Painesville
Robert
M. Coughlin
Bistro
70. “Words & Wine”
Painesville,
Ohio
January
3, 2017
I.
Hard Times, Hard Winter
Anne Frank in
Painesville, 2016
Nine-year-old
Bernadette García-Lopez
Her two brothers,
her baby sister,
Her
parents and her abuela
Hide in
the secret closet built into the basement
Of this
old Painesville house.
They are
totally silent, knowing the US Border Patrol and I.C.E.
Are on her
street, arresting Mario Oscar, her neighbor,
A man
dying from kidney failure, on dialysis –
He will be
deported to Mexico, where he came from more than 20 years ago,
For a
misdemeanor committed in 1994: working with a fake ID.
This
means, almost for sure, that Mario Oscar will die,
Separated
from his two children and wife,
Who are
citizens or legal residents.
Everyone
on this Painesville street, all the neighbors,
Are also
hiding in basements or attics or other secret places.
Hands
cover the babies’ mouths, toddlers are sternly warned
Not to
make a sound—the consequences can be so horrible.
A stone’s
throw from here, the old Rider Inn,
Underground
Railroad stop,
Where
escaped slaves hid, following the drinking gourd stars,
The subtle
signs of the way to Canada, to freedom.
No, this
is not pre Civil War America;
This is
not 1944 Amsterdam, Anne Frank hiding in a concealed room behind the Bookcase,
Holland choked at the throat by Nazis—
No, this
is Painesville, Ohio, 2016.
Robert M.
Coughlin
December
8, 2016
en
la frontera, los inmigrantes desesperados . . .
mujeres y niños
llorones,
policía exigiendo
documentos, pasaportes--
algunos niños agarran
fuertemente los pasaportes americanos--
y las manos de sus
madres--
pero las madres no
tienen nada,
ningún pasaporte,
ninguna esperanza
para el viaje de
vuelta largo a Guatemala,
donde no existe un
futuro,
no existe nada.
[on the border, the
desperate immigrants / mothers and children weeping / police demanding
documents, passports / some children grasp fiercely their American passports
and the hands of their mother / but the mother has nothing / no passport / no
hope / for the long journey back to Guatemala / where there exists no future /
where there is nothing]
Winter Solstice
The chill creeps into the bones:
December 21 and sun gone long before 5 o’clock;
huge gray clouds roll in off Lake Erie
riding the Witch’s gale, spitting sleet and
fears as real and as organized as the swirl
of pin oak leaves down Lakeshore Boulevard.
This day, shaken by nameless fears,
seems to last forever:
I wonder how I will get through the next minute,
and the minute after that,
and the minute after that,
wonder if I can make it
until hope returns
until peace-which-surpasses-understanding,
as mysterious as winter solstice’ fear--
my heart standing still, turning cold,
my spirit abandoned--
until peace returns like grace like unexpected
gift.
The chill creeps into the bones:
December 21 and sun gone long before 5 o’clock;
huge gray clouds roll in off Lake Erie
riding the Witch’s gale, spitting sleet and
fears as real and as organized as the swirl
of pin oak leaves down Lakeshore Boulevard.
This day, shaken by nameless fears,
seems to last forever:
I wonder how I will get through the next minute,
and the minute after that,
and the minute after that,
wonder if I can make it
until hope returns
until peace-which-surpasses-understanding,
as mysterious as winter solstice’ fear--
my heart standing still, turning cold,
my spirit abandoned--
until peace returns like grace like unexpected
gift.
Robert M. Coughlin
Bitter Winter Home (a poem in progress)
On snowy
winter nights, Dr. Jim O’Connell
Rides a
van through the slushy streets of Boston,
Going to
the places you and I avoid:
The
shelters, back allies,
Hidden
places in the parks, the remnant woods,
The places
only the Homeless know . . .
When he
finds the place, a place he knows by heart,
He hops
out of the van with his colleagues,
Armed with
a flashlight, a small medical satchel,
Some gift
cards to Dunkin Donuts or McDonalds—
(Some
place for a bite and a hot cup of coffee).
You notice
Jim’s athletic gait,
The
concern on his face,
The smile,
the warm encounter
With these
forsaken.
Jim and
colleagues serve without judgment,
Witness to
human vulnerability,
The
detritus of our brute society, those left behind,
And bring
them what hope and healing they can offer
To the
invisible ones.
The
doctor, nurses, and helpers share their own brokenness
With those
on the streets this bitter winter night.
You wonder
who is the healer, the helper,
The
teacher?
