Lived with that woman thirty years

every hour of which she had a job for me

she never talks until I start something

always having to get her way

always having to be right

she’s not like me

me, why I’m Mr. Easy

I love her if this is what love is

Lived with that man thirty years

he sat on the couch most of them

always waiting for me to talk

without me he’d have nothing to do

there’s a right way to do things

he’s not like me

me, why I’m Ms. Easy

I love him, if this is what love is

3.

My parents started driving me crazy

and never stopped

nineteen years until I moved

nothing ever good enough

I know they love me and all but

all I heard was the crap

they never left me alone

with their purse or wallet

Our daughter started driving us crazy

when Fran was pregnant with her, actually

she’s moved out twice, both times painful

her boyfriend has his hands full

that’s what she needs to mature

we know she loves us and remembers

all the good times we gave her

(and, we have always been careful with money)

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

The Meaning of Life

In the beginning

the plot of dirt

was under an ocean

the ocean dried

dinosaurs left their footprints

people walked into those steps

a hut was built

then a city

a house rose on the dirt

the woman born in the house

loved her back yard garden

nurtured the flowers

until she could no longer

lift the watering can

she left the dirt. The new owner

built a large sandbox in the back yard

each morning with a rake

he sculpted a design in the sand

some designs looked like flowers

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

The Mind of an 16 year old

The mind of an 16 year old

can I remember

that far back

when there were

more dreams than realities

more goals than results

the world was about me

it was better that way

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Hey pal, the bar is closing

Hey pal, does this sound familiar

work all day, eat and

sleep the rest away

with hobbies and cleaning

but mostly working

support my children

support my stuff

I use up my time

all to help the hive

we come and leave

I’ll be remembered or forgotten

matters not a snowflake

Hey pal, the bar is closing

I heard the last call

this final drink burns

been good talking with you

it’s dark outside but I’m not afraid

the air I breathe is killing me

why worry about people or accidents

about what I was born into

about what I helped create

can’t do nothing about anything

sometimes I dream

of driving and never looking back

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Three Views of an Alcoholic

I don’t drink that much

I’m okay if I don’t start before noon

otherwise the day is gone

sometimes I slur words

I feel normal until I stand

then the world spins

there is so much I could do

I don’t want to do any of it

Our son is a drunk

where did we go wrong

he was always a happy child

seemed on track through school

but then he dropped out

drifting through life

eyes always bloodshot

we failed him

Dad’s pissed most of the time

I tried talking, yelling, crying

but when he looked at me

he only saw a roadblock

between him and the bottle

he doesn’t fool me with the Visine or mouthwash

I need my father, where is he?

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Poem: Lying To Your Grandmother

Lying To Your Grandmother

(1)

honey I’m back

get me a beer

it’s left me a wreck

get the kids in here

children today my mom

your dear grandmother

was moved from her home

by me and my brother

and put in a…facility

sorry for tears, it ain’t easy

what I did wasn’t me

it was this guy who was sleazy

to make her happy I lied

you’ll leave two months, maybe three

mom sat and she cried

when I’m old don’t lie to me

(2)

The bed is hard

my room mate snores

the food is lard

the nurses whores

I knew it was in the works

when they came that morning

their eyes low, like jerks

moving me with no warning

their little brains think

it’s them it’s about

so I end up in the clink

because they ain’t figured life out

they worry alone I’ll fail

they only love my money

it’s cause I’m cheaper in jail

damn calling me honey

(3)

Dad got me freaked

he tried to sell us

such a geek

when he’s zealous

what he and Dave done

getting gram in that place

what is a good son

Dad is a disgrace

oh he’s understood

we should believe the big lie

it’s for your own good

lay down and die

dad cried like never before

then waited unsteady

guess he was thinking up more

lies, but he said plenty already

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Poem: Cherish Your Last MomentsTogether

