Remembering Alice Folkart, a Friend   Wednesday, June 07, 2017



remembering, wishing for more

a fellow poet
wrote a remembrance
to another fellow poet who died,
a poem I have been unable
to write myself

about Alice,
a poet of grace
and humor who believed in
and exercised a philosophy that recognized
an essential goodness to the universe and the people
in it, a poet who made me laugh and often think
with her daily poems

such an interesting life she hinted at...

born in Los Angeles,
her mother lost or gone early,
her father, a person of some consequence
in the movie business who apparently loved her
but didn't pay much attention, 
on her own in Los Angeles at a very early age,
time in San Francisco among the Beats,  working
for some time as a model,  living with an
artist, backpacking the world with a female friend,
self-educated, exceedingly well-read through her wandering
times and a business career and until the end,
married at last  twice, two grown  children, married
again in her later life to  Japanese classical musician,
learning his language and moving to Hawaii in the early 70s,
a long, hard recovery after being struck by a hit and run driver
as she walked to the beach, a powerful swimmer, apparently,
unafraid of the tides and rough surf of the ocean
and of life...

bits and pieces revealed in bits and pieces of her poems,  how
so often, I wish she combined it all,  pulled all the pieces
together, elaborating in a memoir or autobiography,
telling the full story of her life...

left now  with only the pieces of her from her poems,
learning, to my surprise, it's true, it is possible to fall in love
on the internet... 







Alice Folkart was a good friend and fellow poet I never met in person, but only though her poems and our internet exchanges about poetry, hers and mine, and the work we did.

Alice died June 6, 2016 at the age of 75, in hospital in Kahlua, Hawaii.

This issue of "Here and Now" will be devoted entirely to her poetry as she posted it over the years in the Blueline, House of 30 Forum. Because of the number of poems posted is so great (in the thousands), I have chosen the last sixteen, posted here in reverse order she wrote and posted them, beginning with her last poem. That may seem an odd arrangement, but Alice endured much and came to her end still very much herself. That is a victory we can all hope for in our own end and the one for Alice I wanted to start with.

Beginning here, the last poem she wrote, ten days from her passing.

I love this poem because it shows Alice at the end was still the Alice we all knew, funny, honest, and tough.



Pure and Simple usually isn't

I AM THE BEREAVED, DAMN IT!

Yes, I know that I'm not dead - check with your marketing department.

Doesn't you ad say: "door-to-door, everything included?"

See. I told you so, SO JUST SEND ME THE BILL, DAMN IT.

What do you mean, you won't know the total until it's all over?

YOU KNOW ITS "ALL OVER" WHEN YOU'RE DEAD - OR AT LEAST SOMEONE DOES.

I am not being snippy, young lady.

And I am bereaved. Wouldn't you be?

Do you want to conclude this or write up a contact or something,

or shall we meet at the nearest Starbucks and settle it over

an iced Frapuchhino and a cookie?

You could overcharge me a bit and feel smug.

Or you could undercharge me and feel smug.

You decide. I just don't want anyone but myself grieving

or having to write checks or anything.

JUST PURE AND SIMPLE


DAMN IT.

5-27-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


What it Feels like

Been under the weather,
or maybe it's been under me.

Feel like flu and depression.
Lost.

5-26-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


Nap Trap

The nap is a trap,
or a nip, or a dip in
the hot springs of life.

It's good for you,
especially if it's in the shade
of some big tree. That would suit me.

But even in a bed, with a red quilt,
a nap will make you wilt, but nicely,
like a lettuce past its prime, taking its time.

5-23-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


Who's Under the Bed - in the Dark


Yes, it's better to hang over the side of the bed

in the dark

to see what's under there making those squidichy noises

than damn the torpedoes or curse the darkness

or even burn the candle at both ends

than to lie here in the humid sheets,

listening to the beats of my heart

which better than my head knows fear when she sees it

In the dark

mice make that sort of noise snipping away at ripe old bedroom slippers

Rats do too, but much louder and they're not polite at all,

they talk with their mouths fill, and they spit out the bones.

What I worry about

in the dark

is MONSTERS

You don't know what they'll be, who they are, in a jar or out?

Some are kind, some are blind, but with keen hearing,

the earrings that they wear are really there for show,

they're not even sparkly.

So I'll bend down over the side of he bed,

let my hair hang down from my head.

If no one tugs it or shears it off, or pulls it out by the roots,

I'll put on my boots and climb down and see who's visiting me.

5-21-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Wisest Choices

rough road,
gruff fellows
plodding beside me.

Dogs barking,
sparrows larking,
would they make me a cup of tea?

They don't look like the type,
probably demand payment
and chide me about trash.

Wouldn't want that,
so I'll just mince along quietly,
stay under the RADAR.

5-20-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````



There It is Again...

There it is again...
Send it away until it is day,
until the horses are all in,
until the weeds bloom roses,
until we know that the sun will rise.

