A POEM OF THE NIGHT

                                      

                                  A Poem Of The Night         

                                            ( May 28, 2012)

                                 Requiem by M. Rassler

                                     My heart dwells,

                                     within a fist

                                     called Sorrow,

                                     No hope that

                                     tears leave

                                     my tomorrow.

                                    Grief, You uninvited guest,

                                    Again to gift unrest.

                                    What roots to

                                    fast grow deep,

                                    in those routines

                                    called Normal?

                                    What mask to choose

                                    and paste upon my face,

                                    An inner phantom's craze,

                                    To dress my countenance

                                    in shadows of the formal.

                                  Oh Grief, You uninvited guest,

                                        Again to gift unrest.

                                  What lessons to be learned?

                                   What passions to control?

                                    What future to unfold?

                                  Oh, Grief, You uninvited guest.

       
                                         
                       
                                       

THE LETTERS

     THE LETTERS

                                                                             

              Dear Checkie,

              Here we're once again. You, close by my side in the bed we three have shared for over eleven years.

How I think of the first day we saw you. Your Pop watched you climb to the top of the mountain your brothers made with their little bodies cuddled together and you at the top of the heap.

           "That dog is bright. If he were human he be a lawyer. That's it. That dog is for me!"

            The rest is history ... the history of the Jack Russell terrier that took off with our hearts. Your quirks that puzzled us. Your psychosis with the opening of soda cans.  The crazy twirling, jumping and barking every time you heard the pop! I will never stop seeing you at the pop of a can.  

            How can we ever go again to the mountains and not remember the eight years of making you fall scarves and your pillow case to match? You rode on my lap on that pillow all the way to Georgia. An extension of ourselves. A limb easily grafted into our lives by your constant adoration. A limb soon to be ripped from us. Checkers, dear Checkie, my Checkie....

          Dear Mom,

          Mom, don't you know? I can understand you now! Since the last time we saw my vet something happened! That mumbled jumble of  blah,blah,blah, then, the understood word, treats! The sounds made, like gibberish, I can understand all of it now MOM! No more blah, blah, blah. But Mom why do you and Pop keep leaking? Every time you bend down and kiss me I feel it Mom. Something like a leaky faucet. Mom, you got to get that fixed. And, Mom ... what do you mean by holding me and whispering?

      "Checkie, I'm leaving a bell on our front door. Hoping and praying that when my turn comes they send you to get me. Gotta get your wings, my little buddy." 

          Dear Checkie,

               Had to write again. Can't say too much around you. It seems different now. Almost like you understand. It helps to write you letters. Oh, my doggy, tomorrow is the day. Your Pop has chosen a place of rest for you that we can see sitting in the pool area. We know how much you loved to swim with us. Oh, Checkie, the vet will come to us. Too hard to do this in a frigid office. Our Little Muscle....

                Dear Mom,

                Mom, I got a big ball heavy on my butt. It drags me down. Why am I so sleepy, Mom? I don't like my food. Well, maybe still like chicken. Mom, why don't you smile anymore? Your leak is worse Mom. Mom, I love you Mom.  Feel funny. Gotta be around you now. Closer. Something's happening to me. Want to be on you, Mom. Or Pop.

                                                                            

THE BEST...

                                   THE BEST EXOTIC MARIGOLD HOTEL

                                                "If things are not all right...."

                                                           

              

                         He said we needed to get away for a few hours. Our doggy still showing signs ... and we struggling. He researched a movie for us to go and forget some of our troubles.  Off we went to see The Best Exotic Marigold Hotel! 

                          The attendance at the movie theater surprised us. It was not the age of the people, movie viewers about our age, those passing the 55 senior citizen line. What made us look twice at the theater were the many of them present. Most of the time at that early hour of the day my husband and I sit there like the last two pins on a pin-cushion.  

                          The movie turned out to be delightful. I won't spoil it for anyone wanting to experience it. I cried and I laughed. Usually the signs for me of wonderful writing. I wish I could tell a story so well.

                           Sure, I would have changed some things. People that have written their stories have a way of wanting to tweak material in their own way. But, many of the themes covered in the movie so moved me, that I recommend the movie to anyone that would like to take a trip into other lands ... the visible, touchable, country of India and the invisible, emotional country of the senior citizen. The senior citizen still yearning for life, adventure, and love.

                           This is definitely a wonderful piece of art. If you go see it I would love to hear what you thought of it. What did the you within you think? What beauty did the artist in you observe? 

       Best line from the movie:  "Everything will turn out all right at the end. If things are not all right then, it is not the end!" 

                      Love those words!  Shall dance with them on my hyphen for a while!

                                     To all my blog readers ... love you.

Who Was Thomas Kincade?

                                                                    
                                                        Who Was Thomas Kincade?

