Waiting

I knew when the time would be right.  My brothers and sister had been nagging at me for awhile, jostling me, nudging me forward and chattering my head off .  But I wasn’t quite ready. Change is hard to indulge.  Especially when things have been so good as is- just lying in the soft warm lap pf luxury, with not a care in the world, being fed and quenched with no concern.  This aura of well-being was difficult to challenge.

But I knew it was near an end.  The season was changing.  Things were getting warmer.  The big maple was greening and lush sweetness was in the air. More to point was a yearning within me; inner urges to spread my wings and fly alone, seeking my own world of adventure beyond this nest.  I wanted to make my own way, feel my own rewarding efforts to carry me up and forward to new discoveries.  I was becoming bored and impatient.

My brothers and sister had already found their independence.  They had found  their own way, leaving me now the sole one remaining at home.  My physical nature had also changed giving me substance and color.  I had muscle, stamina and resolve.  However it was easier to just stay comfortably safe and sound without all the sibling prodding and verbal urging compelling me to make the move.

But I knew it was necessary.  Mom had given me impetus by leaving me alone more and more, moving forward with her own life.  I also wasn’t getting meals as often.  This was all part of her counsel that it was time for me to leave the nest. I felt I could not fulfill my own destiny without making earnest effort.  To really try and, once and for all, steel myself with enough nerve to make a positive move.

I was alone at home. As a spring breeze urged me forward,  I moved to the edge.  I knew this was my time.  I had been conditioning myself for this moment .  I had confidence.  Bravery was within me, finally.  I readied myself, moved forward.  My wait was over.  This was the time and moment of decision

I leaped into my future, new wings urgent and strong with purposeful movement.
I faltered.  Oh NO- please give me strength.  I was in spiral.  A bit upward, then a fluttering descent. My first valiant effort ended in disgrace plopped into a pile of leaves heaped on the ground.  I was O.K., but my pride was wounded.  Well, I would rest a few minutes, gather my resolve and try again.  All wasn’t lost, just a bit longer of a wait.

But creeping stealthily forward was another who had been  waiting.  A gray tabby was cautiously excited.  For days she had come below and looked up anxiously for the brood to come to her.  They were too high up to make the effort to climb to.  Besides, there were plenty of mice and moles right at paws reach right below in her earthly domain.  So she had bided her time.  Tabby had returned daily to see the robins leave their nest , wings urgently flapping... and then the lift, up up and away.  Darn.   Each one another frustration and waste of time. 

But today, today, there was opportunity.  Her patience and stalking had proved rewarding.  She crept forward . She pounced.
The newly minted robin saw her danger, It was instinctive.  She made mighty effort, lifting a bit, And again,  And again.  But exhausted, she seemed tethered to the ground. And then, her time was past.  It was a short life, ended too soon . Tabby cat had found a delicious reward.

Suddenly, there was a flurry of leaves  stirred up by beating wings as eagle talons swooped down and grasped in death grip , changing predator into prey .  As the mighty bird arced upward above the canopy with the catch of the day, we are left with an empty nest and our thoughts;

“All things come to he who waits,”
and, then again,
“He who hesitates is lost.”   
But, perhaps, most apt,
“Destiny waits for no man” (or beast)

This Itch

Unwelcome, inopportune and insidious
it launches attack, immediately demanding attention.
Not the variety borne by a healing wound,
Not the tangent of an insect bite or sting,
Not caused by a allergic reaction to a shot,
Nor poison Ivy,
Nor nervous tension,
Or even coarse fabric,
It’s totally random and inexplicable,
precipitant-

This itch

Always demanding attention
at an inconvenient time and place,
comfortable in bed on cold winters’ night,
driving through a torrential rain,
riding a roller coaster,
speaking before a large audience, 
carrying both arms full of groceries,
during the culmination of  intimate pairing,
or even hands full of grunge and grease,
but always and ever an insistent aggravation-

This itch

Vexing and tormenting
from an unreachable zone
under an armpit,
the upper center back,
the bottom of the heel,
in the crotch,
behind an eye,
between toes,
inside a nostril,
even fleeting transitory locations-

This itch

At first there is the thought,
“It’ll go away,”
resulting in stoic endurance.
But, it doesn’t ; testing resolve,
commanding full attention,
and diverting any effort
to think about anything else;
vexing, annoying, interrupting,
with an ever-growing demand to action
It does NOT just “go away-”

This itch

So , first, comes the doomed-to-failure hand attempt,
stretch, reposition, contortion- all no damn good.
Then, rubbing against a hard object,
fidgeting in the car seat, rubbing on a door sill,
a tree trunk, the chair back, a wall.
Getting out of warm bed to attempt a reach,
trying to be nonchalant in front of an audience,
availing use of a shoe, a kids toy, spatula, yardstick,  or an umbrella...
or even that bamboo back scratcher you saved from a vacation tropical drink.
Oh, this torment, it’s getting unbearably worse-

This itch

Finally, Finally,
in desperation, the spot is reached and comes earnest “s-c-r-a-t-c-h.”
Oh Joy, oh Heaven, oh glorious splendid relief.
There is revel in ingenuity, smugness at victory.
Thoughts can finally turn elsewhere
The battle is won.  Victory !
The mind goes on reset
the body repositions in sweet bliss.
Until...
Oh God, Jesus, Mary , NO,- it has struck again !-

This Hell -sent itch !