I lift mine eyes..
It is day, the cattle and the sheep
awakened from their sleep
eat flowers with their hay,
until all is day, all is day,
and the sun has risen.

There is a flood coming
but we have built our boat,
know that it will float, a dark ark
one tiny window to let in the dove
and a silver ray from above,
the sun.

There it is again...
lapping waves against our hull,
a gull, not a dove,
and above us rain ceasing, heavens creasing,
we tear our vessel apart, ditch the gloom,
make room for the sun.

5-17-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


Perfect Poem (not bragging)

A perfect poem?
Hiawatha? The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere?
One of Shakespeare's sonnet's?
Almost anything by Shel Silverstein?

No, we don't want perfect poems.
We'll settle for any old angle of words
slithering down the page or the screen,
some popping out and flirting.

This is not a world for perfect poem.
It's a world where people argue about perfection,
or almost anything else that they know nothing about.
So take your perfect poem and mess it up a little.

5-15-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


ER Portrait

They rehydrated me,
two-and-a-half liters of saline,
a CT scan, an EKG,
in fact, two EKGs,
numerous blood draws,
no food
no drink
visits by the jolly, worried doctor
who asked me if I needed a blanket.

Damn straight, I needed a blanket.
I'm sure they keep the ER
cold so that if someone dies
they can keep the corpse fresh.

The jolly doctor, his very self,
bought me two warm blankets.
He tucked me in.

Never tucked in by a doctor before!

He brought me a third blanket later.

An angel hovered over me,
the minute she walked into the room
my pulse rate dropped to close to normal.
A nurse, very young, but business-like,
the other nurses couldn't understand it.

"She didn't even speak!" they whispered.
No, but she was there.

Home now after 10 hours in the ER
mostly waiting, waiting, waiting.
Everyone kind solicitous,
couldn't do enough for me.

Upshot is I need to see my regular doctor today,
get my hemoglobin checked - I'm quite anemic
and maybe arrange for a transfusion.

A transfusion of liver and onions and other
iron-rich delicacies perhaps.

On the road again.

5-13-16`


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


Rising

Couldn't
just couldn't
although I knew
that I should
at least try

But couldn't
write.

Couldn't
think.

Couldn't ignore
my corporeal self.

Couldn't rise above anything,
as if pinned down

by an ugly, black rock,
or a malevolent monster octopus

No air,
no where to go for help,

So I just couldn't
couldn't write

5-11-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


I will try

I will try.

That's the best I can do.

Popcicles, ice chips,
jello too.

Just put one foot
in front of the other.

No mother to lead me.
No fee to pay.

It's a new day.
I must try

5-11-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````

Listening to Someone Else's Childhood

The children across the hall wind down,
mama pulls the blanket of night
up around their ears, their gap-toothed smiles.
Teddy Bears and plush rabbits, special pillows
tuck in with the children, little Gods to keep them safe.

The children across the hall will wind up again
tangled in the glow of dawn, the aroma of bacon,
Bears and Rabbits somewhere in the nest or on the floor,
the cold floor, little feet into little slippers,
a wild whoop, maybe there are pancakes too.

5-10-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


Sunny and warm...

Sunny and warm,
moderate trade winds.

Hah!

Lowering, pulsating
white sky

all day today, yesterday and the day before,
so no need to shut the door

for fear of solar rays,
just keep the bumbershoot handy.

And wonder what the weatherman
has been nipping at.

5-9-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


Transition

The chemo seems to have turned a corner,
satisfied itself that I've had as much as I can take,
that I'm not faking it and I'd better have a rest.

Morning hours difficult, fuzzy, upside down,
green in the gullet, dizzy in the head withe I got out of bed,
but the day struck noon and another tune started to play.

The rest of the day, staying mostly still, but on top of the hill,
I slipped into ease, and if you please, began to feel like myself.
What wealth that is! From the chemo fog and dark

you're never sure that this isn't a Devil's lark,
that you'll feel lost and afraid forever, never home again.
But then comes the sun in your heart. That must be the art of it all.

5-8-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


Unexpected Rain

Blessed rain,
here it is,
long after we'd given up hope.

Just wish I cold
push it off to the east,
off to Canada's fires.

But I can't,
the best I can do
is run outside, quick, before it's gone.

5-7-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


On Starting Another Round

Whee!! Here we go again,
another start, a fresh start
with another round of poems,
anything I want and some I don't want,
but it's all okay, a new day.

Hooray!! Here we are again,
a long line of poems
waiting to be recognized
and set in order, sad, silly, happy, serious,
earth-shaking, dawdling, mewling,

But all fresh and new,
from me to you and everyone else.
What a joy! What freedom.

We write 'em, we read 'em.
They are the bread of life.

5-6-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````


The Truth of It

Into my veins the elixir dripped,
I watched it,
each drop

drip
drop
drip
drop
drop

Out of the hanging bag,
on the IV Tree,
the only tree in sight.
It will never bloom.

