Reflection of Mom near the end

Mom’s dementia ascended slowly

roiling up from sticky recesses

gradually and inexorably clouding

her mind with cloying clinging fog.

occasionally the contact points

seemed inexplicably to be washed

or blown clean for brief patches

of lucid clarity in bright eyes beaming.

but near the end most of her

recognitions were through sad

opaque gloom spotted windows.

she first lost her skill with numbers

then her sharpness with games.

then the dense darkening mist

smothered the small comfort old

photo albums had been bringing her

for quite some time.

and she was also scared a lot.

birds appeared looming on or swooping

down suddenly from walls.

children on cereal box labels talked soothingly

to her but noisy neighbors clattered on the roof

and phantasms turned knobs in the long

lonely terrifying nights…

but up till near the very end she loved a visit

and could turn a light on in the

dimming inside and gratefully glow              

whilst confabulating a gathering of her

increasingly imagined bearings.

once, around this time, I went into her room

to help her to lunch from her recliner

cattycornered next to the mirrored

sliding door closet opposite the TV.

bending forward to rise out of her chair

she caught the gaze of a rumpled old grey woman

smiling broadly back at her from the glass

and proudly proclaimed  to the lady

in the  reflection:

“this is my son”

“how do you do?” I said.

“she’s a very nice woman” mom stage whispered

confidentially tilting her head toward the closet door.

“I’m sure she is.” I said quite confidently

and as firmly matter of fact as possible.

And then we trundled off to eat our lunch.

weeks later

she fell 

from bed

into delirium

and sepsis

and shocked silence

interrupted only

by animated

Croatian pleadings

with her own mother 

and feverish mumbled

rosary drones to her

other mother,

Mary.

in the end

they were all

very nice women.

all together

with each other.

PB March 2009

My Father’s Hands

my father had

incredibly strong hands

that started working  hard

in the family bakery

at a very early age

and rarely stopped

thereafter.

those hands kneaded

thousands of pounds

of bread and cake dough,

made millions of rolls

and pastries and

cookies and cakes,

chipped and caulked

the hulls of war ships

in the Hoboken shipyard,

built truck bodies

for Adam Black,

worked on family cars

at all hours,

dug gardens

and trimmed shrubberies,

shoveled tons of snow,

and fixed and patched

and cleaned

a myriad of things.

they were incredible hands:

big wide palms and

broad thick fingers.

usually there was

a recent cut or gauge

whose healing was delayed

by the constant motion.

permanently

calloused,

weathered,

surprisingly deft,

my father’s hands

could always handle

seriously hot  objects. 

he had proud

working class hands.

they were not

catching or throwing hands.

they were not playful hands.

they were not caressing

or soothing hands.

they could

occasionally be

angry, violent hands

hands that struck

swift and hard:

awe-fully strong hands

that felt like padded clubs

against the head or shoulders.

hard love hands

that were also

generous hands

willing to help

family or strangers

or give the shirt off his back

or slip a twenty

or wrap up some goodies

to take away from a visit

and artistic hands

creating bouquets of flowers

atop luscious cakes

with beautiful scrolled script

with delicate loops and

filigree flourishes.

hands that mixed colors

of icings and fillings

with minced nuts and fruit jams

and french creams

and drizzled chocolates 

hands that

whipped potatoes

so fluffy and thick

and glutinously flavorful

they seemed imagined.

they were working hands

attached to strong arms

that also bore many scars

of oven burns

and nicks and cuts

from reaching

in and under

and around

so many projects.

and his shoulders

were broad.

And his ribcage

formed the slats

of a moderately sized 

barrel chest.

but he was,

surprisingly,

not a big man.

he was, in fact,

a welter-weight

who came on

like a light-heavy.

my father was also

a hand cruncher:

one of those men

who insist on making

a rather painfully

strong impression

while shaking hands

with other men, 

earlier in his life,

perhaps it was

to make it clear

that he was

way stronger

than he looked.

He was.

later in his life,

perhaps it was to show

that he was still

very powerful.

