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Adrienne Veronese

Poet, Novelist, Author, Essayist, Humorist

ADRIENNE'S POETRY

The Golden Ticket

They sleep on bus station floors
wrapped in each other
on well-bought sleeping bags,
their guitar the perfect piece
of accent furniture
for shelving shoes & other sundries.

 

By virtue of boarding pass, they
are not forced to sleep outside the margins.

In a world of golden tickets
and pockets making little more
than fashion statements
Herman Hess lingers by their side
despite being split in two
weathered and torn
reminding us of Siddhartha's
lost forgotten bedroom slippers.

& in a world of revisionist history where
he is slouching toward Satori
on a crowd sourced trajectory,
where just beyond city's financial
towers looming over lost horizons
we just as easily walk on gilded splinters
past tech industry's golden calf,
continue down Mission Street toward Market
to a place where golden tickets never go,
A place where piss soaked sleeping bags
are old and worn — if there at all
& there is little memory of anything

but lost dreams among the hopeful

of shoes left by a door that locks at night.

 

& finding yourself at this ridiculous task
of reconciling the balance of shiny things
look once again before averting your eyes
& tell yourself,
“So, it has all come to this."



For Lew Welch
San Francisco
Nov 29, 2017


 

 

Circular Ellipsis

 

at twenty I wrote a poem

that would be a song sung

by a woman in her twenties when I was sixty

 

at thirty I wrote a poem

that was a dream I had at twelve

of a woman who is eternal

 

at forty I found that place

between the biding time and fully awake

which activated at fifty

when someone showed up

and showed me that point in my dreaming

when they first arrived, and how it all looked

through their eyes

 

so that when I turned sixty a girl of twenty

would know there would be ears tuned

to the song she would sing

because it was their voice

who brought it to her

in the first place

 

and always will...

 

Photo by Da Kraplak

 

When Raised by Princes

This is what happens when royalty

which exists independent of the empire,

which springs from the loins of the tribe itself,

makes it past the checkpoints

& other measures meant to filter them out.

 

This is what happens when that royalty

follows the trail of impossible chords

& turns of phrase unearthed

by the simple human condition

shared through this common experience:

doves cry all along the watchtower

and we are destined to be left standing one day

beneath a collective purple raincloud.

 

& I wouldn't have it any other way.

That's how it is with families.

We do what we can to raise each other up

the best way we know how.

 

 

for our Prince

April 22, 2016

Gravenstein

 

 

This was the scent that marked the end of summer

and the inevitable waltz into autumn's

colorful dance of crisp air and sweaters:

Cousin Tommy's delivery of

his annual bushel of gravensteins

from the tree at the end of his drive.

 

This was an afternoon of peeling and slicing -

always with the sharpest of paring knives -

never, ever with one of those newfangled things

made for the woman too helpless to handle a knife.

 

This was the trip downstairs to the big freezer

with trays of sliced apples to quick-freeze

while applesauce simmered upstairs

on the stove top and canning jars sterilized

in the hot water bath drawn for the occasion.

 

This was the cooking lesson given

at the kitchen counter

because every good woman must know

how to make a pie crust from scratch

and how to fill it with the perfect thin slices

tossed in sugar, a pinch of salt

and some lemon juice.

 

This is the scent that each year fills my kitchen

and for an evening transports me back

to that table where I watched the good woman

take that first satisfying bite and felt the season

wrap its arms around me and deliver on its warm

sweet promises once again.

 

For Betty

photo by Monika Grabkowska

Diogenes Shrugged

 “Fuck Atlas,” she sighed,

pouring another glass of wine

and adjusting her tiara.

“He doesn't interest me nearly as much

as that dude who wandered through the dark

looking for an honest corporation.”

 

I didn't have the heart to tell her

she had it wrong

or perhaps she didn't have the heart to tell me

she had it right.

 

The Barefoot Corporation is slouching toward Bethlehem

and we are freezing to death in the heat of global warming

that cannot be agreed upon. Pundits quote experts

that I have no lines for, as the Expert Poem

has already been written and discarded

as inadmissible evidence

of this endless effort

to divide us along lines

that keep us in

always

always

always

unable to draw a circle at least

a hundred feet round

and use what we find within

to think our way

out

of

this

trap.

