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Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
Poem / Poetry
I am a singer, songwriter, improvisationolist, funny ,daughter, sister, mother,grandma, one time/all the time Lover girl, who still hopes and dreams of Stardom
Wishful thinking my mother calls it.... because 'do you know how many people vant to make it?" who do you think you are? Barbra Streisand?
'i could be' i said out-loud with apprehension. Insecurity was my middle name; my only saving grace: I was Born with a good looking, strong gene pool.
My people are Slavic ,and stay young looking, and flexible for a long time;
We were Built for Oppression.
From the minute I could understand, and distinguish sound, I understood, the sound of arguing and not getting along.
My mother and Father would hold me hostage, playing ,one against the other, and both using me as a shield and as an I told you so, to their 'happily never after pain, of their really wrong for each other marriage'.
While badgering me for being too soft, too sweet and too good. and too nice.
As though everyone in the world was gonna get me.
Yet deep down , I have always felt strong.
I could go anywhere and handle any situation, in touch with my own soul that was floating and hovering around me, I was born an observer of life.
all the beauty and all The pain, the truth, life and death vulnerability, and who people really are.
I feel them, hear what they are saying inside their brain's, without them saying one word.
I was a child; completely full of wonder, always happy for everyone. No envy, I lived for the sun-shiny world that had so much to discover, and to be shared, with the naive notion that' what comes around, goes around' and karma.
Funny to me though, how so many people, I have come to find out really don't like 'Happy People" Or as I always say
people always want to 'slap happy'.! And that is a shame.
The 'arguing about nothing' is something i have found, people just love to do...
I am a poet, an artist, a singer. I can imitate any accent, walk or vibe.
from the age of 4 years old, I knew every word to every song on the radio.
I would spend hours a day pretending to be a teen sensation like the Kids on American Bandstand; Or Sandra Dee.
I needed Love, and the quiet space to think and do.
But I was girl interrupted,nervous and sad all the time without knowing why; reading a book alone, singing, or daydreaming was impossible in that small apartment we all shared.
My momma needed me as a confessor, a therapist, the family flesh for all her kisses. I was also her only witness to the sadness my father made her feel.
vat are you doink in deh? open de dooeh!, Get up! go brink me a drink vater, go get me an apel, go toin de chanel. I did anything my father asked of me.
But when i needed some daughterly affection, a kiss or a hug or advice, all poppa would say was OY VEY get off me you are so hevy, move you are blockink de screen. go toin de chanel and brink me an apel, Oy vey is meeeeyeh, ich bin Toit meet Giharget,(I am sick and tired and killed!)
In poppa's mind, I was the Santa Claus for all my freinds; Giving away my money, and of myself , he would say, your friends are all using you.
I know my Poppa Loved me, as much as a misoginist can and was well intentioned, but he was that ' Neer do well" Hard Luck Guy" who always finds fault in everything, yet His humor, and ability to make people like him is uncanny. Poppa's whole purpose, in life, was obsession with the truth, he called everyone a Liar.
He never found anything, for or about himself to be happy about., his life was a dreery drag in stinky work clothes.
All he talked about was how hard he worked and how miserable he was and how life had dealt him the worst things possible. He never saw the meaning of today. Only the past.
He found no joy in me, Except that somehow and somewhere down the road i had become a no good girl to him, i never lived up to his expectations as a little girl.
it's taken me all the years to find myself and Love myself for who I am.
Today he is 89 years old, As he sits in the comfy club chair in his bedroom, of his lush Condo, with his oxygen tube coming out of his nose he is still as always; yelling orders and complaints to his second wife; Rose; who is so worn out from taking care of Poppa, that whenever i see her I thank god it's not me living with him.
Though, they are apperrantly separated. having split their resources a few years ago, yet still sharing the same condo; He will scream from the next room "ROSE GO BRING MY TEETH" I need to eat.
She in her room with the volume turned up to the top and the TV Blasting DR. Phil. He in his room. TV Blasting watching Fox news...only coming out to the kitchen for food.
each one waiting for the next Doctor appointment that is weeks away.
His doctors love him, and keep his flesh alive with gadgets sewn into his chest to keep his heart beating.
Both sitting a mere 3 feet from their own enourmas 52 inch, vacuous television screen, Not knowing what they are watching, or
why,..The only thing on Poppas mind,( And it's still a pretty good one), " if he hadn't worked in the past... where would he be today.!!!") he will ask that
question to anyone within earshot...as if it is the first time he has ever asked it.
How much money a person, any person, had, made, and hid;that was my fathers business.
You could be a killer, it didn't matter, if you had money, and you saved it... you were allright with him.
He didn't care who you were, he had no bounderies when it came to money, he could walk right up to the "HOST" at any party and ask how much something cost and then his eyes rolled as he began adding and subtracting mysterious numbers, that swirled in his head, and mouthing silently, he would tell that person how much the affair cost, or what the person was earning.
He had his Upside too.... if you got him in the right mood, he loved to dance, and "Shpiel" around, and there were those occasions. My parents would dress to the nines, and go out.
I have always felt, and heard the painful whisper of both my parents suffering and they bled their pain and doubt into me, as though i had no reason to ever have my dreams come true.
"Dreams don't come true. It's only a dream;"; that is the sum of what my Poppa taught me; that life was bitter hard and cruel, and 'something is always wrong with something".
Poppa would always say to me " maybe one day... if You act nice( I thought I was too nice?) 'I' (meaning him) vill be lucky enough, and some rich man" will come along and marry you.
I used to answer in rebellion;'I will only marry poor men Daddy, I will marry for Love'.! (this has come back to haunt me) many times.
I never saw my father read a book, a magazine,or select a record to listen too. He never put on a radio station that he liked, help my mother, without yelling at her, or buy himself anything, except for a pack of ciggarettes.
The sound from our living room always sounded like an argument we "scream talked" to each other,
as a child i was embarrased of his accent.
When I grew up, it became a source of pride, comedy and humor.
My Poppa was born in Poland . He was a Concentration camp survivor. Not only had he survived one camp, but many.
The stories I have heard from other relatives about him were of Heroism and " street smarts"...
After the war , and before I was born, he was deemed a man of courage.
He was and had been in his youth, a champion soccer player, known as 'Moishe Puddeh'.
The man with the big heart, big muscles, courage, strong athletic abilities,able to save himself and most of his family while avoiding the gestapo, the hero who found a piece of bread for the starving, he would share with those lucky enough to be near him.
Everyone on the outside world, Loved my poppa, even my friends. When he smiled he meant it, because he rarely did.
And you had to smile too. Because his smile would light up the room.
In the big picture. By the time I was born and met my dad, he was tired and old,and 29 year's of age.
his influence on me to this day; as i write this, made me the Woman i am today.
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