For Olivia

Twenty five years ago, shortly after I moved into this area, I ended up in the hospital emergency room with a gall bladder attack. I needed a doctor, and Dr. Bhushan was on call, so in one of those lucky coincidences that shape our lives, I became his patient. He’s a wonderful doctor, competent and caring.

Dr. Bhushan has never had a partner, but several years ago he hired a Nurse Practitioner named Olivia who is every bit and wonderful as he. The woman knows what she’s doing. She is careful. She listens to what you say and she laughs with you about the absurdities of life. I never had a problem trusting my health to someone without an MD after her name.

Two days ago I went to see her about the cellulitis on my leg that is healing nicely under her care and she told me she was not going to be able to see me again because she was being laid off. The practice isn’t making enough money to keep her on the payroll.

I know Dr. Bhushan must feel bad about letting her go. She sees 20 patients a day, and her presence allows him to occasionally take a vacation while she keeps the office open. I will be waiting longer for appointments, I fear, and while I am perfectly happy to see Dr. Bhushan, Olivia will be greatly missed.


I have three poems she might like:

Life is no straight and easy corridor along
Which we travel free and unhampered,
But a maze of passages,
Through which we must seek our way,
Lost and confused, now and again
Checked in a blind alley.

But always, if we have faith,
A door will open for us,
Not perhaps one that we ourselves
Would ever have thought of,
But one that will ultimately
Prove good for us.

A.J. Cronin


If I can stop one Heart from breaking
I shall not live in vain
If I can ease one Life the Aching
Or cool one Pain

Or help one fainting Robin
Unto his Nest again
I shall not live in Vain.

Emily Dickinson


The Courage of Women

I think of the courage of women,
how they endure,
how they walk miles to carry back water,
silence their pain, apportion
what’s lift of the rice.
Keepers of eggs without shells,
they know how fragile the days are,
how hope can spill into the ground.

Jane Glazer

A Poem for My Dad

I talked to my Dad today and wished him Happy Father's Day. He sounded a little short of breath, but he said he felt pretty good. He'd gotten a Father's Day card from someone at the nursing home, but they didn't sign their name to it. He liked the idea that someone remembered.

This is not so much a poem as song lyrics from a song Louis Armstrong sang. My Dad loved Louis Armstrong. He went to hear him in person one time, and got his autograph on a record album. I like the sentiment of these lyrics, and I'm sure my Dad did, too.

WHAT A WONDERFUL WORLD

(George Weiss / Bob Thiele)

I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and you
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

I see skies of blue and clouds of white
The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world

The colours of the rainbow, so pretty in the sky
Are also on the faces of people going by
I see friends shakin' hands, sayin' "How do you do?"
They're really saying "I love you"

I hear babies cryin', I watch them grow
They'll learn much more than I'll ever know
And I think to myself, what a wonderful world
Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world

Oh yeah

A Poem for David

The other night at dinner my husband, son and I were discussing the origins of creative thought. How do mathematicians even start to think about string theory? How do writers start to write? Here is one answer.

Do You Have Any Advice For Those of Us Just Starting Out?

by Ron Koertge

Give up sitting dutifully at your desk. Leave
your house or apartment. Go out into the world.

It's all right to carry a notebook but a cheap
one is best, with pages the color of weak tea
and on the front a kitten or a space ship.

Avoid any enclosed space where more than
three people are wearing turtlenecks. Beware
any snow-covered chalet with deer tracks
across the muffled tennis courts.

Not surprisingly, libraries are a good place to write.
And the perfect place in a library is near an aisle
where a child a year or two old is playing as his
mother browses the ranks of the dead.

Often he will pull books from the bottom shelf.
The title, the author's name, the brooding photo
on the flap mean nothing. Red book on black, gray
book on brown, he builds a tower. And the higher
it gets, the wider he grins.

You who asked for advice, listen: When the tower
falls, be like that child. Laugh so loud everybody
in the world frowns and says, "Shhhh."

Then start again.

from Fever, 2006
Red Hen Press

Redecorating

I'm having my office painted, along with my son's old room that will become my husband's new office. So, we went to the hardware store last weekend to look at paint colors. My husband took one look around, pointed at a paint sample on the shelf and said, "That's the color I want". Just like that. No agonizing. No hesitation. I, of course, brought home 8 sample cans of paint to try on the walls, and numerous little paper paint chips to hold against the furniture. I visited Home Depot to collect paint samples, too. I think I've decided on a beautiful blue that looks great with my dark wood desk and bookcase. But, I'll never really be sure.

