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Two Poems, Parallel
by Cecilie Roaldset
Left new carcasses
of garbage cans decorate streets,
chasing morning shadows,
I chase time.
My heartbeat.
Increasing—small swells become larger
as I walk hearing children,
televisions, fights.
Roses and sunflowers reaching upward
chasing mornings new light, wrapped
in cold fog and wet dewed grass.
Carcasses of garbage cans scatter sidewalks,
lying sideways, their tops blowing in wind,
chasing other driveways.
Reminding me of life/death—
how close it is.
Recollecting my grandparents,
angered by a colored planet—
No longer white/theirs was.
Garbage cans remind me of what's been thrown away,
words misunderstood, honesty plain.
Watching old lovers drifting their stories,
of could've beens.
Streets feel too safe, too secure,
while children and adults fight for survival—
theirs.
Watching death on Television,
a game we're playing.
Dandelions break through pavement,
cement, reaching for specks of sunlight.
Their strengths, in their roots, hold firm.
Grandmother's walk stoically down my street,
some small steps, some large, carrying small bags.
Their age is a mystery, a hard guess, a question.
Their eyes remember other wars, other lovers —
empty beaches, parked in cars in wee hours.
Flowers turn to fruit
Fall drifts in,
shift of winds, colder gusts—
endings.
Fall comes, a nibble for winter, peeking around corners.
I covet leaves falling,
snow drifting to the ground.
Warm covers and short days.
Smell of rain as it turns what was brown, green.
I gather summer in my palm
on my run
as it leaves happy—content.
Reaching for fall cascading into my lap,
one leaf, tomato, glove at a time.
Trails empty, beaches isolated by gusts of
north winds.
I gather carcasses of garbage cans, remember blooms,
dandelions, their white seeds scattering north,
glimpsing into green eyes of my lover,
feel his hand in mine—and breathe.
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Golden Oak
My first love was sound
baritone of cello,
vibrating strings a soft case,
cheap three quarter size.
wrapped by legs carrying it
proudly when I could barely
form sentences in English.
Playing scales, small notes on a page.
My ear learned to listen to violins,
screeching through their notes.
Playing principal chair the first time.
Conductor cueing me,
hands sweeping in curve,
bringing in second violins and finally
we stopped.
Silence, swept over us—
threatening wave of whispers.
Turning slowly toward
violins his hands stopped plainly
right in front of her.
She acted innocent—starting a
fight with our conductor.
Blaming the cellos.
Missing her cue, sitting quietly,
conductor telling her
to count; lecturing her on
leading the first violins.
Rehearsal getting longer
growing into golden oak, a
full size smell of carpet in
music store; I had my own room.
Scales, bows—hours passed,
I settled on a beautiful
full size Golden Oak.
Imported from Germany.
Mature age of 13—speaking my first
English sentences, leaving the store.
My accent still heavy,
I had a weapon: a cello.
I switched teachers, Suzuki, traditional,
meeting Yo Yo Ma—after a concert.
Making chocolate milk,
bribing myself playing
45 minutes 6 days a week.
Playing quartets, playing second chair
Pachelbel's Canon, slow moving sludge.
Silent auctions, chamber of commerce
providing music.
Door to door selling Indian River oranges,
new strings, trips to nationals in Virginia.
Long bus rides, long rehearsals—
placed first Virginia Beach.
High school: I drive my Mother's
Buick Le Mans, plastic interior, chasing
last bell greeted with singing of Cecilia.
Blushing ear to ear finding my seat
principal—playing West Side Story—
beat-beat-voice, beat-beat-beat-voice,
drinking gallons of Coca Cola.
Production running 'til 11 p.m. we moved
rehearsals up, bringing dinner, eating
junk food, chasing exhaustion. We
made it!
Sitting twelve in the pit: breathing smiling,
cast parties, hugs, people attending college,
leaving; The Met. Our small,
unrehearsed orchestra played
Alice Tully Hall at The Met.
Opened, harshly out of sync,
filled with jitters, we went humbly
back to our seats defeated by ourselves.
Pressure.
Sitting high above audience in awe.
The world famous British orchestra
was on a world tour.
Parents always telling us we did Great,
Really Great when our end pins fell.
Our strings became too hot under light,
missing cues.
Some of my friends would smile nodding—
claiming discourse—We Sucked Mom.
Heads down—we left our whites and blacks,
tucked out in demonstration.
Dripping sweat down our faces, cool cases,
Gloves in winter, cold hands, strings are
harder to warm Golden Oak back
in case.
Senior year of high school,
humanities debates ensued,
long, arguing. Taking out
paint I said my peace.
"Imagination doesn't have to have meaning"
White paint on a blue case.
Silently taking my seat in the class—
traveling fast.
Lady Grey climbing behind me tucking
behind the back of the chair practicing
drawn the sound purring
in contentment when I practiced.
Breaking strings, re-stringing my bow,
Golden Oak sitting in my room, comfort.
Wrapped my legs around its wood.
I know each mark—
It's my child, my first love,
Sound forever trapped eight
years of baritone, aching arms,
scales and concerts.
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Cecilie Roaldset is a regular open mic poet, an
observer of life, and has native connections to
Scandinavia. She is currently working as a grant
writer for a non-profit organization and has a
poetry portfolio and a novel in progress. www.geocities.com/cecilieroaldset/thedishy.html
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