Drip, drip, drip:
five people in five brown recliner chairs,
all tipped back to the same angle,
the silent dip dropping
into the veins of the old Chinese guy,
the veins of the sedate Japanese woman,
enlivening the skinny arms and legs
of the young hip hop artist,
somehow caught in the real world
with his guns and knives tattoos.

Go, go,
little drips.
Go, go little drops.
Get those bad guy cells,
the ones with evil intent.
Save us.

That was yesterday.

Today, I'm not so sure,
so tired hat I wonder if I can move?
So dizzy. So fizzy.
It's my brain, not my hair that feels frizzy.

It was like this last time, too.
It will pass, but will first lay down
its minefield, hide its snipers,
spread its poison in our honor.

I see another doctor this afternoon,
a cardiologist. We'll see what he has to say.
This is the day, this is the day.

5-5-16


``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````




Rest in Peace my Poet Friend

It was an honor and a joy to know you.



As usual, everything belongs to who made it. You're welcome to use my stuff, just, if you do, give appropriate credit to "Here and Now" and to me

Also as usual, I am Allen Itz owner and producer of this blog, and a not so diligent seller of books, specifically these and specifically here:

Amazon, Barnes and Noble, iBookstore, Sony eBookstore, Copia, Garner's, Baker & Taylor, eSentral, Scribd, Oyster, Flipkart, Ciando and Kobo (and, through Kobo,  brick and mortar retail booksellers all across America and abroad
 I welcome your comments below on this issue and the poetry and photography featured in it.

  Just click the "Comment" tab below.





Poetry

New Days & New Ways


Places and Spaces 




Always to the Light




Goes Around Comes Around



Pushing Clouds Against the Wind




And, for those print-bent, available at Amazon and select coffeehouses in San Antonio


Seven Beats a Second





Fiction


Sonyador - The Dreamer




                                                            

  Peace in Our Time









0 Comments:

Post a Comment



Archives
May 2006
June 2006
July 2006
August 2006
September 2006
October 2006
November 2006
December 2006
January 2007
February 2007
March 2007
April 2007
May 2007
June 2007
July 2007
August 2007
September 2007
October 2007
November 2007
December 2007
January 2008
February 2008
March 2008
April 2008
May 2008
June 2008
July 2008
August 2008
September 2008
October 2008
November 2008
December 2008
January 2009
February 2009
March 2009
April 2009
May 2009
June 2009
July 2009
August 2009
September 2009
October 2009
November 2009
December 2009
January 2010
February 2010
March 2010
April 2010
May 2010
June 2010
July 2010
August 2010
September 2010
October 2010
November 2010
December 2010
January 2011
February 2011
March 2011
April 2011
May 2011
June 2011
July 2011
August 2011
September 2011
October 2011
November 2011
December 2011
January 2012
February 2012
March 2012
April 2012
May 2012
June 2012
July 2012
August 2012
September 2012
October 2012
November 2012
December 2012
January 2013
February 2013
March 2013
April 2013
May 2013
June 2013
July 2013
August 2013
September 2013
October 2013
November 2013
December 2013
January 2014
February 2014
March 2014
April 2014
May 2014
June 2014
July 2014
August 2014
September 2014
October 2014
November 2014
December 2014
January 2015
February 2015
March 2015
April 2015
May 2015
June 2015
July 2015
August 2015
September 2015
October 2015
November 2015
December 2015
January 2016
February 2016
March 2016
April 2016
May 2016
June 2016
July 2016
August 2016
September 2016
October 2016
November 2016
December 2016
January 2017
February 2017
March 2017
April 2017
May 2017
June 2017
July 2017
August 2017
September 2017
October 2017
Links
Loch Raven Review
Mindfire Renewed
Holy Groove Records
Tryst
Poems Niederngasse
BlazeVOX
Eclectica
Michaela Gabriel's In.Visible.Ink
zafusy
The Blogging Poet
Poetsarus.Com
Wild Poetry Forum
Blueline Poetry Forum
The Writer's Block Poetry Forum
The Word Distillery Poetry Forum
Gary Blankenship
The Hiss Quarterly
Thunder In Winter, Snow In Summer
Lawrence Trujillo Artsite
Arlene Ang
The Comstock Review
Thane Zander
Pitching Pennies
The Rain In My Purse
Dave Ruslander
S. Thomas Summers
Clif Keller's Music
Vienna's Gallery
Shawn Nacona Stroud
Beau Blue
Downside up
Dan Cuddy
Christine Kiefer
David Anthony
Layman Lyric
Scott Acheson
Christopher George
James Lineberger
Joanna M. Weston
Desert Moon Review
Octopus Beak Inc.
Wrong Planet...Right Universe
Poetry and Poets in Rags
Teresa White
Camroc Press Review
The Angry Poet