Bob
Coughlin / February 22, 2016
Note: Jim O’Connell was a classmate
at the University of Notre Dame and in the Innsbruck Program (Notre Dame’s
Sophomore Year Abroad program). Jim won the 2012 Albert Schweitzer Prize for
Humanitarianism and has been a physician for Boston’s Homeless for over 30
years,
The Deep-down Loneliness of the Homeless and
the Hungry
Again and again I have noticed the deep down
loneliness
Of the homeless folks who dine with us . . .
Liz, now walking with a cane, sneaking around
the church
Looking for a cranny where she can spend the
night,
Her mind a jumble of sweetness and anger.
Stanley, dressed impeccably, looking like an
insurance salesman,
Wheeling his cart full of his possessions. I
wonder
Where does he sleep? How is he able to clean
up,
Present himself as if he is some upper middle
class white collar guy . . .
Jimmy, looking much older, talking to himself,
Friend to my blacksheep cousins—could have
married one of them!
Erin, who eagerly hugs Cindy, then comes to the
kitchen while we are cleaning up—
To hug her again.
He looks like he should be able to make it,
But something mysterious holds him back.
I look at the beautiful children, daughters and
sons of the Homeless or Hungry,
Wonder about their futures. Right now many of
them are happy, carefree.
One reminds me of my beautiful grandsons!
Where will they be in January, when Lake Erie
sends us feet of snow and blasts of bitter
Cold? I think: I could help these innocent ones
. . .
Jack sitting all day near the wall by
McDonalds, with his homeless cart,
What does he do, how does he spend his time?
Another Jack, looking like an Indian,
His hair pulled back in a ponytail,
Sometimes very sweet, sometimes staggeringly
drunk.
Most have their routines, lunch at the
Salvation Army, supper at St. James or St. Mary’s,
Sometimes enough coins scrounged for McDonalds,
Mornings and afternoons at the Morley Library,
Nights at Project Hope, or in some car, in an
alley,
An abandoned building, on somebody’s porch,
In a tent by the Grand River, in the woods
behind the power plant.
So little comfort in their everyday lives,
lives we can barely understand.
I hope we bring them good food two nights a
week,
Some companionship, some kindness,
Some beauty,
Maybe a laugh . . .
Wish we could do more . . .
Bob Coughlin /
September 15, 2016
II.
Hope for the Future
First Poem for Baby Ava
When
Colin, your big brother, let your name slip,
I thought,
what a beautiful, simple name!
It reminds
me of wings, of butterflies and birds,
Monarchs
and robins, swallowtails and cardinals.
And “Ava”
hints at “Eve,” earth mother,
Mother of
us all.
Little
Ava, born into this beautiful family,
We welcome
you
Into this crazy and
wonderful world.
Bob Coughlin / July
27 and August 4, 2016
Elf-on-the-Shelf
What do
Robby and Colin think about the Elf?
Every
morning when they wake up,
The elf is
in some new and interesting place.
Yesterday
he (or she) was up on the ceiling fan in the foyer,
A nearly
impossible location.
Elf
appeared to be smiling at the boys—and
their parents.
Sometimes
the Elf appears with a message—
This
morning the message, writ large, was
“Be Good!”
My
daughter, such a creative mother,
Must know
something about this Elf,
And Elf’s
mysterious movements.
Where will
Elf be tomorrow morning?
Where does
Elf go after the Christmas season? Why does Elf do this?
Bob Coughlin / December 10, 2016
Portrait of Robby at
Two
When Robby
wakes up after his nap,
(And this
boy is one good napper),
He lies in
bed awhile and talks.
Sometimes
he practices sounds or words.
One day I
heard him say the word “yes”
At least
ten times. “Yes!” “Yes!” and “Yes!”
If I come
visit him and walk into the house with my shoes on,
Robby
points to my shoes, then pulls them off,
Carries
them to the door, sets them in perfect order—
He is like
me, his Grandfather,
He likes
order—and at the same time,
Loves
chaos.
Robby
loves to play in his basement,
A paradise
for toddlers. He tells his Grandmother,
“Nana,
run! Run!”
Then runs
in a circle ten times,
Wearing
out poor Nana.
When
visiting, I ask Robby to show me the fish.
He takes
me to the aquarium and shows me
The big
ones, the little ones, the blue and the pink.
He loves
the fish—wants me to feed them.
Then he
takes me by the hand to the piano.
He
actually puts my fingers on the keys
And says,
“Play, Brrr, play!”
“Play
‘Jingle Bells’!”
He calls
me “Brr” like his big brother Colin—
“Brrr”—the
bearded grandfather,
A name I
love.
This
little guy, now two-years-old,
So happy,
so much fun,
Such a
great teacher to his parents,
Grandparents,
and brother.
Bob (“Brrr”) Coughlin
January 2016
Robby's
Third Birthday
"Here I am!" you announce,
Climbing out of your crib,
Surprising us in the family room.
