But What Do You Write?

But What Do You Write?

              Susan Green

 “But what do you write about?”

My dog-walking friend asked

“Anything”. I said.  “For instance,

Do you see that light in the distance,

That single light in the dark night

Winding it’s way toward us

On the path through the park ,

Curving with the sinuous road

While the trees throw shadows

And the clouds in the dark sky,

So ethereal, so luminescent?

Those pin points of stars in the bluest black

Of the sky between them

Because the moon is full and bright?

It is a bike rider at midnight,

 Feeling the greenness of the summer,

The breeze of this cool clear air.“

As I rhapsodized, extolled,

Sang out the lyricism of the night

A jogger appeared on the path, as well.

A voice rang out  ”F..k You!”

Oh, on such a beautiful night.

On a Very Grey Day

On a Very Grey Day
Susan Kohn Green 5/1/15

A petal of a red rose just fluttered by my kitchen window 
On the seventeenth floor.
I have seen many things sail by;
From egrets and pigeons,
Plastic grocery bags to balloons
Which some child probably lost far below
And is crying for now, as they twist and turn,
Adrift between the buildings
And on into the sky
Oblivious to the pain of her loss.
After all, it is a balloon.
I have seen airplanes,
A blimp, looking for all it’s worth
Like a goldfish swimming sedately through the sky, 
And helicopters -
That, to my eye, look like mosquitoes
And sound like black flies.
Clouds, sunsets, moons -
But never before a single petal of a red rose. 

Birthday 2015

Birthday  2015

    Susan Kohn Green

It is my birthday today

I am officially seventy four - 

Although, at the six month mark, 

I always up my age to what it will be.

I don’t know why:

Perhaps I am just so delighted to be around. 

Perhaps because it will mean I will be around, 

At least, for the next six months - 

An omen of time,

Perhaps so that people will look at me, amazed, and say, 

“You’re what!  I don’t believe it!”  

My mother was like that; 

When she was ninety people would say, 

“But you don’t look more than eighty”,

When she was ninety- four she stared hard at the doctor -

“What do you mean I’m Getting old?”

In six months I will be seventy five.

It has arrived.  Well, almost. I’m cheating a bit.  

The time on the clock of my silver spoon 

With the stork as it’s handle,

And which is bent from my teething on it

Seventy four years ago, says nearly ten p.m.

But now it is four in the morning. 

I woke a few minutes ago,

Somehow needing something sweet.

I glanced toward the living room

On my sleepy way to the kitchen,

Gasped at an illumination beyond the windows. 

An aerial night-light breathing softly across the room

The heavens were entering. Night was sweeping in. 

I felt my way through the dark of our apartment

To find my camera, always in my purse.

I bumped my knee on a table, 

Groped my way to the windows. 

And there it was;  a full brilliant moon high over the city.

In a sky spreading blue from its haloes into an endless dark. 

A few wispy clouds drifted in semi- circles

Toward it, over it, away from it 

Until it was left alone in the dark. 

In a dark that  - what was it -

Deepest Prussian blue, darkest ultramarine? 

Blues change, skies change.

There was just a hint of dawn at the base, 

A mere blur of orange

Where the sky met the sky scrapers - 

A muddy orange in the south, that would turn to Day, 

A scattering of points -  city lights, window lights  -

In the sharp, flat, black cutouts 

A child could have made from construction paper,

That were the buildings beneath that sky,

My birthday present

The Purple Rat

The Purple Rat  

        Susan Kohn Green

I have seen many things on the subway;

Couples kissing,  a turtle on a leash

A cockatoo, subway dancers spinning - 

Little girls blowing bubbles - 

But when the door opened

I almost put my hand on a purple rat.

Well, not really purple, but lighter,

maybe a lilac, 

Perched on the handle of a carrying case

Carrying four more - rats - 

Which I didn’t see, but were probably resplendent

In a variety of colors - 

Versus those down below on the tracks - 

Which are primarily gray.

“You poor thing”, I said

But the man in the gaucho hat assured me,

“It’s a natural dye”.

The color was well chosen, the complement of 

The orange eyes of an albino. 

His fur was soft, smooth, as well as lilac, 

It sniffed, whiskers flickering, 

Then began to crawl up my arm. 

