The Poetry Of.
Francis Masat..................................................
A Sparrow On Her Knee
.. - For Bonnie Arita Masat-Schuetz
On the front step, a red-clay cherub - a red-clay sparrow on her knee.
Going in, we begin our tasks, a pouring out of love, of family ties.
Arranging, cleaning, cooking, decorating, contemplating, reassuring.
Old photos - black and white turned sienna now - are put in place,
colorful umbrellas spike the lawn, bubbles float in the summer sun.
Tables are laden with a party fare of eats and treats and drinks.
The air - pickles, ham and gin; the floors - sticky all tracked in.
Bumping children running, falling, laughing, bumping more,
join white hair, canes and hearing aids in an a cappella chorus
one hundred strong for our rendition of the Happy Birthday song.
Cards and gifts, cakes and din, but no slowing of the party's clock.
Some seek refuge in the kitchen, beguiling family and friends,
lest the waning of the fray tear apart their wanting the day to last.
Songs, jokes, and stories end as the day finally is spent in hugs,
in grasps for each last moment of joy. A once-only wondrous day
that has spun and flitted by for the "birthday girl," her 80-th year.
For a time the "birthday girl" sits resting beneath a shady tree
with the youngest of the clan sitting - like a sparrow on her knee.
There is happiness in her eyes that spreads throughout her voice,
infecting those around her. Beyond the party's pace and fare,
a different resonance is felt, the emotions of a long widowhood.
We know the preparation was our family's celebration; the party
an anticlimax for friends and guests. Clean-up is a bonding time,
made tighter by playful reminiscing, neither maudlin nor teary-eyed.
Moments fill with promises of reunions that probably will never be.
Parting the next morn - a last wave and a glance back at her smile.
And, at her feet upon the step, a red-clay cherub with a sparrow ... .
Break Time
.. -Shorty's Diner, Key West, 1988
An old Anglo limps in,
stands alone in the middle
of the aging 50's diner.
As sunlight filters through
the smoke glazed windows,
he removes his plaid cap
and shouts down the aisle:
"Anybody here remember
a guy named Peanuts?
Hey! He was my father.
He cooked here for years!"
The third time he shouts,
no one turns to look at him.
As if reliving his history,
he shakes his gray head,
lowers it, and limps out.
Two old Cubans shrug,
continue berating Castro,
and extend their hands
as Jesús finally walks up
with their café con leche.
Note: Shorty's, a 50's era diner with horseshoe-counter and red-plastic and
chrome stools, became a convenience store in the 90's and then a bar in 2000.
"Shorty's" neon sign remains above the diner, a common practice in Key West.
Pole Limas
When swapping growing secrets,
I often plant the phrase -
What better place for metaphors
than climbing lima beans?
The tendrils, like you, reach out
twisting up, seeking to hold on.
Those that have yet to grasp
bob free in the breezy sunshine
until taken in hand, trained to climb.
But training must be with care,
when pliable, sapped by heat.
Too much pressure here or there
and they snap! - forever stunted.
"Done right," they grow full length
in their season, along their path.
Hazy, golden summer days
always seem time enough for -
until there are none left
and Fall descends like a hawk,
its cold sharp talons burning
leaves and tendrils brown.
But Fall's spiriting life to harvest
is not a bad thing - it gives to us
that long view of season needed
to look with pride upon our efforts,
to finally savor what we nurture.
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