-jerry wendt 2018

Movies of the Mind

Dreaming wide
Wyoming mesas brown with sagebrush
spiked with green prickley cactus.
Galloping paints saddled by
buckskin cowboys
with hats, bright red neck kerchiefs
and Colt six-guns in tooled holsters.

Dreaming deep
ocean Porpoises
punctuating staccato surface breaches
over vast vistas of blue
under billowy clouds
shielding dennisons below
from Heavens bright eyes.

Dreaming Done
amist garish lights
and a mist of blue/green scrubs
hovering over with tubes and wires
and the ever shorter bursts
of beeps
and creeping cold.

That last extra fentanyl
to better span the pain between daylights
shut down the projector  
forever.     
                                                                                                               -Jerry Wendt 2018
                                                                                                                                Title graphic by the author 

The Counter Girl

Coiffed to perfection
she stands at her station
with studied foundation,
a touch of translucent La Rose blush,
lush Esquito mink lashes
framed in veiled Chanel ombre eye shadow over
defining Revlon color stay liner,
all dusted with shearest Guerlain powder,
and completed with Dolce & Gabbana aubergine lips
lined in NYX plum for definition.

She’s the counter girl

On her feet 9 to 6
behind her station,
attentive to every passerby,
she demonstrates technique to a matron,
teaching how to apply perfect tones
while ringing up a boxed soap set
and spraying L’air du Temps
on some strips for another interested customer.
All over and over-
so many brands , so many colors.

She’s the counter girl

Home to a precious 4th floor walk-up
with chintz Laura Ashley wallpaper
she put up herself over dingy walls
to give her ruffled furniture definition
from a silk Hermes scarf covered lamp light.
Her windows look out at a next door brick wall
and a fire escape she has set with geraniums
to give a bit color to her view
over the air conditioner,
a tired old unit about to give up the ghost.

She’s the counter girl

Every day 6 days a week
She takes the E train
59th and Lexington
with a packed lunch,
and vitamin water,
and her current issue of Allure-
ready for another onslaught,
another sale,
more screaming kids,
and Upper East Side bitches.

She's the counter girl

Even with her cosmetic perks
and store discounts
She finds it difficult to stretch her
fourteen dollar an hour wage
plus commission
to handle a Manhattan studio apartment rent
and building utilities,
along with food and sundries,
and a seasonably fashionable wardrobe
to be presentable as required for the job.

She’s the counter girl

So ever on the lookout;
among the guys buying for their wives,
trophy girlfriends, or Mothers-
Even presentable ones along her route
or on her studied Sunday museum and gallery visits,
hoping for encounter with a man to call her own
after a few dates with flowers and dinners,
an engagement,  the wedding,
and a cute little house in Connecticut;
She is always at her best.

She’s the counter girl

It takes just one damn chance
to work this all out.
People do win the lottery,
so she hopes and prays
thru days of slush and wind and snow,
or summers deluges and hot wilting sun,
that there is someone to take her away
from makeup and fashion and standing all day
to a place far away...
where absolutely and finally...

She’s Amy, not just the counter girl.

Ending

It is easier than anticipated to let go.
No more impatient cats paws on my face mornings,
serenades with strawberries and Mozart by a cellist boyfriend
or standing in the cold waiting for the train to work on frigid winter mornings.

Memories ebb and flow like crazy
Belly laughs at Annie’s loud fart in Biology class.
“Coming out” to my Mother,
or dinner in the Eiffel Tower.

Faces of my life flash fast
Professor and bodybuilder Frank murdered by a tenant.
Dear Debbie; the love I could never have,
or David, who I loved and lost.

There are so many unwrapped packages-
I never finished that painting for Peggy,
or patched up the tiff with Diana,
and I never visited Machu Pichu.

But there is also no more chemo
no more radiation
no more enduring “ It’ll all be O.K.” by clueless friends
I don’t have to worry about “stuff “ at all anymore.

So many seasons and adventures now packed up away in the ether
a life so full of joy and sadness: true friends and lovers,
grand wines, great food, moving music;
reading , writing and “rithmatic.”

I know I have heard my last clock chimes
I hear no angel’s harps
there is no bright light
my thoughts and feeling all just blissfully fade away.

“Will I dream?,”HAL said.
It is upon me now.
Breathe out one last time,
Until   ..

Sir Edward Elger (1857-1934), English Composer-  was so vain he actually posed for a staged "deathbed"  photo well before his actual death.

 

Just Desserts

 I have fought for some status in life using my body and a great deal of manipulation.  It  involved a lot of living hand to hand and of wresting opportunities into making a better life.  I finally have made a turn onto easy street with my marriage to inventor and marketer of such products as the Slice O Matic,  Reeler Rod Pocket Angler,  No-Smoke Ashtray, and the TV Easy Rotisserie. It was very difficult and vexing to beat off competition to finally snare the old fart as my own, taking over as the fifth Mrs Donald Rompeel - only a year after the untimely demise of the 4th. .

