Chopin and Mom -   Afterthought.

I think they must meet, Chopin and my mother,

Wherever they are;  he so young and Mom over a hundred

And perhaps she plays for him

And they talk about phrasing and what he was thinking,

What he wanted, 

And how she hears it.

And perhaps his father is standing over them, 

Putting in his own two cents…

Proudly knowing that his son’s music has lasted 

Oh, so long - 

And was loved by a little girl in her bed  

A  little girl who fell asleep 

As it drifted in

And now - can I say it?  -  an “elderly”  -girl

Who still feels the same way.

Mom and Me and Chopin

Mom and Me and Chopin      Dec 30, 2017  

Last night, 

As I lay in bed

About to sleep

I was a child again

Sharing the room with my brother

Reading, under the covers with a flashlight I hid

When the Chopin filtered in

From the living room,

Down the narrow hallway

To our bedroom door

Across the room 

To my ears.

My mother was playing again.

Dad was out making house calls

Bootsie was probably at Mom’s feet

Next to the pedals,

The notes, the trills, the flow - 

Her touch -

Were here - with me - now -

As my eight year old self

Turned off the flashlight 

Closed the book and listened.

Then It was over. 

The Prelude was finished.

I turned off WQXR.

But she was still there

Beyond the hallway,

 in the living room

Playing. 

Champ by     Susan Kohn Green  Dec. 23, 2017 

I saw Champ yesterday.

He was on the sidelines

Of the school yard

Dancing away to some rhythm he heard,

His body engrossed in the music in his ear.

Champ was a boxer

No, not a boxer, but the Boxer

Who had fought in the ring 

Oh, forty years ago or so.

He lives down the block

In the projects where beautiful Rosita lived

Before she died.

I saw him from a distance

Feet skipping against the cement

Like a soft shoe dancer

And outside the fence surrounding the courtyard

With my shopping cart - 

The one with the red cherries sprinkled over it - 

I had to start.

My feet began to shuffle,

In the rhythms,

The way he used his;

A bit awkward at first,

Finding the beat,

But getting it down, matching him.

“Babe, I like your smile!”

His voiced waved at me across the court.

I felt his beat, kept going,

Did a bit of a kick, a bit of a turn.

He foot-worked his way toward me

In time with his music                                          

And at the fence between us

Put his earpiece in my ear

To hear what he heard

And we both did a bit of a hip hop                                       

Nodding into each other’s eyes

When I saw a couple coming down the street

Now, I know, they couldn’t see Champ

On the other side of the fence,

But they could see me,

A shape alone, bouncing around

In the middle of the sidewalk

For no reason: 

No music, no partner just a jig and a jog

Of the shoulders, the hips, the feet

A jazzy mini-pirouette

And joy on my face

Close, closer they came

Only a bit hesitantly

Almost edging away from

The creature on the sidewalk -  me - 

Dancing by herself,

Until they came close enough 

to see Champ there, too

Doing his hip hop with me; his therapy, my fun.

They laughed - 

A nice understanding laugh, enjoying the two of us

Wishing, maybe that they could join in. 

Voices  On 125^th Street    by Susan Kohn Green

It had been a long walk,

The second in the day

From Eighth Avenue to Park

On 125^th street -

And back tonight.

The dog was even willing

To go into her case

To wait for the number 10 bus

To take us home.

And she doesn’t even like her case.

I stood, peering down the avenue
For the tell -tale lights of a bus coming, 

When across the street

Out of a drugstore

Came a riotous group;                          

Laughing, shouting over each other;

Sounding tipsy -  at the least -                                    

Women? Men?  Hard to tell

By the shapeless coats

And the raucous voices                                             

Unconcerned by making heads turn,                                            

Shattering the streets with their                                                         

Voices 

They were shuffling and dancing

Halfway down the block

When

I barely had time to recognize

The Silence of mere traffic

And a honk of a car or two,

Before another sound rose,

Resonating over Eighth Avenue;

A chorus, a choir,

A harmony rising

As one fullness through the air.

The richness swelled;

Choral voices pealing

From the formal half- circle that

That raucous pack had become.

They only sang for a minute or two

Harmonies deep and rich

Sopranos blending,

Lilting, lifting,

Until it ended,

And a solitary voice called
‘Merry Christmas!” to

The Someone they had sung to; 

The Someone who had tried to

Pass through the crowd

But couldn’t find his way.

Until they sang-

And then, he didn’t want to;

Until -

The chorus was silent,

The song was done.