                                                     January 19, 1958 - April 6, 2012

             Thomas Kincade, called the Painter of Light, became famous for his paintings with glowing hihglights and beautiful pastel colors.
              He drew many of his inspirations from his hometown of Placerville when he painted streets and snow scenes.
              He loved to paint idyllic settings such as gardens, streams, stone cottages and lighthouses.
              Before his death Thomas Kincade was claimed to be "the most-collected living artist" of America.
              It was estimated that 1 of every 20 American homes owned one of his paintings.
              Even with his popularity and talent Thomas Kincade received much criticism from the fine-art world. They complained about the extent that he had commercialized his art.
              Harsh critiques called his paintings, "chocolate box art," and "mall art."
              In 2001, Kinkade said, "I am really the most controversial artist in the world."
                       
                       It makes me wonder... did such criticism have a dark influence in the painter's life?
                     
                       What drove this talented painter off the path, and into the life of addiction that brought his demise?    
                                          COMING HOME ...    (for him and for me.)           

                                                    by Amarilys G. Rassler                                  

                       Coming home                                                 

                       to myself,

                                                            A place in the woods,
                                                            with hope colored-trees
                                                            for the multiple mees,
                                                            to climb and be free.

                                        Coming home
                                        to myself,

            Finding Peace on The Way,
            Knowing Light draweth near,
            Drying fast every tear.

                     Coming home
                         to myself,

             Sensing Love's tender tap,
             As He extends me His map,

                 Where cottage divine
                   with sparkles of light,
                       Embraced by The Vine,

                                                                
                                                             Awaits to be mine.
                                                          
                                                                              Coming home....

WHAT HAPPENED THIS MOTHER'S DAY

  WHAT HAPPENED THIS MOTHER'S DAY...

                 This Mother's Day:

                                                   Along the regular Cuban-American chatter we had three dogs that were sort of getting acquainted, our Jack Russell, my daughter's Lab and my brother's Shar Pei puppy.

                                                   Sooo, the sweet elderly man we invited from church said his head was spinning! He had led a secluded life in Montana before coming to Florida and this kind of family gathering was a very new experience for him.
                                                 
                                                    The flan was gobbled up first of all even though we had chocolate silk pie, pecan, apple and sweet potato pies. Imagine that! My sister-in-law said we tilted over to the Cuban side of the hyphen on that one!
                                                     We ate a wonderful stuffed turkey prepared by my husband who follows the recipe his grandmother left us.
                                                      But, we also made quite a dent on the Moros Cristianos, my sister-in-law's mother always makes. Something to die for. Christian Moors, a dish made with white rice and black beans.

                This Mother's Day:
                                                     We ate, they barked, we laughed. And at the good-byes the elderly gentleman from church said,
                                                      "There's only family here Marggie. Why did you invite me?"

                                                         "Because you're family now," I said.

                                                           Then ... he cried.

Mother's Day Blog

                    MOTHER'S DAY BLOG                                          To my mothers, I love you!
  

                                                     Mother's Day...A Happening           

                                                          Cuban and American

           The hands pulled my strands of hair softly. My mother worked my tresses, rolling them into papelillos, paper bag strips...a way of curling hair in Cuba during the fifties.        

            Except for our hair my sister and I were ready to go. It was Mother's Day and my mother dressed us alike. She copied a pattern from the fancy stores in Havana, those that brought in the stylish garments from the States, and she paid a seamstress to make the dresses. Ruffles, lace and pastel colors dazzled our outfits...matching bows on our hair. The Gacio girls appeared dressed like any well dressed American girls on Mother's Day...except for one thing. They both had a special adornment pinned to the top of their dress. A red rosebud.

             My mother wore a similar red flower though larger on her dress but when my Abuela Tata came in I soon noticed hers was different, snow white. So I asked...

             "Mami, we wear red flowers and Abuela Tata white? Is it because she doesn't like red?"

             My mother took me aside and whispered. "No, Mayi. It's because her mamá is in heaven. Ours are here with us. The Cuban custom is to wear a flower on Mother's Day To honor your mamá. The color chosen tells where your mamá is."

             Every time I saw my Abuela Tata that day I looked at her white rose and felt sad for her. No mamá.

   

       My Two Mothers / Cuban

      The first mother I ever knew is my Cuban mother. She nursed me through the illness, called polio, when I was four. She worked so hard trying to give life to what lacked it...my leg. She patiently and constantly draped heated cloths on my paralyzed leg, following the doctor's orders. When we came to live in  the states, for a very long time, my mother bought very few garments for herself. Always the concentration remained on her daughters. She didn't want us to be embarrassed if we had to attend a school function. Any money that could be spared went for the benefit of her girls. My Cuban mother taught me what it is like to love sacrificially.  

        My Two Mothers / American

       An American lady came into my life more than thirty years ago. I was going through a trauma and became an emotional and spiritual cripple. This lady brought in the light. She worked so hard trying to give life to what lacked it...my soul. She understood what I was going through and she patiently stayed and prayed with me till the storm passed. Her kindness and example motivates me, even to this day to help others going through the same kinds of experiences. This lady honors me by calling me her Cuban daughter.

