A new poem by Jill Parshley Cardillo, titled "Dear Winter of 2014" Copywright March 27, 2014

"Dear Winter of 2014"
          By Jill Parshley Cardillo
          Copyright March 27, 2014

I think
we are all ready here on the East Coast shores of America
to bid you farewell,
dear Winter...
but first I'd like to say
thank you for your visit.
Thank you for shedding each unique flake of yours
this past season
on the eyelashes of the young
who,
for their first time,
felt what it was like
to make angels in the snow.
Babies grasped your brightly chiseled ivory
until it melted within their little fingers,
and as their eyes lit up, parents fell deeper in love with that innocent gaze.
Toddlers giggled while falling on piles of you,
couples fell in love during snowball fights,
neighbors learned peace shoveling each other's sidewalks,
strangers paid it forward changing each others flat tires
along frozen broken roads.
Beyond those warmer moments though,
I am,
we are,
well aware of a reality still
which exists beyond each snowfall...
far from our world of poetry...
where during your visit Winter,
blood drops fell
on your snow
from a drunk frat boy in New Jersey
who was left behind a house breathless,
on an icy covered backyard...
and a beloved superstar hibernated on heroin
slipping away into eternity as your cold winds banged on the panes of his hefty loft in Manhattan.
Gangs cracked windows
for iPods in cars
in exchange for
winter coats
off the back of a truck.
Today I choose to stare
beyond this sadness
of the Winter of 2014,
after all,
in poetry
more can be seen
than the naked eye.
Thank you Winter
for bringing out
the best
in some of us.
Every little bit
does count.
There were workers among workers
whose blood, sweat & tears
won them waves
of accolades,
and those
who humbly surrendered serving soup in homeless shelters,
where vulnerable blankets were free,
employees paving potholes,
delivering mail,
and
delivering babies during a frigid highway jam.
There was true camaraderie that only the school's half filled lunchroom,
or
a food co-op
or
the making of a snowman could bring.
Thank you Winter for your crisp fresh air
and for the mountaintop freeze that will soon melt away to give us a
warm
beautiful
breeze,
waterfalls in the
late spring,
and
flowing whitewater rafting memories to make this summer,
and soldiers returning from war
to families waving flags,
brimming with hugs.
Cold pipes cracked,
trains derailed,
gas lines leaked
and buildings and bodies went down in East Harlem,
but across our
whole town
we were one,
even though
it felt like ten below
we let the love
flow.
Snow,
thank you for sleeping over our fields
protecting them from the bitter freeze
so warm soil can breed our fruits and vegetables for harvest this Fall.
And Snow
thank you
for paving pathways
in our
Winter Olympics
And
Paralympics
inspiring those who were once dreamers
to bare metals,
now as champions,
on mountain slopes
and rinks in Sochi.
90 years ago,
while your snow fell in the 1920's,
only men were allowed the honor
to compete in a ski jump,
yet a woman had a vision that someday she would too,
and this Winter that dormant dream came true.
Despite cheers Winter,
there were fears
in which we cried
praying for
Sandy survivors
still without homes,
and temporary homes burning down,
and for the stray cats crying in my back alley in Queens
(one of which we saved)
and
tears for the heating bills of elderly homeowners.
I can dive deep in sorrow
for the accidents,
lost wages,
parents turning on toaster ovens and blow-dryers to keep their children warm,
and there's always our luxury problems...
the dreadful feelings of getting out of bed
not knowing where our fluffy slippers are...
all the while,
polar ice caps are melting from global warming
and there's little cubs with no ground to sleep on,
and there's spared lives on temple and church steps,
and a baby left in a stroller in a park in the Bronx,
and bodies in boxes on the Bowery on the lower east side
("LES" the hipsters call it now)
in New York City.
But today,
I will not dread all of this
it is
what it is.
This week
there were tiny flakes by our side,
once again.
Today I choose not to grunt
when bending over to tie & untie my boots if and when they reveal wet socks,
nope,
I will not.
I did sun salutations in yoga
while snow fell on the fogged up windows.
The light in me, bows to the light in you Winter.
I will love you.
Because one day I will no longer be living this human experience,
nor will you reader,
and somewhere out there someone has never
seen,
smelled
or touched snow,
nor ever had snowflakes fall upon their tongues and lips.
In Nevada and Africa there are draughts,
so while most beg this snow to leave us,
I wish we can mail the melting snow to them,
and right now as we scurry towards televisions
and I-pads
to see the forecast,
at this very moment there are 2 dutiful eagles alternating incubation amid
breaking snow covered branches in preparation to raise their young.
And this Winter
an asteroid 3 times the size of a football field
and 27 million miles away flew past our cold surface of Earth
(this is true as pictured on our satellites).
Somewhere during our complaints
looking for parking
amidst snow,
is a child crying in
Syria,
Crimea,
and in the Ukraine
looking for their parents,
and somewhere while we screech of the 3 inches or more possibly to come
as we put back the flip flops we took out on a warm day last week,
families are counting remains from the list
on a lost Malaysian flight,
there is a search for life
under a Washington mudslide
and
carbon dioxide has born a diamond in the heat under the rocks
100 miles
below
this snow.
That's what matters-
that life goes on,
that you, Snow, will still fall despite everything,
teaching me
once again to get up,
with all of the changing of the seasons,
to believe
that the sparrows will soon chirp again
and that we can
rise above another storm,
rise above another attack
rise above most everything,
when looking at it in its most true perspective,
and risk
unconditional compassion
to see beyond
our petty complaints.
Winter,
I am grateful for your challenges and our
lessons learned.
We will survive you, and so will the generations to follow,
as always,
despite everything.