Yes, here you are!
And we are so happy to celebrate
You, on your third birthday.
You, so full of joy and energy,
You so full of love for Mommy and Daddy,
Your big brother Colin and baby sister Ava,
For your Grandmas, Nana Gigi, Nana Linda,
Your Grampas, Bumpa and Brrr,
Aunts and Uncles, cousins and friends.
You, lover of music, running,
Trains, trucks, diggers, eating, napping . . .
We celebrate your joyous life!
Happy Birthday, Beautiful Robby!
Grampa
Brrr / December 30, 2016
III.
Memory, Hope, and Hurt
February’s Dream
the snow
lies thick upon the earth
the
groundhog saw his shadow
the nights
are long and bitter cold
but I have
watched closely
and have
seen some signs:
the
morning concert of chirping birds
tree twigs
turned a shade of red
silver
maples’ pregnant buds
I have
felt the quickening
first hope
in this hard winter
I look for
the crocus
and
remember the birth
of a love
(Pippa Passes,
Kentucky
February
1979)
Song of the Turtle
“and the song of the turtle is heard
throughout the land.” Song of Songs 2:12
winterwaiting
our
spirits hibernating
like our
brothers the bear
our sap
slow and deep
our
thoughts turned in
but what’s
this?
a turtle
coos victory over death
the earth
quickens
sends out
magic crocus
forsythia
explode
ecstatic
mirror of the sun
redbud
promise
dogwood dance
under the April moon
our sap is
running
our love
is blooming
our
spirits dancing
to the
turtle’s magic song
(Pippa Passes,
Kentucky
February 1979)
Grace and Darkness in Matala,
Crete-- April 6, 1968
In this
little Cretan village, Pitsidia,
Just
kilometers north of Matala,
Anastasios
invites me into his home,
Hands me
his precious bouzouki.
Photos of
Pope John XXIII, an Italian, and John F. Kennedy, Irish-American,
Festoon
this Greek’s whitewashed walls.
Two days
before, Martin Luther King Jr. murdered
In
Memphis. Two months from now Bobby Kennedy
Will be
murdered in Los Angeles.
Anastasios
introduces us to his beautiful daughters, Kharis (Grace),
Maria, and
Magdalena. Shows me a photo of his cousin Nick
In New
York City. I weep over his kindness,
His sweet
bouzouki, his beautiful girls,
The
passing of John XXIII, the murder of Jack Kennedy.
Robert M. Coughlin / November 22, 2013
Lucky (Stones) at Mentor Headlands (1964)
Got
my driver’s license a week after June 11th,
borrowed
Dad’s ‘59 Pontiac Catalina, big as an ocean liner,
and
headed down Lake Shore Boulevard to Headlands.
The
drive in mid June is wonderful, windows down,
“Cathy’s
Clown” blaring from WIXY 1260,
Everly
Brother’s in their perfect blood harmony.
My
brother Denny and my buddies are singing raucously along.
We
think we’re big deals, going into junior year of high school,
hormones
boiling, but a Catholic straightjacket firmly over everything.
We
get to Corduroy Road, then north past the Marsh
and
east to the park. Hundreds, maybe thousands of cars
parked
there, the hottest day of the year.
We
hit the broad beach, burning like coals,
and
hot-foot it across the sand towards the lake.
Half-naked
bodies everywhere. We’re not in Catholic school any more!
The
smell the wonderful smell everywhere, sweat and tanning lotion,
coconut,
Coppertone, and towels cheek to jowl on the sand.
Transistor
radios, tuned to WIXY and WHK, “color radio,” whatever that means!
We
run into the lake, and the contrast with the sand is astonishing!
The
lake is freezing cold, the sand too hot! But we are 16
and
don’t give a good goddamn. We are 16,
Walk
the beach toward the Fairport Lighthouse,
pick
up luckystones and polished beach glass,
wish
the impossible, that we could get lucky,
with
the beautiful girls sunning on the beach!
The
music is changing this year, Gerry and the Pacemakers,
Peter
and Gordon, “Love Me Do,” side by side
with
“Chapel of Love” and “Girl from Ipanema.”
Headlands
is no Ipanema, Mentor no Rio de Janeiro,
but
we are 16, Kings of the Beach, and happy to be here!
[Bob
Coughlin / April 3, 2014]
The Gift
This chilly, foggy December 8th morning,
Twelve years after your peaceful passing into a new life . .
.
We remember you, Mom.
You our protector, the one who loved us and cared for us
In good times and bad.
I remember your brood, all siting on the davenport
A winter’s night in the early ‘60s,
Dad working the hated second trick at Fisher Body,
We watching some silly tv show, The Real McCoys,
Seventy-Seven Sunset
Strip, Lawrence Welk—for God’s
sake.