They broke their circle,

And became separate again,

Shouting across to each other

And laughing

Sauntering, dancing down

Frederick Douglas Boulevard

Until they turned the corner.

And I whispered,

“Thank you”

As the bus pulled up at the stop

And I hauled the dog in her case

Up the step.

Subway dancers

Subway Dancers  -   Susan Green

How I miss them!

On the subway, at the end of the car, three or four

Guys got on, muscles bulging from the t-shirts.

I could see their washboards through their shirts,

And the tight behinds in their sweatpants.

Bandanas around their foreheads.

Street dancers! Hip Hop!  Downstairs today.

 “Hey, yo!” one of them, the one with the bandbox,

“Listen up!

All we want is….. your money!”

Haat cha cha, hat cha cha..

Swinging around the pole,

Hand -standing with one arm, legs splayed,

Flips, pole push ups and back spins.

“Yo- ladies and gentlemen – now is the time!

Show your appreciation!”

Sauntering down the aisle with a hat in hand

As the train slows to the station.

I put in a dollar and get off with one of them.

 “How do you do it?” I say, “I was a dancer –once-

 Many moons ago. I can’t believe what you guys do.”

He stood up straighter, put out his hand.

“Thanks a lot.” he said, the “YO” business gone

Maybe you’d be interested in coming up to Harlem..

I’m in a ballet troupe up at a hundred and twenty fourth.

“Love to!”

“Gotta go..” he disappeared through the closing door.

“Yo!” I heard just before it shut tight.

Oh, the calm and peaceful sky - Central Park

Oh, the  calm and peace in our black skies tonight.

The full, round moon is traveling up and south 

And over the earth, 

Behind a long curtain of striated clouds

Traveling low and north

Beneath the blue -black infinity:

Barely a breeze,

Just a bit cool.

The moon’s circle, so clear when he
appears,

Seems to be watching 

And then

Laughing at us, teasing.

As he tripples, bows; 

Veiled , lustrous, then shadowed -

Or just a shot of brilliance -

A wink - 

Through the ribbons of clouds.

And beyond, the wide night sky,

Complete with stars

And silent.

You would never know 

The earth is shattering, burning, drowning

And people hate. Hurt. 

Under this endless ultramarine clarity,

How can you imagine

There is a struggle 

Anywhere on this earth?

The Snake on the bus.

The snake on the bus:       Nov 27

Did I imagine it?

The man in the back of the bus

With the snake around his shoulders,

His neck? -

A python, a boa - I don’t remember -

But he was telling the little girl

Who sat next to him,

That he has a little girl at home, too.

And she is perfectly safe with the snake

Who roams

From room to room,

The once-a-month feeding of a chicken,

Feathers and all, a bump, a lump,

Somewhere in her beautiful,

Scaled, elongated form,

As it makes it way down to her stomach.

And his little girl is perfectly safe.

The mother of the little girl -

The girl on the bus, - looked dubious,

To say the least,

As he asked if the little girl would like

To touch the snake -  who had a name -

Bella, I think it was,

And who, he said, would greet him

At his front door

If

He had left the house without it –

Her.

And the boa -  or python -  would wait for him,

Just as a dog would,

Lying, in this case, curled up,

Ready to greet him when he got home.

It was, he said, actually affectionate.

Now, I have no problem with snakes;

They are dry-skinned and scaly

And move in a whisper of curves.,

Which I think is

Beautiful.

But I might hesitate to have a fifteen 

Or even ten foot snake

Waiting for me when I got home

Or let my little child wander in the house

Where Bella wanders, too.

Or drapes herself over the sofa,

Or snuggles up behind a chair.

“What happens when it gets too big?”

Someone- the mother, I think, - asked.

“I’ll sell it,” he said.

“And get another one.”

Now – can this really be real?

And how did this man,

With Bella wrapped around his shoulders,

Her tongue flicking toward the window

The end of her tail hanging down like his tie,

Manage to get on the bus?

Somehow I think it is really not allowed.

But through the back door perhaps,

Where,

The bus driver would be unaware,

And why did no one, like me,

Send the word forward: 

A Sssssnake!!!!!

Someone would have screamed.

Oddly enough, I have seen him in the park

With Bella circling his shoulders;

In fact, I took a picture.

But the bus –

Did I really see it?

Or was his description to the little,

Mesmerized girl

So real

So compelling,

That I think I did.

