Post by goldenmyst on Oct 25, 2021 13:01:50 GMT -6
Her Carmenesque Eyes Reflect Latte Clouds
Long before Satchmo breathed Basin Street Blues into a living miracle, ragtime serenaded the immigrant. The ethnic gumbo lives on in the customers of Langenstein’s Grocery Store on Arabella Street where the Krawitzes and Rosenblums rest but not in peace rather as an army of souls whose memories leave them no serenity.
It is on that shady avenue where the babushka souls stroll seeking solace from their wounded past that haunts them much as they haunt the old ladies on their evening walks past the tombstones that bear silent witness to the weight of tears borne by numbered days.
There a gypsy whose Carmenesque eyes reflect latte clouds watches from her porch until a klezmer sax miracle turns sonorous as a baritone singer in the prime of his inflection when midnight motes in the sea of music dance to the tune of a song from the old country from where mother sails her tear-stained letters in envelopes labeled fragile.
But her daughter is no porcelain doll whose diary is as delicate as rice paper. Her words paint the sky in ribbons that no longer hold her hair.
Long before Satchmo breathed Basin Street Blues into a living miracle, ragtime serenaded the immigrant. The ethnic gumbo lives on in the customers of Langenstein’s Grocery Store on Arabella Street where the Krawitzes and Rosenblums rest but not in peace rather as an army of souls whose memories leave them no serenity.
It is on that shady avenue where the babushka souls stroll seeking solace from their wounded past that haunts them much as they haunt the old ladies on their evening walks past the tombstones that bear silent witness to the weight of tears borne by numbered days.
There a gypsy whose Carmenesque eyes reflect latte clouds watches from her porch until a klezmer sax miracle turns sonorous as a baritone singer in the prime of his inflection when midnight motes in the sea of music dance to the tune of a song from the old country from where mother sails her tear-stained letters in envelopes labeled fragile.
But her daughter is no porcelain doll whose diary is as delicate as rice paper. Her words paint the sky in ribbons that no longer hold her hair.