[Thank you for reading "Dear Winter of 2014"
  By Jill Parshley Cardillo, Copyright March 27, 2014]

To my father, RIP

“Haiku on Age 7”

                                                                                           By Jill Parshley ©1991
 

Sipping hot cocoa

Making angels in the snow

Daddy still alive

April 20th, 2013 marks 30 years he's been gone. It feels like it was just yesterday when he guided me from the back of my purple banana seat over my first hill. Sparkling pink and silver tassels twisted in the wind, hanging from my wide handle bars as I sped through Hoyt Park's gray concrete field, finally riding a two wheeler. The same field we made angels in the snow in together after shopping at Scaturro's supermarket under the “L” for cold cuts, pancake batter, frozen TV dinners with miniature cherry pies, and carrots for the pot roast Grandma would cook on the weekends. A quick stop at Neptune Diner for hot cocoa or a jog on the Triboro bridge; the usual Saturday...all of us doing chores together, while dancing around the house to 12 inch vinyl, how I loved the crackling noise. And my father holding the sleek black microphone would sing Barry Manilow or the golden oldies and I would dance on the tops of his toes, my mother and sister singing in the background while dusting the lampshades yellowed from cigarette smoke. The sun would shine through our 3rd floor apartment windows behind Crystal Gardens that overlooked the twin towers in the distance. Its rays shattered through the leaves of our ferns and philodendrons I told all my secrets to. My mom nurtured them so well. She's gone now too, but her plants live on my sill twirling to the music still, as my parents dance together in the so-called heaven to "Unchained Melody". I told mommy I wanted to marry him, and she gently explained to me the unimaginable news that he was already taken; I didn't quite understand, but I assumed the higher road at age 8 and let her have him. I won 3^rd place in the Sokol gymnastics on the vaulting horse at Bohemian Hall just before he passed of malignant melanoma, growing on his back like an endless tree trunk's roots digging towards his heart.  I have a photo of them proudly perched on both sides of me on our stoop as I adorn my medal. We basked in the sun often. In Vermont playing rummy on the dock of Lake Bomoseen, in the Catskills strumming guitar on top of Mountaindale, along the side of Astoria Pool, on our roof at "tar beach", in our communal backyard sitting in our blowup 2 ft. pool, and of course swimming waves in the Rockaways...coconut oil was the only protection known back then.  Little did we know the beautiful star comforting us through our panes while we danced, would be the same to burn him.  Sometimes, he'd let me drive our used forest green 1977 Lincoln while I sat on his lap, as he was on foot patrol, riding the brakes. Now, those were the days. I'd rather have had 9 ½ years of hugs from him alive, than never to have hugged him at all. Here’s to you dad. May you be resting in peace, after the dancing is over.
By Jill Parshley ©2013

 

To separate or not to separate?...That is the question.

I can't imagine what life would have been like if my parents split up as a child, but I can see by the bloodshot eyes of my childhood friends who had to choose between beds, weekends, photos, toys and memories due to such separations. My father died when I was 9, but my parents were together and very much in love. What is better, to have them die or choose to leave when they are alive? I've been asked that rhetorical question in the past. The yearning open grasp can hurt both the same. There's a saying, "The best thing a father can do for his child, is to love his child's mother". Concerns of abandonment, fear of intimacy and commitment, and doubt and mistrust are the waterfall of raindrops that sprinkle on broken families. So, this poem is dedicated to all of the parents out there, who each have different lunch boxes and sets of pajamas and play-dates and sleep-overs marked on their I-phones, but most of all have lonely nights missing the little tot who once crawled in between them under the sheets for protection from the boogie man.

I Will Mark Each Inch on the Wall

Jill Parshley ©2010

 

She’s the only one left in the “us”

Her wavy, honey locks of fluff wisp over her misty green eyes

As she rests her head on my thighs

Which are twice the size of her

She looks up at me, and I make silly faces,

like I’ve done in so many places

She giggles, “Daddy, do it again!” I can’t believe one day she’ll be ten

I don’t say this because she’s my little girl,

but she’s an angel, with a heart like a pearl

Onward and upward time will fly

But on my shoulders she’ll reach high

And I will wonder why

I was graced with this tiny miracle

How did I, one day at a time, change my life around,

and somehow undo her frown

Thank God as she grows tall,

I will be there to mark each inch on the wall

One day she will follow in my new foot steps for sure

Which no longer are stomping on the floor

And no longer running my sick soul out the door

I use to cry,

every slip was a lingering good-bye

I slept, didn’t play

I wept, far away

From the service I was meant to provide

But today, gratefully,

I live

And she forgives.