Fleas and Feathers

Fleas and Feathers   

Susan Kohn Green

Counting the fleas

As I picked them,

One my one,

Off our little white poodle, Jolie,

And ran with each

Between finger and thumb

To the bathroom to drop it  -

Into the toilet and let it drown –

Poor thing -

Yes, this happens in New York, too -

There were just seven that I found moving

Over her pink belly, one by her ear,

Just after she had been to the groomers

For a haircut

And her nightly walk in the park.

I could actually see the dots -

Jump.

I think seven was it - but of course

The next course of action was to spray:

The furniture, the rugs, the floors,

Her beds and pillows

And vacuum it all.

And wash her in flea shampoo

Oh, she loved that!

“I thought I just did this,”

She said  - shaking.

Then wash the sheets – twice, since I did find

A couple of dead ones as I peeled the duvet cover.

From the comforter.

Oh, yes, the duvet cover had to come off

After I called the vet and asked if

I had to wash the comforter, too.

“Yes”, she said, “I would.”

The comforter is an old friend;

Maybe thirty years worth,

And I must admit, it has been showing it’s age

A few feathers seeping through the seams,

But I shoved it into the washing machine

And then into the dryer

Along with the fluffer-upper

Of old rubber tennis shoes.

Which would distribute the feathers evenly

Throughout the quilt.

And then the moment:

The removal of the comforter, old friend,

From the dryer.

The door opened.

Feathers,

Hundreds of them, like a high snow blizzard

Sprayed from the machine.

Handfulls of them flew across the brown linoleum,

Drifting, flittering, fluttering.

Into the hallway,

Over the counters.

And when I reached into the machine,

Thousands more escaped my clutches

Spreading into the air and floating.

Eluding.

Have you ever swept up feathers?

Well, neither did I.

I wet paper towels and hunted them down.

Each and every one.

And in the end my husband and I,

Opened a huge plastic bag

Over the crumpled mound that had been our comforter

And shoved it in,

Feathers still insisting on

Escaping through the crumbling seams.

Now it sits on top of the garbage can

Ensconced in a clear plastic wrap.

Waiting for Ricki to pick it up and take it away.

And I hope, that when it is sitting on the sidewalk,

No one will think, passing by,

“Gee, I could use that,”

And take it home,

Open the top –

Oh, you know what would happen.

Oh, just picture that.

The tree branch at PS 6 - Susan Kohn Green

The Branch of the Tree at PS 6 

When I was in seventh grade - 

Oh My! was it sixty-four years ago ?   -  

We, the children of the whole school, 

Kindergarten through eighth, 

In procession,

Lines and lines of us, two by two,

Carried our very own books 

From the old PS 6,

The ancient grey stone building on 85th Street,

The three blocks down Madison Avenue 

To the brand new red brick one - 

The one with the courtyard for recess
And the doors painted red.

Oh, we were so important, entrusted with the books,

Heading for a future in a new place.

I passed PS 6  the other day

It is just the same, 

But - 

I do not remember that wild raspberry bush 
At the corner of 82nd Street;

Real berries, lush and rosy. peeping out at me -
Growing between the rungs of  the fence.  
Nor the flowers! 

Roses, hyacinths, calliopsis, morning glories, 

More -

Overgrown with each other;

All the hullabaloo of all that flora-

(Wild, like in The Secret Garden - 

My favorite book), 

Not the mosaic squares leading around a path,

And sculptures and fallen limbs woven together
To catch vine,.

Nor the bird house on the 81st Street side.

I would have remembered that - 

Watching sparrows flittering around the feeder.

But the old tree on Madison Avenue is still there. 

It arched one heavy branch over the sidewalk

All those years 

And yes, I just had time to paint that branch

Before someone thought, “Danger” and cut it off,

When was that? 

There is a fine grey callus where the branch once grew
From Mother Tree
Surreal in it’s sudden break -off point,
Smooth , a lopsided oval,

Like a giant scar, 
Where the rest of the tree is jagged with bark and 

Almost grotesque in it’s shape , it’s curves -

The Wizard of Oz could have used it as a character.

Yes,  the rest of the tree still stands as I remember it,

And for me, painting that heavy branch in spring,

The leaves just brilliant in their beginnings 
Is Immortalized in my memory.

For that is what painting does, 

Engraves it, stroke by stroke  in your brain

Pals 
 by    

Susan Kohn Green 

Yes, a duck and a turtle can be friends

Spending their time

On a flat little rock

Like their own private dock

Basking in the brilliant sun

In the halcyon phenomenon

Of

This particularly lovely day

In Central Park