CARL PALMER

CARL PALMER

Mommy’s Dance

Watching her in the kitchen

as she does dishes at the sink

oldies playing loud on the radio

Kate Smith White Cliffs of Dover

Patti Page Tennessee Waltz

Doris Day Whatever Will Be Will Be

She sings smiles into her sponge microphone

How Much Is That Doggie In The Window

dressed in her bibbed apron evening gown

swaying with her dashing dishtowel partner

Sashaying the linoleum ballroom floor

to big band music Glenn Miller playing

back ground for At Last with Etta James

Twirls while opening drawers cabinet doors

wipes the cupboard counter crooning

Yes Sir That’s My Baby by Count Basie

Gives a deep curtsy to her damp string mop

soft shoes to Bye Bye Blackbird exits stage

right to that place in my heart for Mommy

Dad

  

He always seemed to be the same age,

same weight, same clothes, same voice,

same everything at 40, 50, 60 and 70,

however when I see him at 80, he is old.

His same blue suit that always fit so fine 

swaddles a smaller frame as he shuffles

down the airport ramp beside Mom, still

her same ageless age, not frail like Dad.

New dentures show too white and large

through the thin blue lips of his smile.

Sharp shoulder blades, meatless arms

feel fragile in my welcoming hug.

His sunken eyes detect my sudden realization

he has come here to see me for his last time.

Blinking tears, I exhale hard through my nose,

clench my jaw, swallow to steady my voice. 

I’ve got a brown pill for y’all to take tonight,

lightens the mood remembering those tiny

powerful laxatives Mom always dispensed

to flush on-the-road food after every trip.

That final visit Dad spoke of friends I never met,

adventures never shared, times before my time,

stories heard in the past. This time I listen closer,

so not to forget a single word.

Visitation

   “...and here's a marvelous convenient place for our rehearsal.”

                                                 ~ A Midsummer Night's Dream

His name and date of birth on the left,

hers on the right, etched in the stone

marker displaying their family name

easily seen from the graveyard gate.

The two smile familiar from a recent

photo posed indelible on granite slab

for visits hereafter to this tombstone

resting upon their final resting place.

I look at the picture of Mom and Dad,

trace the letters of my carved surname,

walk around their memorial, mindful

both my parents are far from departed.

Only electing an entombment chamber,

this future family plot paid for in full,

vacantly awaiting infinite residency,

merely missing their mortal remains.

Grateful both are still here with me,

more grateful neither now beside me

to witness my tearful preview of that

day when these empty spaces are filled.

Adobe Abode

The store bought balsa birdhouse

brought by my grand-girl today

now on that same bent rusty nail

hammered in our backyard tree

for the handmade house her

mommy made forty years ago

from two terra cotta flower pots

one upside down atop the other

held in place with preschool glue.

Remnants saved in a special place,

yellow pencil perch, several shattered

shards of clay displaying initials

etched by my three year old

daughter preserved forever

in this old man’s nest of memories.

Horehound Candy

Seeing it on the country store shelf

reminds me of Dad.

“Horehound Candy,” a name snickered

at when I got older,

a flavor not really to my liking,

a root beer licorice cough drop taste,

but still, it was candy

and what kid would turn down candy.

Dad would always buy one stick,

snap it in two, hand me my half,

say “too much sugar will spoil supper,

plus, a penny a piece is ridiculous.”

I don’t remember the first or last

time he bought me a stick,

I just remember he always did,

a sort of father-son rite of passage

when horehound was on the shelf.

So, I ask for one of the candies,

pay the ridiculous price of a quarter

and put half the stick in my mouth.

It tastes just like it did back then,

but I don’t remember when it ever

caused a tear to fall from my eyes.

CARL PALMER

CARL PALMER: Carl “Papa” Palmer of Old Mill Road in Ridgeway, Virginia, lives in University Place, Washington. He is retired from the military and Federal Aviation Administration (FAA) enjoying life as “Papa” to his grand descendants and being a Franciscan Hospice volunteer. Carl is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and Micro Award nominee. MOTTO: Long Weekends Forever!