French toast with bacon on our weekend

Pray I never will stray again

We spend those days enriching our bond,

and then she goes back to her mom

“God…many nights they waited,

as I slowly faded, please-

keep me in your palm.”

7.21.12 "Crazy Mary"... A reflection of resentment. By Jill Parshley

A REFLECTION OF RESENTMENT can keep you down, just as it did Mary. I remembered Mary while growing up in Queens on 28th street. She'd mop the hallway floors of the apartment building we lived in with just a bra and slip on. And she'd yell at us while we played stoopball and Run, Catch & Kiss. She was the waitress at the diner my parents would go in when they were in their teens as lovebirds in Manhattan. She would brag to me years later of the delicious vanilla sodas and milkshakes she would serve them. Everyone called her "Crazy Mary" but most of us knew what was behind the "crazy". Here is one of my poems I will read tomorrow, Sunday July 22nd at the 2nd Annual NYC Poetry Festival on Govenor's Island. I should be reading at 12 noon on the Chumley's Stage with other Boundless Tales readers from Queens. There will be another stage with an open mic if you care to hop on up. Hope you can come and share some sun...

“Dear Mary”   by Jill Parshley ©September 2011

Mary sat many a times at the bar whimpering

An empty stool her only companion

The stars and sun both knew her well, piercing through the tall windows

A jack and coke, or a murphy’s ale was all she ever chose

Once she started, she could not stop

and in a cab I’d help her hop

And she often sat sad, with her eyes closed

Tears of smudged liner

above her ruddy nose

I didn’t have to ask

We all knew what happened

 I’d refill her glass

and replace her wet cocktail napkins

while nodding my head in compassion.

I started with Shirley temples at age seven  

then Sips of screwdrivers at eleven

But, sneaking 40 oz.’s and champagne at sweet sixteens could not slide

the secrets I hoped to hide,

and for years the spirits drove me to hell.

So I listen to her as I sip my gingerale

and until my shift is done, I spy Mary McDonnell and identify as one.

When Mary is in a blackout,

she still remembers that day,

while she slips into oblivion...

She had been playing near her garage with their son.

Her husband was off to work, it was a sunny day

when their little boy got in the way

of their car.

Her husband backed up and kept driving,

the sun’s glare was so blinding

that he couldn’t see the tricycle

(And the baby was killed)

The whole town showed up for the funeral,

but now alone, Mary just drinks and sits still.

It’s nothing we talk about but all that we know.

We crawl out of our skin

from the things that happen

And all the kings horses and all the kings men,

And all the whiskey can’t put Mary back together again.

Dear Mary,

I pray you will set yourself free, so that you can finally be.

And Dear Mary,

I hope for the day you will forgive,

So that you can finally live.

7.19.12 Reflection of a fictional frozen moment

7.19.12: I attended the Boundless Tales reading series tonight...fabulous and inspiring as always. To be present as new Queens, NYC writers, are leaping at the edge, trusting that the net will appear... is freeing. I spoke to writer Michael Alpiner, who I will be reading with at the NYC Poetry Festival this Sunday, July 22nd 2012 at noon, on the Chumley's stage on Govenor's Island. We spoke about writing frozen moments in time. It reminds me of my fictional poem I wrote last year, posted below....I imagined as if I were a father in Japan in 2011, during the tsunami. What a father could think and feel at the exact moment the deadly wave was coming towards him, his wife, two daughters and puppy.

Higashi Nihon Daishinsai: Eastern Japan’s Great Earthquake Disaster by Jill Parshley ©April 2011

Our local newscaster’s voice just cracked loudly

Been listening to him since I was a child

Sounded like the final pops of kernels bursting at the bottom of the kettle

at Luna’s 3^rd birthday party we held in this basement

My stomach is twisted and 40 years of words are stuck in my throat

I have to run and tell the girls before the threatening horn blows once more

And melts their hearts until they sink deep down in the water

with every moment we shared in this old house my grandfather built.

But our puppy June just took her first steps down our porch,

And our mortgage was finally paid up in March

How will I grab the photographs

When there is no time left?

Where is my mother’s wedding ring that I promised Sing

When she was seven?

Will we make it to heaven?

Should I carry Luna on my back with the hand-me-down pack, I once was so ashamed to walk with?

How will my Emma handle this when I kiss her on her lips

one last time?

I’m running towards her now

Watery eyes, I kiss her on her brow

My beautiful wife

We had a fight last night

Because I couldn’t go to Sing’s Karate match, again

I was at work until 10

I grab a pillow case to throw bottles of milk in

Too late

The 46 foot wave already has come in.