Cherish Your Last Moments Together

I walk towards her

not yet seen

so I can sigh

it did not take long

before she began

to look like one of them

92 years old, my mom

two weeks ago in the hospital she did not look like one of them

now her gray hair brushed back institutionally flat

no make up

blank expression

slumped in her wheel chair

blank expression

breakfast crumbs on her blouse

blank expression

where is her wedding ring?

blank expression

“hi mom”

for the first time she does not recognize me

focusing her eyes

then the smile

pushing up against her cheeks

brightening her eyes

and she starts to cry

she had not seen me yesterday

where had I been?

she was worried something had happened

“mom I couldn’t see you yesterday

every day is becoming hard

and you’re not here

two weeks from the hospital

you have to get used to being here

at least until you’re stronger

maybe when you’re stronger

you can move back”

the phone rang, interrupting the lie

it was on the table next to her

she looked at it

she looked at it

the suite was three months ago

a distant dream for her

sitting in her retirement community

the illusion of independence

aides and nurses there every hour

giving her the medications

helping her use the washroom

but she could sit on her own couch

watch her own tv

in her private apartment

moving her to this nursing home

splintered her confidence

each day a little more frightened

a little more confused

a little more unable

putting her this environment has worn her down

like a glorious wooden sculpture

always out in the sun and rain and ice

daring life, living in the moment

beautiful until its creator forgets it

and no longer protects it

the sculpture ages and dries

the beautifully carved wood cracks

splintering piece by piece in the wind

until nothing is left

but the memory

the memory of her

I look at her now

she already is a memory

has been for a while

I remember my mother, sitting next to her

that is why she is in this nursing home

that is why she lives her last days in a facility

that is why we no longer have a use for her

she has not been here for months

longer

five years ago, after that surgery

she could not add her cheque book

two years ago she suddenly forgot

how to use the message system on the phone

I will never forget

driving in the rain to her retirement suite

to show her how to press the buttons

I will never forget

this will not happen to me

I will never forget

she will otherwise disappear

I try to cherish our time together

it is a challenge to cherish a cruel joke

yes I’m neurotic and worry too much

she gets worried but ten minutes later she has forgotten

and we share a joke together

I leave her smiling

then drive home in the night gripping the wheel

I have it good

most of my friends their parents are gone

at least she is still here

I can look after her

I can be her son

I can slip into childhood memories so easily with her

we enjoy those golden days

she can not remember lunch

but recalls vividly our playing in Brookville Park

for a few moments now we play together again

she is always the mother

but I can never again be the child

the child does not push the wheelchair

and I pretend to let her look after me

with endless questions

what I have eaten

have I had enough sleep, how is work

I let her mother me

give me advice like I should eat better

and there is some comfort in being that child again

until she asks the questions all over again

and I remember it is just pretend

but I was her child for a moment more

finally there is our time together

last times together, knowing the end is near

sitting in the same room

looking at the family photos on the wall

the blue sky through the window

knowing I can reach out and touch her hand

Poem: Elder Care

And here is a poem I wrote yesterday, still in progress. As you can see, there are issues I'm dealing with regarding looking after mom, who is 91. However this particular poem is a total fabrication, based on the temptation. So don't worry about mom's money, it's safe. At least, hers is.... But there is always the temptation, and my understanding is that this can be a common problem in elder care.

as with all my poetry these days I tend to post it quickly, so it's fresh, new and probably not so good. Any feedback? always welcome!

Elder Care

The first time I stole from mom was the hardest
it was the guilt, I think, she is 91
but maybe it was that I hadn’t done it before
a thousand dollars means zero to her
so she did not miss the money at all, no
but I did not want to meet a teller’s eyes
so I used the atm instead

Mom lost the ability to manage her cheque book
after the hip replacement surgery
mini-strokes made her worse
while I stood by she went from strong woman
who wrote letters to the New York Times
to not understanding her voicemail

I resisted stealing her money for a long time
but I had all those bills to pay
and it was so easy, she trusted me completely
hell, I’m doing everything for her
she owes me. By now, she doesn’t have much left
I gamble with what remains, trying to win back what I took
and with her spare change, I drink