What color did my husband pick? Something as close to white as he could get - without actually choosing white. There is a faint hint of gray-green in it. I'm sure he won't lose any sleep over whether it looks good next to the color of the hallway.


A poem to share:

Charles Harper Webb
Buyer’s Remorse

I’d hate to take a job teaching, then spend the rest of my life trying to get out of it. –Mary Oliver

No sooner do the ruck of us declare
“I do”, than we don’t anymore. Go out
for football, and we who never dared
stand up on a pair of ice skates, pout
that we can’t play pro hockey, too. The ink’s
still wet on our tickets to France, and we
wish we’d picked Japan or, come to think
of it, Kauai, New Zealand or Tahiti.
Open any one door and we’re deafened
by the roar—loud as the sea swallowing Atlantis—
as other doors slam shut, and their wind
knocks us down. The serpent didn’t hiss
to Adam and Eve, “Hide your nakedness!”
He wore his best suit and whispered, “Look at this.”

A Poem for Sonia Sotomayor

I like the woman. I may not agree with everything she ever said or did. I may not agree with everything she says or does on the Supreme Court. But, so what? She seems like an intelligent, capable person, well grounded in reality. I think she is honest and will be fair. So here is a poem in celebration of strong women everywhere.

Dorothy Parker
Observation

If I don't drive around the park,
I'm pretty sure to make my mark.
If I'm in bed each night by ten,
I may get back my looks again.
If I abstain from fun and such,
I'll probably amount to much;
But I shall stay the way I am,
Because I do not give a damn.

Bowling for Jesus

Not long ago my sister took me bowling. I had a wonderful time. Not that I'm a good bowler, because I'm not. I bowled maybe slightly better than President Obama, and that was with the bumpers on the lanes. But nobody took the game too seriously. We all laughed and talked and just generally enjoyed ourselves. I mentioned the following poem to my sister, but she hadn't seen it, so I'm sharing it again.

Heaven on Earth

I saw Jesus at the bowling alley,
slinging nothing but gutter balls.
He said, "You've gotta love a hobby
that allows ugly shoes."
He lit a cigarette and bought me a beer.
So I invited him to dinner.

I knew the Lord couldn't see my house
in its current condition, so I gave it an out
of season spring cleaning. What to serve
for dinner? Fish—the logical
choice, but after 2000 years, he must grow weary
of everyone's favorite seafood dishes.
I thought of my Granny's ham with Coca Cola
glaze, but you can't serve that to a Jewish
boy. Likewise pizza—all my favorite
toppings involve pork.

In the end, I made us an all-dessert buffet.
We played Scrabble and Uno and Yahtzee
and listened to Bill Monroe.
Jesus has a healthy appetite for sweets,
I'm happy to report. He told strange
stories which I've puzzled over for days now.

We've got an appointment for golf on Wednesday.
Ordinarily I don't play, and certainly not in this humidity.
But the Lord says he knows a grand miniature
golf course with fiberglass mermaids and working windmills
and the best homemade ice cream you ever tasted.
Sounds like Heaven to me.

Kristin Berkey-Abbott

Three Poems For Memorial Day

By three of my favorite poets:

William Butler Yeats

An Irish Airman Foresees His Death

I know that I shall meet my fate
Somewhere among the clouds above;
Those that I fight I do not hate,
Those that I guard I do not love;
My country is Kiltartan’s Cross,
My countrymen Kiltartan's poor,
No likely end could bring them loss
Or leave them happier than before.
Nor law, nor duty bade me fight,
Nor public men, nor cheering crowds,
A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds;
I balanced all, brought all to mind,
The years to come seem waste of breath,
A waste of breath the years behind
In balance with this life, this death.



Siegfried Sassoon

Does it Matter?

Does it matter? – Losing your legs? . . .
For people will always be kind,
And you need not show that you mind
When the others come in after hunting
To gobble their muffins and eggs.

Does it matter? – Losing your sight? . . .
There’s such splendid work for the blind;
And people will always be kind,
As you sit on the terrace remembering
And turning your face to the light.

Do they matter? – those dreams for the pit? . . .
You can drink and forget and be glad,
And people won’t say that you’re mad;
For they’ll know you’ve fought for your country
And no one will worry a bit.



Edward Arlington Robinson

The Dark Hills

Dark hills at evening in the west,
Where sunset hovers like a sound
Of golden horns that sang to rest
Old bones of warriors under ground.
For now from all the bannered ways
Where flash the legions of the sun,
You fade—as if the last of days
Were fading, and all wars were done.



Wouldn't it be wonderful if all wars really were done?