soon to dissolve in
a rear mirror. Even
your eyes if I’m
looking, gone,
gone like those
summer evenings
when shadows of
willows crept
longer, closer and
people laughed
in purple darkness.
All of them gone
after the fights
and hugs as you
will be. Sacred
wreckage, walk
on by. And if people
think they can see
my sadness, blurt
“what am I, fly
paper for necks
Wanting you, anyway, there
can’t be an end of the
story since there won’t be
a story. Call it “ you know
it’s an old song” you
can’t compete with
25 year old beauties.
But he did love my poems,
read everything the first
few months. I’m your
# 1fan he whispered, his
mouth in my hair. Are
you shocked? I bought
clothes I didn’t need
for him, made hair
appointments for the day
of my class in his arms,
felt like so long I hadn’t.
When he kissed me
I dreamed it meant some
thing more, that “that was
a good class,” his “we’ll
have to go out and talk
about movies and your poems,”
meant we might. Once I
almost bought a coat
because he loved it, didn’t
then spent weeks when
it was gone, hunting it down
as I have him, elusive,
even in dreams. No,
I can’t, even with a 19 inch
wait and long good legs,
long blond hair compete
with 25 year olds. But
unlike the young girls with
beautiful skin, their elbows
if you look just beginning
to be kissed by earth
I can, as they never could,
with a few words,
make him
immortal
I hear Delilah’s dead. Delilah—
I almost wrote “delete” because
everything delighted her. It
can’t be Delilah who beat
advanced stomach cancer,
delighted in everything that
grew my tangerine blossoms.
This woman who brought me
special herb tea for sleep.
She sang polishing the dresser,
arranging my barrettes in
a new pattern each time.
Delilah singing a song of her
home, telling me of the
flowers in Guatemala,
the fruits sweeter than anything
here. I think of her daughter,
the dog she adored, but
mostly her laugh, husky and
bell like at the same time
with a little giggle. “Any
body home” almost a song
I won’t hear ever. Gone.
Over as any touch from
my sister
The Dave Brubeck Quartet and Ralph J. Gleason, syndicated jazz columnist, perform live at the Jazz Casual TV show, live in 1961.
The Dave Brubeck Quartet is made up of Dave Brubeck, Paul Desmond, Joe Morello and Gene Wright.
I crerated a Dave Brubeck Playlist at Tunebee this week following the news of his passing. In the 1961 interview he discusses his views in 1961 of the future directions he would help to take jazz. We mourn his passing and pause to appreciate his life.
Dave Brubeck Playlist
We played what we used to call half-ball
Which involves cutting a regular pimple ball in half
So you couldn’t hit it too far on a city street
Or driveway
Just far enough so you could get a hit
Or even a home run
He was a gentle boy, this boy, about two years older
Than the rest of us, maybe three.
Well, he played this one game in the driveway So full of life,
so when a neighbor came to our door
The next day with word that he’d died
And no one knew why, not even the doctors,
Just went to bed and died, This kid with the same
First name as mine, which made it even worse,
But not as bad as when we’d drive past the cemetery
On our frequent trips
to New York to visit my eldest sister
And her family
And as we drove by I would think of him in there
With all those ghostly old people.
But then a couple of years later
They built a highway
That by- passed the cemetery
I was glad at first
Until I realized how much
More lonely he might be.