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Poem: Paneling and the end of the road

Today I got the call

home care phoned

about paneling her

mom is 90

aging is a relentless demon

stripping her naked

no dignity no privacy no independence

she knows what is happening to her

but then, thankfully, she forgets

We talked, home care and I

I suggested it

it

that mom be paneled

paneling is the review process

for moving her

from her retirement community

to a nursing home

to the end of the road

the road with the no exit sign

the road with the no exist sign

paneled—boarded—boarded up

Victor Schwartzman

victors@mts.net

Story: They Talked About Everything, Except What Mattered

He and his elderly mother talked about the weather, about the food in the retirement home, about remembering Dad--they talked about everything, except what mattered.

As she closed in on ninety, their morning phone calls went from discussions to something else. She started asking questions, just questions. After a few minutes of conversation she ran out of steam, and about all she could say would be “What else?” They ended up talking about every topic except the ones which mattered.

Her putting the electric kettle on the stove and turning the stove burner on, that was what mattered. Her forgetting when his wife was flying back and asking him three times in five minutes when she was returning, that was what mattered. Her telling him she had to pick up some pain killers and hemorrhoid cream because she had run out but no she still had some but it was not important and he did not have to worry about it she did not even know why she brought it up she had been up all night with irritable bowel syndrome and she woke up with a runny discharge from her nose every morning did he have a runny discharge in the morning so don’t worry about the pain killers she could do it herself she’ll take a cab, and he reminded her it was winter and too icy for her walker so he said he would pick it up, but she said it was not a problem she did not even know why she had brought it up she can just take a cab and get it with her walker and when he said they could deliver it she asked why he said that was he trying to make her feel guilty and besides she did not think they delivered pain killers but he should not worry and he should stop asking her how many painkillers she had left what did that have to do with anything she was not sure she had none no maybe she had a few left why was he getting so upset and what does he mean he has done this before he has never done this before.
And then he told her it was his mistake. They talked about his mistake, but not about what mattered.

At moments she cried, told him she was losing it and wondering what was becoming of her. She saw the end of her life every morning. She saw herself petering out as half-remembered thoughts in a retirement warehouse.

They talked about everything, except what mattered.

How could they talk about that?

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net

Poem: Life Under the Magnifying Glass

Each day we talk on the phone.

She asks what I did yesterday

am doing today, will do tomorrow.

Then, forgetting, asks again.

The endless repeating details are torture.

She is 90.

She does not remember, it is not her fault.

Her sisters are gone, most of her friends.

She has no one left to talk to

nothing left to talk about

but me

every conversation, over and over

me.

I want my privacy back

I want my life back

but that is selfish, so I suck it back

and we talk about me, back to back.

Like an ant under a magnifying glass,

feeling the heat of the focused sun

that is how I feel

fair or unfair does not matter.

Her questions are love

and love always includes

the risk of being burned.

Story: Ghost

His mother had always been there for him, and later in life he was there for her. By the time she turned eighty-nine she was easily confused. She was there but not there. It was the same body, the same voice, but it was not her. Being with her felt like babysitting, and that was when parts of her began to fade away.

As she heard less of what he said her ears faded away. She did not seem to notice. Although her missing ears alarmed him he said nothing. When a conversation longer than a minute became a chore for her if she had to do more than ask questions, her lips faded. She could only speak at length about the past or the retirement community she lived in.

As she increasingly used a walker, her legs faded. Trips out became carefully planned affairs. She had the energy to visit a store or have dinner, but rarely both, and sometimes she got confused and did not want to go out at all.

It was a nightmare, losing her piece by piece. He increasingly felt he was visiting a ghost. Even her eyes were buried behind thick glasses, and when he reached out and touched her hand, it felt cold.

But he continued to visit because she needed him and he loved her, or the memory of her. Most often he took her on drives through the old neighborhood while they spoke of people long dead. She liked that.

Victor Schwartzman
victors@mts.net