This month’s column is dedicated to the memory of Jeremy Monroe, who died Thursday, August 12, 2021, the result of complications from Parkinson’s disease. He was born in Chicago December 6, 1939, and lived many lives. He was a banker and a lawyer but his card only said poet.
Jeremy moved to Lakeside in 2012 and was an active member of the writing community, often organizing poetry events at local venues. I had the honor to read at several of his events. He loved to sit in the Ajijic plaza late in the afternoon writing, and people often stopped to chat with him.
You find joy in the memories and at the same time sadness at the departure of a friend. I’m honored to have had the opportunity to know Jeremy for ten years ago and to become his “wingman.”
John Friesen
Over Coffee
For Jeremy Monroe, in memoriam
I’ll have another cup of coffee please
and one for the debonair man
whose words are wisps of steam
hovering above my cup; whose words
are tiny cohetes, tightly packed with long
experience and deep knowing, bursting
over the Ajijic plaza; whose words are
rocketing from Mexican Train to Bolaño
to Vivaldi to remembered icy winds
crossing Lake Michigan.
I’ll have another cup of coffee please
and time enough under the sun to learn
his laughing memories of 25-cent
double features on long-ago Saturdays
at the Belmont Theater; to learn about
a nineteenth century sage forever
sharing living space in the family home
in Lakeview; to learn about the gulf between
the study and the practice; to learn the secrets
of his latest story and poem.
I’d like another cup of coffee please
and time enough for new words over coffee
and beneath a mariachi moon.
–Kenneth Salzmann
*****
Black Friday
It was on the news this morning, lead story.
Johnny Cash, the Man in Black, is dead.
And on my way to coffee, right here in
Downtown Raleigh, who did I see at the corner
Of Edenton and Wilmington? Robert Redford.
I could tell because he didn’t look exactly like
The movie star. Consider, e.g., Alan Ladd
A short man, perhaps 5’5”. Not really much
Taller than Brandon DeWilde in Shane. In the
Movies he was shot to look normal sized. But
If you saw him on the street waiting for the green
You might have thought him a kid, save for clothes.
So, Redford, dressed like Redford in khaki-tan
Pleated trousers, light lavender open collar shirt,
And a dirty-white sports coat. He carried a sissy
Bag over his shoulder, hanging down to his waist
By a long, black strap. Red hair sprinkled with
Gray. But what proved it was his girth. Not the
Beanstalk you see in the movies. He wasn’t
Dressed in mourning. Nor was I, even though
Johnny Cash had died. September 12, 2003.
*****
It Feels Unfair
This is not the first time I’ve resorted
To life as a laborer, but it is the first
Time I’ve resented it. It’s not the work
per se I resent, it’s a feeling of desperation.
It’s being cornered into work I feel
Unfit for, mentally and physically unfit.
Each day’s work leaves me physically
Beaten up. Feet, legs, back all ache
And my hands are sore and puffy.
A shower before bed. I awake barely
Able to walk. I walk like an old man.
Short shuffle steps, bent over back,
Right elbow and left thumb in pain.
Why after 30 years in a thinking person’s
Job, why after two business-oriented college
Degrees, why is it no firms in my field
Select me over other candidates? Why?
Could it be my gray hair? Or, is it that I
Truly am an outdated old horse who has
Lost touch with modern business needs
And practices. In my mind, I doubt it.
In my heart, I doubt it.
It feels unfair.
*****
Namaste
Seated on a red bench
on the Malecon watching
white egrets resting on
branches of a dead tree
above the half-sunken boat
on a clear, cool morning
I saw a woman walking
toward me
with palms together.
As she passed, I said
Namaste.
She looked at me, said
Namaste,
and walked on
briskly.
*****
Night Approaches, a Villanelle
I fear the coming of my night
Death the least of my concerns.
Age walks off with my body.
No defense, no will to fight
Can douse the fear inside me burns.
I fear the coming of the night.
In isolation from whom I love
My struggle yet goes on in vain
Not stooping low to blame some God above.
This struggle has no wrong or right
Yet continues on in body and mind.
I fear the coming of my night.
A trembling hand not concealed by glove
Masks the onset, no pain, just love,
But age walks off with my body.
The end is coming though out of sight,
And thankful am I there is no pain.
I fear the coming of the night
Not stooping low to blame some God above.
*****
North Dakota Spring
Tender shoots dared to touch the sun
Thin, pale needles of life
Nourished by the snow-wetted sod
Energized by a direct if more distant God
This new season.
*****
On the News
Somebody gave some monkeys
Some computers to see if they’d get
Shakespeare.
They didn’t.
Actually, they never reported what
The monkeys actually did with the
Computers they used.
Which ones were the monkeys?
I wonder what the monkeys did.
They didn’t reveal the results.
*****
Spring Colors
I love the colors of spring at Lake Chapala.
The sky reminds me of my years in North Carolina
where the sky was crystal blue as it is above Lake Chapala.
And I still think of it as North Carolina blue.
But here in Lake Chapala, the spring sky is the background
for the purple jacaranda and yellow primavera.
There is something sexual in these colors,
Softness in the jacaranda petals that fall by my window
And collect in the doorway. Invitation.
But the primavera is more demanding. Crystal yellow
against the crisp, blue sky and purple petals
all in grand collision.
As the day closes, it is almost like conversation,
soft words heard in soft lovemaking,
jacaranda soft, primavera still demanding attention,
As spring always does.
*****
The Gardener
Morning’s grass is cool and damp
beneath feet thinly guarded by old, worn tennis shoes,
holes where they bend and at top of toes.
They’ve dug miles into this red soil
as the gardener tends her garden, row by row.
On hands and knees, sometimes sitting on feet folded
under her, the altitude better to survey her domain.
Eyes, protected from a rising sun by the wide brim
of an experienced straw hat, take in the night’s growth
and spot plants needing tending.
The sun continues arching higher. A red bandanna,
sometimes gritty sleeve, mops the gardener’s brow.
Bare hands, wiped on a denim bib, reach almost by touch
to remove encroaching weeds and protect new growth,
with a glance to the sky
for forgiveness.
*****
When the Doctor Calls You on Saturday
When the doctor calls you on Saturday
Morning, you know the news isn’t good.
Caller ID says all there is to say.
It’s cancer you know and he’s done what he could.
You’re dry in the mouth and your heart beats fast
But it’s old news to you, you knew all along.
Prostate cancer you can often outlast, you
Will die by the tune of some other song.
You’ve outlived your brother, older than you.
Both grandfathers and uncles died younger.
It’ll take 12 years to outlive your father.
Still, this ain’t a race. Get busy!
For more information about Lake Chapala visit: www.chapala.com
CONTACT US
After he retired and moved to Sedona, Arizona, he taught literature at Yavapai College in Clarkdale, Arizona.
He and professional artist Bev Kephart bought a small motor home in 2003, sold most of their possessions, and traveled the U. S. for seven years. After visiting Mexico several times, they settled in the village of Ajijic, joining the ex-pat artist and writing communities.
Mel’s writing has been published online and in print in The United Kingdom, The United States, Mexico, New Zealand, and Australia. He is the author of three novels, a book of short stories, and several books of poetry. He and his wife now make their home in the village of San Nicholas de Ibarra.
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