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.