 

 

For G

 

again


sunrise
this
painted lady
i cannot take my eyes off
& by noon i am drunk
on her perfume
clutching
this wild bouquet
between my teeth
stumbling up
the aisle of spring
as if this all wasn't new
not at all concerned
with
my
reputation

 

Of Cabbages and Kings


December licks the winter garden with an icy tongue
and I am left to wonder if there will be too little green
to gift neighbors with on the eve of newborn Kings.

Despite tales of old and promises of eternity
I begin to suspect this is no longer the season of wonder
of miracle births and hope for resurrection.
The focus was long ago shifted to the gifts
that were brought to the manger
and now we must recreate that legend in order to stay asleep
in the dream that it was really all about the shiny things.

I do little more than celebrate the birth of a modern King
with cabbages I dig from this impossible soil
and see my worth defined by how much green I produce.
The King nods his head in approval
and defines the fallow gardens unwilling and therefore unworthy.
More cabbages are laid at his altar in support
of his exhortations as I eye the compost bin
and wonder how much of what he says will fit inside.

I contemplate the prospect of living on nothing but cabbages
for the rest of the winter and realize I would need
to wear loose fitting clothes and keep all the windows open
to accommodate the bloat and vent all the gas
that invariably builds up.


Christmas 2013

Mom's Angel Cake

 

Mom's Angel Cake



Sift one and a half
cups sugar. Measure
one cup cake flour
before sifting. Sift
three times with one
half cup sugar and a
half teaspoon salt. Whip
twelve egg whites until
foamy. Add one teaspoon
cream of tartar and beat
until soft peaks form.
Add one cup of sifted sugar
one tablespoon at a time and
continue to beat after each
addition until thoroughly
incorporated. Fold in
one half teaspoon each
vanilla and almond extract.
Sift in fourths the flour
mixture into the beaten egg
whites and gently fold in.
Pour into an un-greased tube
pan and bake at three hundred
fifty degrees about 45 minutes.
Invert on a bottle and allow
to cool completely before
attempting to remove from pan.

Every year on August 6
we have my mother's favorite cake
with strawberries and whipped cream
and we remember. Although some
may disagree with me,
I think the only complaint she
really had about this country was
that they bombed Japan on her
birthday. It became her preference
thereafter to spend that day
contemplating those who were
already in the arms
of the angels.


(with special thanks to Robbie XII)







 

 

Autumn Poem

Autumn Poem

autumn regains composure,
smooths her rumpled skirts
and casts a sharp, cold glance

morning brings no offerings
to the lovers.
what lingers in their hair
what remains a fixture
when they part, is the silence

autumn crosses her legs
as i walk past her blue eyes
into noon. (my hands, white,
shake with a seasonal indifference)

the lovers, trembling with
an equal cold they have
prepared as excuse, lift
their hearts for one last
measure of rehearsed joy

muttering about the cost
of oil, i leave the furnace off
& autumn snickers.
she quotes the price for any
source of warmth this season

nothing is spared
in the silence.
all things, within reason,
go unspoken
as the lovers escape
their nightly promises
unscathed

although it is refuge
from this cold i seek,
autumn offers me her hand
& i take it, a gamble
i hadn't anticipated making
until considering that
no matter how many times she leaves
she will always be back

 

about change

 

summer excuses itself &
steps out onto the porch
for one last look
at the falling sun
before taking up with the fog
muttering something indecipherable
about the allure of mysterious women
in explanation

summer's child begins to suspect
this may have been her last season
of running in shorts through tall grass
wanting nothing more than to hold summer's hand
an eternity

feeling somewhat foolish
she lingers over a fashion magazine
studies eyeliner & rules
for white linen and labor day
as the fog leaves traces of its spoor
on the window sill
& she considers following it
to that place she has never seen
anyone return from

summer sends a postcard
with no return address
& she thinks she finds the point
in between the lines
where he hints at the reason
for seasons in the first place:

   constant reminders
   cycling in & out
   to the rhythm of the sun
   & the moon

   because, sweet child
   it really is all about change
   after all . . .

 

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