Trusting me. Then changed it's mind.

There were obviously some people who did not appreciate

Gismo - that was his name.

One woman flinched as the tattooed owner

Asked if she would like to hold him, 

As he held the rat upside down and stroked behind the ears,

The rat obviously in ecstasy, 

As my poodle is when I rub her tummy;

Eyes closed, almost purring.

A young woman spitted out, 

“That’s disgusting,” 

As she pushed further into the jam-packed car

Getting as far away as possible

But the rat paid no attention, 

Just sat purple-y  on the owner’s shoulder 

As they got off at Forty Second Street

Just like so many others.  Of course.

The Squash

The Squash  2/9/2015

 Walking the dog on a very cold night -                                                

Because the park is just too muddy, too slushy,

Slippery - because the rain is turning into black ice, 

And the frozen snow gets under her pads and hurts her paws,

And because she kicks off her bright red booties,

I walked her uptown on Central Park West.

Stuck in the frozen snow ,

On the edge of the sidewalk

Was a squash - an acorn squash.

It must have fallen out of someone’s grocery bag

As she – or he - shlepped the shopping cart home

Over the spikes and rivulets of slush and ice,

Or rolled out of it when they unloaded the car

Which may have been the one parked on the other side

Of the frozen mound, mostly black from the soot, by now.

Although I could see that beneath the ashy surface ,

It was still white.

At any rate, the squash was mostly round, and grooved,

And definitely orange,

An anomaly in that spot on the sidewalk.

Against the sooty ice.

I should have just taken a picture of it,

But, I picked it up, tucked it under my arm

As the dog pulled me toward home, the leash in one hand

And I spoke on the phone to my daughter with the other.

Oh, about my grandson’s getting over the flu

and my grand-daughter’s so individual- take on life

Then -

“YOU did WHAT?” my daughter screeched ,

As I told her about the squash

“Mom - It’s dirty.  Throw it out!”

“Well, I WILL wash it….”

“No!  You picked up a squash that dogs probably peed on “–

It had never occurred to me-

To me it was simply a veggie, 

Sitting in the snow, having lost its purpose,

And should be cooked.

All I saw was a lost squash obviously thinking,

“I don’t belong here. In the cold."

“You know I hate waste, Beth “ I said.

“What’s more important? Waste or being poisoned?

It’s not going to poison anyone – it’s just a squash. I'll peel it!"

“Mom, you know how anxiety can shorten your life?”

I had heard of that.

“I think you just took ten minutes from me.“

Oh, dear. 

Maybe I should just take the squash back to where I found it

Take the picture of an orange squash

Lost in the grayish city- snow by the side of the curb

And leave it there.

Maybe someone else will pick it up –

Someone who really needs a squash.

Oh, God, now I \wonder if a rat had gnawed at it  -

Small sections of the skin was scraped-

And I will come down with bubonic plague.

No, the skin was probably just sideswiped,

Grazed by the ice when it fell.

A rat would have eaten the whole thing - 

Invited his ratty friends to partake.

Pigeons would have been pecking.  

A raccoon might have wandered over.

Certainly a squirrel or two.

There wouldn’t have been anything left of

An acorn squash sitting in the snow.

For me to tuck under my arm and take home.

Since it is February, I am once again thinking of this song I wrote when my daughter was about one and a half.  We were in the snowy, cold gardens of Wave Hill -overlooking the Hudson River.  She wore a pink snowsuit.  "Spring is just around the corner", I said, as we made snow angels.   I still say it every December 21st.  Sometimes I see it as a picture book - the illustrations going from the winter towards spring.

SONG: I Promise you Spring. 

I promise you spring

It soon will be spring

It soon will be buttercups

And butterflies

And blue birds

And blue skies above 

I promise you spring

There soon will be spring

There soon will be

Flowers all aglow

Dancing to and fro

Everywhere you go

I promise you hillsides of sweet fragrant grasses

To roll on over and over again

I promise you seesaws and swings you can sail on

Way up to the sky

I promise you Spring

I promise you Spring

There soon will be Spring

There soon will be

Dandelions and posies

And Ring- Around -The- Rosies,

Floating bubbles in the air

No more snowsuits or mittens or scarves or wool hats

No more sweaters or boots, no more blankets or wraps

I promise you spring!