April 13, 2020 (Poem “Masks”)

 


Masks
  for my sister
 
 
Monday now, and your birthday.
We talked yesterday, bright joy
for me in an April snowstorm.
 
Your package arrived weeks ago,
you told me. Worried about lockdowns,
I mailed it a month early.
 
All over our small city,
those who venture out now
cover their faces with masks.
 
I used to think of masked balls,
or Halloween. Now, highway men
and worse, The Masque of the Red Death,
 
my early assiduous reading
of Poe, horror of plague,
woe, the colors of crow.
 
Yet joy is ascendant, leaps
like that spritely spotted cow
who jumps over the moon.
 
I’m here, you’re here.
We’ll talk again soon.
Meanwhile, for you,
 
who always meets me
where I am, never asks
that I put on a false face,
 
I am making a mask
of the softest cloth
to send to you, just
 
a bright, little scrap
of current ingenuity
and hope. Just in case.
 
 
Leslie Schultz

Recently, Tim asked me to make him a mask. We found instructions online, thanks to the tiny but incomparable shop on St. Paul’s Grand Avenue, Treadle Yard Goods. From their website, and inspired by their initiative to make masks for healthcare workers, as well as friends and family, we found a pattern at a site called Sew Good dedicated to making and donating quality handmade items. (I have included the link so the pattern is available to you.)

Usually, I sew by hand, but I knew that I couldn’t manuver a sliver-sharp quilting needle through denim in tiny stitches (too painful!). Some years ago, my friend, Corrine Heiberg, had given me her beloved Elna sewing machine. This past winter, by chance, I found a place to have it reconditioned, but given my timidity with machines and technology, I had not yet moved forward on my intention of becoming comfortable using it.

This past week, with Tim standing by for technical and moral support, I have now successfully wound bobbins, threaded top and bottom threads, and (yes! I see the metaphor!) adjusted tensions. I found some much-laundered cloth–a denim kitchen apron retired from service due to a frayed neck strap that I had always meant to replace, and some soft flannel from pajamas that had been put out to pasture. My only deficit in terms of materials was elastic. There, too, Corrine came to the rescue. I re-purposed the elastic from some Aeroflot eye shades she sent my way. This elastic is thin and soft and a discreet black, but it looks strong enough to hold.

Here is the prototype with a dashing model. Who? Perhaps Spiderman?

Encouraged by the first one, yesterday I made two more, one for Karla, one for me.

Effective? So they say, and I think they do signal reassuring safety to others.

Meanwhile, I am thinking, now that the trusty Elna and I have become friends, of other projects I might attempt this year. (Quilts! Quilts! Quilts!)

Wishing you a safe and lighthearted day, whatever you are doing on this Monday,

Leslie

April 12, 2020 Poem “Larches”

Autumnal Larches (Photo by Andreas Neumann and Pixabay)
 

Larches
 
 
Sentinel elders
of boreal forests,
they know how to spin
soft green into gold,
 
brew in their bodies
bright tannins to stain
that bitter tea
of their shining season,
 
then release themselves,
let everything drop
when arctic cold
drops in again.
 
Naked as spears,
larches lift our eyes
to the stark beauty
of winter skies.
 
From carpets of needles
and shadows, they pierce
the clouds each day.
All night they point the way
 
toward Arcturus,
our northern springtime
star, its yellow light heralding
renewed green.
 
 
Leslie Schultz

The anomalous beauty of the larch fascinates me. It is a conifer but not an evergreen. Its heart wood is salmon-pink. It is the hardest of the soft woods, and its small cones resemble roses or lilies. And the larch is very long-lived compared to our human span, often 600 years old, with documented trees standing a thousand years. Larches are most striking in October but I like to think of them now, in spring, spinning nutrients from the soil into fresh green needles, soft pink cones filled with seed.

Larch Cone (Photo by PixxlTeufel and Pixabay)

April 11, 2020 Poem “Kodak”

 


Kodak
 
 
Impossible to mispronounce,
its inventor hoped.
 
Everyone’s first camera.
Mine a plastic point and shoot—
 
just drop a film cartridge in,
wind to advance.
 
Later my first digital, too.
My husband worked for Kodak,
 
had an employee discount.
He told me of their whole
 
invented argot, KISL,
Kodak International Service Language,
 
devised to be devoid
of nuance. One word=
 
one meaning. Unintentionally comic
but impossible to use for art.
 
No stony silences. No cloudy thought.
No slippery patinas
 
of shimmer or rust. Everything
to scale (proportion only, no weight
 
or fish or climbing allowed).
Even “home” one mere syllable
 
denuded of detail, fixed in location
and in memory, unabraded;
 
nothing to develop or discuss.
No backward glances? Even for us
 
with mountains of photographs
attesting to changes?
   
No, that is not how I see it.
I cannot concur.
 
One flat little picture
forgotten for years
 
reappears quite changed
from what I recall,
 
with layers of proofs
and dazzling suggestions.
 
Beckoning insights
explode off the page,
 
more and more as I age.
The older I get
 
the more strata I see,
the more I embrace ambiguity.
 
 
Leslie Schultz

April 10, 2020 Poem “Jalopy”

 

Jalopy
 
 
It’s not a word you hear very often,
or did, even back when I was a kid.
I must have learned it first from those
Archie comic books, to me baffling,
unfunny, but riveting as a preview
of life down the road in high school.
 
Well, I was a young fool.
High school was nothing like that.
No Jughead, hanger-on with his inexplicable
serrated hat, or grim Miss Grundy
embodying Monday, or sassy and glossy
Veronica Lodge with her sleek moneyed sneer.
No kind but clueless lovelorn Betty
who was perpetually blind to her own beauty.
 
Especially no irrepressible Archie,
all geeked-out freckles and tomato-red hair
but with some real spark or flare
of talent, like skinny Mick Jagger
without the strut or sexual glare.
Still, Archie fronted a band, had a car,
and that was enough to make him a star.
Just a paper construct. Never met one like him.
 
After college, though, I was briefly married
to a red-haired guy, Jeff, who imitated
Ry Cooder by playing slide guitar.
He had a rusty yellow car
that turned over and over but usually died
in the driveway. There was too much to fix,
I guess. And there I was, inside the house,
a lovelorn bride who secretly cried,
who tried to be kind, tried to steer
toward a happy ending over
the bumpy road
of his manic ups and downs.
 
We could never get to a higher gear.
I left after he claimed to be
addicted to me. He could not
metabolize his fear, and later,
his father told me,
he simply slid off the rails
on an excess
of something poisonous,
just as pernicious as sugar.
 
 
Leslie Schultz

April 9, 2020 Poem “Intramurals”

 


Intramurals
 
 
All up and down the quiet street, lights wink
off and on. Windows open and then close:
soft breath of houses. Days flow like ink.
Birds are thrilled. Buds form on our glauca rose.
 
Quiet reigns in the mostly silent streets.
I read that seismologists note worldwide
how reduced human hum reveals world beats
unheard before we chose to move inside,
 
agreed seclusion was a social gain,
could flatten curves of infection and death.
At first, we felt relief. Then mounting pain
of separation. And now? We find sweet breath
 
each morning, find peace within our own walls,
listen to morning wisdom of bird calls.
 
 
Leslie Schultz