He was.

nowadays

he isn’t

as much.

his eyes fail him

his legs are constantly aching

his stamina is waning

his ninety-odd

year old hands

have begun to lose

the firmness

of their grip

and his fingers.

have started to loose

the feeling

at their ends

they can no longer

easily master

the many tasks

he still attempts:

keeping busy

to chase the harpies

of remorse and regret

and loneliness away

when I visit

he’s always doing

some chore:

repainting

recleaning

rearranging

digging and chopping

washing and cooking

and baking and baking

he looks small and wiry

wild and teary eyed

mid motion

semi startled

tatty and disheveled

in worn out work clothes

that are clean

but unmended

he rarely stops

what he is doing

and often takes

a while, if at all

to change gears

and address

his visitor

and when he does

there are long

reminiscences

about work

or diatribes

about the systems

or lecturettes

about healthy eating

and somewhere

in the midst of

all this, I move

gingerly closer to him

and he lets me

button his shirt

for him

passively

like a small boy

shaking his head

a bit ruefully.

and I look

down at those

remarkable hands

amidst

remorse and regret

and with a sad

wistful nostalgia

for a closeness

barely felt

with my fathers hands

P Bukovec 2006

a good

Good Friday

morning sun

burns  through

the chill breezes

as I gimp

along

my morning walk

in the still

cool woods

aching leg

a minor

mortification

to push

through

in sweating

commemoration

of many years past

fasts and

hard benched

remembrances of

jesus’ walk.

fleeting

memories

flit  by of

mumbled prayers

and

stabat maters

and endless sermons

and eternal

stations of the

cross

which the

quick staccato

tapping of

the woodpecker

informs me

is now

a hollow

and decaying

tree.

a wistful

seriousness

clings to me,

a cloud of smoke

around my head

moving through 

chirps and wild daffy

celebrations of

pagan spring,

I am

awake

afresh

and saved.

redeemed

naturally

beatifically

and simply

from the

institutions

built upon

his tomb.

spring rain

has

washed

through here.

buds grow.

those

horrid

perversions

of his

plain

poetry

cannot

touch me

here.

the evergreen

scent

incenses me

here.

far from

the retched

pomp

and

betrayed

circumstance

of

pederasts

and

swollen men

in  fancy robes

masked

in thin

hypocrisy

here

I limp

in solemn

procession

though

my new

cathedral

away from

old sacrifices

toward

more

ancient

easters

pb 2011

Memories of Ivo as a lad

First impression:                                        

earnestly haphazard:

a tangle of fine stringy hair

combed with

splayed fingers,

a mouth exaggerating

amazement with expressive lips

back lit

by gleefully smiling eyes…

his clothes a careful shamble

he was sweet and

ever so charming

quite smart

with an apparent

innate way with words

young but not quite

innocent, he was

precociously

sophisticated

piercingly inquisitive,

and headlong in hot pursuit

of hipster decadence:

a neophyte libertine,

budding eclectic

dope fiend,

traveler in the realm

of the senses,

on safari satori

in and out of Africa

and back to read English

at Cambridge and swirl

to the incredible string

bands of troubadours

and merry men wandering

hippy dippy through

mind fields of near madness

and enlightened chaos…

edgy and a touch driven

maybe

by some nurturance

long past lost

looking for pleasures

whilst more deeply

craving some soothing

now and evermore

privileged but down to

earth and full of fun

mischief

and sad stories

of longing and angry

loniness and public

school If-fy-ness

and coming up and out

from a diminishing status

into a tangle of

uncertain possibilities

and long ago

we wandered for a while

together hanging out

like brothers from

disparate mothers,

me the older

he the wilder

passing spliffs

and witticisms

and wisdoms

around good

music and meals

in Lusaka and Cambridge,

and Kensington and Germantown

expats from different

worlds of estrangement

and slightly different times

finding ourselves

on the road

and at home

feeling at odds in

strangely familiar worlds

on intersecting

pilgrimages

smoking fags

scarfing cups of tea

dropping acid at

an Indian restaurant meal

then meandering

through winding

wet streets

palavering

philosophical

psychological

and cultural

ramblings

around

through

and back on

ourselves

visiting

imagined

burned-out

basements

tripping

down

electric

buzzing

avenues

till the

fuzz burned

low

we were not quiet

with ourselves then

and probably not

with each other

(stillness would take years

to come by the harder ways

to peace)

but we found

some solace and soulful

closeness with each other:

unrelated brothers

with a shared sister.

PB 2013