                                      My mother, Hilda Gacio.   My mother, Betty Robinson.

                                                   CUBAN                        AMERICAN

                                               

     Once again, this Mother's day, I'll be on the hyphen. One arm around my Cuban mother and one arm around my American mother.

     This Mother's Day, the Lord willing, we will have a family reunion at our house. In the air will be the Cuban's favorite scent of a clean house, Pinesol, competing with the aroma of my husband's American style turkey with stuffing. There will be flan and apple pie. The happy rumble of Spanish spoken by many at once will rock us all with laughter when we can't understand the words spoken. And the American order of a meal ready on time will still baffle me. This Mother's Day I will sit on my hyphen and once again love it all. And on our table there will be...red roses.

  

                                                 
                                                                  
                        

ART WORK IN ROMA, 1995

Did you ever have a magical moment? One of those dots in time in your life you wish you could stay in it...forever.

                                                               The Trevi Fountain

                                                 

      

                               ART WORK IN ROMA, 1995
                 
                         

        I felt his kiss and then he left, a man on a mission. I watched my high-school History teacher

disappear among the crowd down the narrow Via. My prince. Not on a white horse but instead,

wearing snow-white K-Mart sneakers.

Somewhere from the past I heard my grandmother's voice.

     "Enjoy your husband, Mayi, for loneliness has the face of a stray dog."

     The voice of my father, the Cuban refugee, seemed to follow hers. "Make memories, Mayita.

Make memories. They can take things from you, but not your memories."

     I sat on the stone bench, feeling the cold penetrating through my clothes while contentment

kept me warm within. The sounds of fast spoken Italian rippled like the waters of the fountain

before me. Somewhere in the vicinity, an establishment baked bread, pane italiano, spreading its tease.

I immersed myself in all of it, the whole atmosphere that enveloped me. Mesmerized, I gazed at the

great monstrosity of art work, in front of me, The Trevi Fountain. I held my breath as the sun's rays

slipped back, withdrawing from the structure, like an actor on stage after his encore, before, the final

exit. So, I waited. Waited for the moment when dusk would lay its first kiss on the statutes and then,

the metamorphosis, when the lights that automatically come on at night, made their splash.

My thoughts wandered in different directions as I waited. I thought of my husband on his mission.

   "Where do you want to eat? It's our last night in Rome," he asked me.

   "How about some place, small and quaint. Where the Italians eat? Surprise me."

   Again the voice of my father surfaced. "Make memories," he said. Right after his doctor

informed us, "It's brain cancer."

   Memories, to keep like treasures, as art work, in the museum I held within, often visited on

rainy days. .

   Lights flashed and the Fountain sprung to its night life. I heard' the familiar squeak of

sneakers beside me and saw my husband's face aglow.

   ''You're going to like this place."

   I stood next to my husband as we took in the beauty of the Trevi Fountain together maybe for

the last time. We can't count on tomorrows.

   Nearby, I could hear an Italiano, playing his violin and singing Arrivederci Roma. My husband

took my hand and we walked along the throng, down the Via toward the place he had found. I

smiled as I searched the street ... no stray dogs that night. ~

             

               Of all the stories I have written, this is one of my 
                  favorite ones. Every time I read it I'm there.

      

THE MUSIC BOX

                                                
                                                       Jordan dressed as Larry The Tomato
                                                                 (first birthday party)
                                                 dress designed by great-grandmother, Hilda
                                                           sewn by Marggie, her Nana.

   

                                                               THE MUSIC BOX

        The last thing I saw when I stood at the door of my bedroom in Cuba to leave the country was The Music Box. My father bought it for me on my seventh birthday and I treasured it for three years. I wanted to bring it with me but it was too heavy and we needed to place as much clothing and shoes as possible in the bag. Who knew when there would be money for that in the states.

         This day the second of May, 2012, is my granddaughter Jordan's birthday and she is ten today. The same age I was when I left Cuba.

         Her father and mother honored  me when she was born by giving her my name, Amarilys, for her middle name.

         This week I spent thinking about what to give my granddaughter for her 10th birthday. I wanted it to be super special. I think of that time when I was ten and I'm so thankful that she won't be packed and leaving us.

         What could I get my Jordan Amarilys for this special birthday? Now in this time in my life when I find myself attending too many funerals and few baby showers. This is the time in which what I do for my family and friends counts more than ever.  

          So...off I went and bought my Jordan a beautiful Music Box. It plays Unforgettable. And she is.            

          The clerk in the store called, THINGS REMEMBERED asked, "And what do you want the engraving to say, Ma'am."

                      They inscribed on the top our blessing.

                                   To Jordan Amarilys   From Papa and Nana

                                 "May The LORD always be your SHEPHERD."

                                                    Psalm 23:1