The whole crew snuggling next to you, Bobby, Denny,
Mary Ellen, Kevin, Jimmy.
Denny and Mary Ellen
Brushing your beautiful hair.
Jimmy and Kevin playing with their toys—
Hand-me-downs to hand-me-downs—they didn’t mind a bit.
Bobby making fudge, the great family treat,
You taking a call from Duty, your blood sister,
Sister of your deep heart.
Skip, your beloved brother, dropping by, out of the blue,
Unannounced, perfectly
welcome.
By 9:30 or 10, all your brood put to bed,
You wait for Dad to come home from work.
We sleep deeply, the way children do,
Confident in the security and love
You have given us—
Precious gift beyond
calculation.
Devil with the Blue Dress On . . .
(University
of Notre Dame, 1966-67)
played
over and over at Notre Dame’s Rathskeller,
Basement
of the Student Center, Good Golly Miss Molly,
Only place
on campus where you might, but probably not,
Meet and
dance with a girl, while you’re
Grooving
on a Sunday Afternoon,
And
smelling their sweet perfume,
Wishing
they would dance with you.
Tomorrow
will be Monday, Monday,
So Reach
Out I’ll Be There—
And I will
Cherish you like a thirsty man in the desert cherishes water.
Of course,
you will say to me, You Can’t Hurry Love;
I know
you’re right, but why not let’s try.
Baby, I
Need Somebody to Love, and tonight
We could
go Dancing in the Street, down Notre Dame Avenue,
Down to
Frankie’s or Louie’s or another juke joint,
And you
could Light My Fire . . .
O baby,
I’ve been Lonely Too Long,
So
Lonesome I Could Cry,
And this
is Notre Dame, where you learn loneliness
Along with
calculus, geology, and German.
Bob Coughlin / August 2016
Walking Across Frozen
St. Mary’s Lake
I am
walking through the woods and gardens
Of Holden
Arboretum, holding the hands of my precious
Grandsons,
Colin and Robby.
They
cannot know what they mean to me,
Cannot
know that I dreamed them into being—ha ha! --
. . . in
the bitter cold winter of ’66-67,
me walking
across the frozen St. Mary’s Lake,
At the
University of Notre Dame.
The Golden
Dome shining in the crisp night,
The spire
of Sacred Heart Basilica,
The glow
of the candles at the Grotto—
Me
imagining two little boys, one holding my left hand,
One my
right, as we tromp across the lake.
Me,
rehearsing in my mind ways to explain to your mother
Why this
was safe, why this is good—
A
controlled adventure,
A thing
the boys won’t forget—
Doing
something amazing and magical
At this
special place, this special night,
With a man
who shares their genes and blood—
Boys, I
imagined you long ago, I conjured you
When I was
18 years old
On a
frozen winter night,
On a
frozen lake, long ago,
I dreamed
you!
These
amazing boys, this fierce love,
This
bottomless gratitude.
Bob Coughlin / October 25, 2015
The Brokenness
I’ve prepared and
served about 250 meals for the Homeless these past five years.
We’ve had so little
trouble that, frankly, I’m amazed—
At the kindness,
graciousness, even peacefulness,
Of our guests—whose
lives are so hard.
But last night,
The brokenness of our
guests, the brokenness of the world,
Broke out.
Why? My guess, a
combination of weeks of bitter cold and snow,
The Christmas holidays,
the full moon . . .
Really, who knows!
One guest accused
Ringo of stealing his stuff, wanted to fight him right there!
Another young woman
came in weeping—her boyfriend, father of her three children,
Just out of jail,
acting like an idiot, threatening, going back to the needle.
Another woman wanting
to fight her boyfriend, yelling obscenities.
K blocked her at the
door with physical force.
Next thing you know,
she has to block
Her boyfriend, yelling
back, face contorted in anger.
And in a bathroom stall,
a man shooting up,
His legs shaking,
shorts at his ankles, needle on the floor.
Here in this peaceful
place,
Children out in the
hall . . .
I do my best to help,
to keep the peace,
To reestablish some
sense of order . . .
And pray for the
broken world,
Our broken and
homeless guests,
Our own broken selves.
Bob Coughlin /
December 27, 2016
IV.
Postscript
The Apex, the Epitome, the Acme,
the Climax, the Peak . . .
There, in
that glass case at Garman Model Bakery,
Pride of Painesville,
the Peak of Pastry,
The climax
of American Culinary Art:
A
ladyfinger, éclair par excellence,
Stuffed
with crème,
Frosted
with maple,
and
Crowned
with a six-inch long
Strip of
bacon.
What can
you say but
God Bless America!
Bob
Coughlin / 2016
