Ed Mittleman (In Memoriam)

by Brett Rutherford

Because he was a broken song,
it was music he loved.

Back row at every concert,
ready to bolt if it was awful,
attentive, applauding,
he cradled the name
of every player.

From thrift-store finds
a horde amassed
of instruments he had.

From out his windows
came fragments of sound
from zither or flute,
or trumpet or violin,

a phrase here,
an arpeggio there,
a fanfare abbreviated,
each utterance incomplete,
too soon gone silent.

Because he was a broken bird,
the birds he loved.

A green strip
at parking lot’s edge
he peppered daily
with ample seeds.

And the birds came.
When greedy pigeons,
bad congregants,
barged in with shovel-beaks
to scoop up everything,
Ed flapped across
to drive them away.
The skirmishes
went on all day.

Bluejays and cardinals
were always welcome.
The sparrows,
if you looked,
seemed always
to be davening.

Now he is gone,
the seed and nut
no longer bountiful.

Upon his window-sill I see
a minyan of sparrows.
They tap the glass.
No answer.

Their tree was his synagogue.
Its leaves do not fall.
There, the birds sing
always, "Adonai."

That Far South

by Brett Rutherford

A friend writes
that he is moving to Chile
to get away from
you know, everything.

Chile, really? I know
of pine forests
on the Pacific coast,
the last refuge perhaps

for those who yearn
for fjords and streams,
but what of the winds
that tear through
Tierra del Fuego,

unending hurricane
so fierce that trees
grow only in one direction,
flat to the ground;

what of the Mapuche
Indians, untamed
and yearning still
to expel the gringos?

And who knows what
those Santiago
oligarchs are up to
and for whom they'll come
when they get around to you
and your invading kind.

Chile, I think not,
not while the Andes,
razor-sharp, pierce clouds
that scream in agony,
not, and worst of all,

not where, because
so far below
Equator's line
(just check a globe)

everything
is
upside
down!

Elizabethan Tavern

by Brett Rutherford

The sot in the corner
no one felt sorry for,
begged for another
full tankard of ale,

and it was given him.
Hirsute, long-beard
all clotted with grease
and suet, foul mouth

of crenelated teeth,
asmile, he reaches out
arthritic hands
to seize his bounty.

They'll roll him out
into the pissy gutter
just as the hour is cried
when all good men

must to their beds
and proper wives
return. He only
must sleep alone.

Boy actor once
on the Globe stage,
his fame good now
for nothing but

the way he quotes
the Bard in full.
Men close their eyes
to remember

how he had fooled
them all, and made
them swoon amour'd.
"Give drink!" he'd say,

and it was given.
"I, Egypt's Queen
and Juliet was.
Give drink! Give drink!"

He was what was
and shall ever be,
the daisy spring
of beauty.