memories

MEMORY SPOONS

Were TV ads better
In the old black & white days?
Can’t help remembering
The Dutch boy
With his great straight hair
Painting colorful stripes
That imagination changed
From black and white swipes
Of his magical brush

Oh, the Lipton Teabag man!
Dressed in captain blues
(Who knew? It was black & white TV)
And the steam from the cup
On wintry days
Made me send telepathic pleas
To my mother in the kitchen
Turn on the kettle
Let the water bubble up
But she never heard

Jello!
Plain cherry or orange
Or a can of fruit cocktail
Dumped in
(My mother’s cooking method)
J-E-L-L-O
So sweet and always
So little to eat
In small refrigerated cups
Then years later
Dieting
Jello not so much fun anymore
When it replaced chocolate
In a calorie war

How I wanted to be
The Sun-Maid Raisins girl!
In bonnet with basket
Moving through the vines
So exciting for me
Who lived in a city
Not much growing through cement
But I confess
A few years later
When the California raisins
Danced inside my TV
There was no contest
As I sang
“Heard it through the grapevine”

So this poem grew
From my son Micah’s
Winter Solstice gift to me
Not only 4 advertising spoons
For my collection
But also 4 memories
Two gifts in one
Thanks!!!!

(c) 2019 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: ad spoons

COFFEEHOUSE ON NEW YORK AV

(ANOTHER PRE-CASINO, ATLANTIC CITY MEMOIR)

Troubadour in dark room
Singing and strumming
“Go away from my window…”
Thinks he can tell me
What I need
Coffee grinding ten steps away
Strings strangling a heart
Fibrillating to future rejections
“It ain’t me, babe” soaring through
The smoky room
Zinging in, trying to make me cry
With his lying eyes
So why’d he pursue me
Take me to his room and
Almost ruin me
Thinks he can croon
By the light of the
Not-yet-landed-upon-Moon
Me nervously twirling my spoon
Roiling the brew
To read a few escaped coffee grounds
What is my future
Another tall, dark stranger
I’ll love and lose?
Caffeine finally affects
The saddened brain
Venomously I think
He’s not even a quarter good as Dylan
Can’t help wondering, though
When I’ll be an adult
So to all you young girls,
Yeah, not really women
We’re fragile little girls
When it comes to secret chambers
Of the heart
Here to tell you
Lived despite the pain
But can’t say
I ever used the label
“Adult”
Because
For the very sensitive
Adulthood is merely in the
Eyes of children
And the memory comes through
When I’ve sipped a few
Double-shot espressos…

(c) 2018 Clarissa Simmens (ViataMaja)
IMAGE: kava3