I marveled at the impoverished viejitas wilting on stony sidewalks,
watered their pleading faces
lined with parched furrows
with tears from my eyes,
nourished them
with pesos from my pockets.
I wondered at women, plump as oranges
in their child-bearing years,
fallen from the sheltering arms of family
tumbled onto shadowed curbs,
stretching withered palms toward strangers
from the barren nooks of nowhere.
But not from nowhere;
the viejitas are here, on the same streets,
still or again, these many decades later.
Looking into bruised eyes,
sharp and pleading or blurred and vague,
I glimpse my fearsome fate:
Me, bereft, clutching a rebozo,
begging money for a bolillo, a bite of bread,
warning plump female passersby
still ripening in the sunny smiles of their men,
with my whispered pleas for pity, for a peso,
while they pretend not to see that I have fallen,
Believing they could never, ever fall.
Delphinium Dancing
By Dr. Linda Sonna
Delphinium, Oil on canvas by Linda Sonna
a shake of moussed mane and the bright blue baubles dangling from her ears dip bob jingle. "aren't they cute? cute?" her orange lips grin the answer
as far off humans gouge the earth digging melting smelting molding metal
weighing mixing pressing stamping plastic to earn make ship sell buy burying blue of sky shimmer of sea twinkle of light for baubles that dangle briefly
that dangle like - there! in the meadow!
- Published May, 2004
Uncle Jesse's Giggles
By Dr. Linda Sonna
Each time you entered my toddler’s world, we giggled at the rattle of coins inside your piggy bank shaped like a moo-cow, giggled at cartoons. "That Bugs! Ain’t he somethin'?” you exclaimed. "Yes!" I agreed. "Somethin'!"
In first grade I felt a bit afraid of you. A man five times my size should draw me into his world, not follow me into mine, shake a toy bank at my ear, giggle at cartoons. "That Bugs! Ain’t he somethin'?” you exclaimed, your hazel eyes brimming with delight, I tried to smile when I nodded.
In third grade I was tired of rattling coins, of watching you watch cartoons, “Yes, Uncle Jesse," I sighed. "Bugs Bunny is something else,” while wishing other, better friends would paint sparkles in your lonely eyes. draw out your giggles. so I could play, guilt-free, with my friends..
In fourth grade, I celebrated your birthday, By giggled at your bank rattles and cartoons. "That Bugs, ain’t he something!" I exclaimed! "That Bugs! Ain't he somethin'?" you echoed with delight. You loved my present: a wind-up, but... “Not for a full-grown man,” Gram said, snatching the toy from your clumsy hands and stealing your smile.
In fifth grade I determined to free your mind held hostage, I knew, by a dearth of words. As you rattled your moo-cow bank, I explained: “Cows eat grass, Uncle Jesse. Beef comes from cows. Can you say ‘beef’? Say 'beef'!” I held my breath, your hand, awaiting the miracle of thoughts unleashed. “Moo cow!” you exclaimed, giggles falling like tears from your broken mind.
As a teen I cringed as you held your silly bank to my ear annoyed by your eyes that sagged with longing for a companion, for a friend to join your endless childhood. I couldn't pretend that a cartoon bunny was something, or anything.
In my twenties, I floundered in great currents of confusion, Sometimes envying your simplified mind, wishing to delight in a bank's rattle, to giggle at cartoon rabbit. I wished that I thought that anything was something.
While struggling through my thirties, I defied Gram’s rule on your birthday, by placing a toy bank and stuffed toy in your outstretched hands. I watched you cartoons Trying but failing to see them through your eyes. While exclaiming that good old Bugs was something And as you blessed me with your joyful smile, I found my own.
In my forties, When you died, I had yet to unravel the appeal of banks and Bugs Bunny I only knew that Uncle Jesse’s purity of joy