I was rummaging in the kitchen of baronial Rompeel Manor looking through kitchen cannisters. I opened the largest , a flour container that looked  old enough to be handed down from his grandmother. There was no flour, and more importantly, no stash of cash or negiotable notes. Damn!  Well, there was this letter, which I took out and began to read...

“Dear Newest Wife and Gold Digger,

I know you have managed to corral my husband Don, and I know you, by now, have found out he is more adept at spending money than he is inventing things.  I can tell you my years of work trying to contain his lavish spending were to great consternation and little avail.  The endless parade of young vixens turning his lascivious attention from home and hearth were my enduring sadness. However , I rest knowing the children are well provided for with  irrevocable trusts.  ( Note : irrevocable . )  Rompeel Manor is mortgaged to the hilt in  support of Ron’s insatiable quest to surround himself with younger woman in an unsupportable lifestyle.  No doubt you are rifling the house looking for things of value you can sell to get some measure of what you feel is your just reward for landing this whale.  As unsympathetic as I am to your lot, I do offer this note as some consolation  to you.
No doubt you are near exhaustion running around the house looking for the fortune of grandiose jewelry portrayed in the several paintings of me positioned on walls around the manorhouse. The diamond tiara and necklace depicted in my portrait in a Givencey in the parlour, the sapphire and ruby broach and ear rings on me wearing the Chanel in the dining room, and the emerald rope and impressive 20 carat diamond ring shown in the oil of me wearing a Valentino gown hung in the master bedroom.
Rest easy child, these jewels do NOT exist. Never did. I had all the paintings done just for this very occasion , with intent of driving you crazy trying to find where all this glittery loot was stashed.  Now  you can just settle down and take stock on what little you have until Donald finds yet another willing and eager money grubber .
Take solace in the fact there is probably enough left selling the mansion fixtures to get a good divorce attorney.
Karma is a bitch.

all love,
The late 4th Mrs Donald Ropeel ”

-Jerry Wendt 2017

Claire's Scare

The trees had just begun to leaf out . It was dark and dank. I had looked all over our old Wisconsin farmhouse for Aunt Claire.  I  called out, and finally found  her, sitting upstairs by an attic window with an open dust encrusted trunk , and a very bedraggled old book in her lap .  She looked up.


“Whatever are you doing up here dredging around in this old stuff ?,”  I asked.
She showed me the book she had been holding. It was a handwritten journal of sorts.   
Claire said,  “I had this very strange feeling that drew me up here to this old trunk and as I sat near, there was a wierd chill that came over me while the sky outside clouded over. It’s like days of funerals - as if the earth is mourning the passing. Disturbing.- Further,  it was though this old chest was almost compelling me to look inside. So I did.”

“And...,” I interjected

“ And ,” Claire went on, “so I rummaged inside and found this old journal.  handwritten by your great, great grandmother , Gerta.  The page I turned to began an account, passed down to her by generations long before, telling of an event occurring in 1628 in our ancestral settlement of Würzburg , Germany. 

It was a very turbulent time.  There was much religious contention then and the period was rife with dark tales of evil spirits , witches, and warlocks.  Indeed, the town was in the midst of regular trials of persons accused of witchery and Satanism.  In her journal ,Gerta writes of a story told to her by her grandmother. It was about a 19 year old girl in Würzburg,  Gobel Babelin, who was considered the prettiest girl in the whole town. Gobel was our blood  relative .

Gerta doesn’t give much background as to why the girl was considered a witch but my guess is that the town wenches were jealous of her beauty and found the accusations of witchery a convenient excuse to deride her. For whatever reasons, charges were taken seriously, and Gobel was tried as being a witch and sentenced to be burned at the stake. “

 I was chilled.

Claire got a very serious expression on her face and went on, “ But this is where the story gets really interesting. Gerta wrote that it was passed down down by family  present that day, that, when the fires engulfed Dear Gobel , bound on the pyre,  a placid smile was observed on her and , then, in a grand burst , flames sparked into a kaleidoscope of colors and sparkle. They subsided,  revealing she had vanished into the tumult that instant, leaving nothing behind . There was the silence of awe from the onlookers who were frightened by this strange event.  Babelin was gone, bones and all,  but the event was powerful enough that memory carried it forward.”

“Wow,”  I was really taken by this dramatic story.  But the real catcher for me is that, as  Claire ceased her telling and closed the old journal, I saw incandscent colored sparks jump ever so briefly from her fingertips.  She smiled at me.  I know there was a legacy here, and it was Gobel Babelin that had left it.


-Jerry Wendt 2017

Gobel Babelin is mentioned by name in Jesuit Priest Friedrich Spee’s 1631 book Caudio Criminalis, detailing accounts of the famous Würzburg witch trials and executions occuring in 1626-1629. He mentions her as being noted as “The prettiest girl in town,”
-Wikipedia