Marianne Lyon has been a music teacher for 39 years. After teaching in Hong Kong she returned to the Napa Valley and has been published in various literary magazines and reviews. Nominated for the Pushcart Prize 2016. She is a member of the California Writers Club, Healdsburg Literary Guild. She is an Adjunct Professor at Touro University Vallejo California
Grandma’s Harmonica
Sometimes it lives on high shelf
above her white kitchen sink
between nail file and silver letter opener
Sometimes it’s tucked in her apron pocket
when she shakes it out, taps it against her thigh
out fly crumbs, thready fuzz
Sometimes when we coax her to play a ditty
her curved hands mold around and it seems her limber
wrists are forever inventing new ways to dance
Sometimes she breathes into it softly
trying for an effect
one phrase over and over
Sometimes thin penetrating tones
a violin feeling
float about for a time
Sometimes she makes harmonica cry like a bagpipe
round holy chords like an organ
bitter skirl like grandpa’s reed pipe
Sometimes she plays waltzes from the Old Country
pinches her lips, gently taps right foot one-two-three
linoleum answers under soft beat of her shoe
Sometimes her eyebrows lift and drop to fast rhythms
And she begins to dance around pine kitchen table
in a trance, a dream, back across the ocean and
Sometimes we begin to imitate her leanings and whirls
follow her hips, whistle wind through our pursed lips
hold easy-to-carry-harmonica in our empty hands
(Previously published in Ibis Head Review.)
I lost my gift for being alone
here I go
onto rooted path
near my house
like the road
I walked as a cherished child
alone
humming
brushing against families
of wild flowers
with innocent pink palms
filled up with melting pleasure
of a scolding hawk
alone
here I go
alone
on our familiar route
we walked
before dusk
talking of
simple tasks
completed
tubers and rising
of wild irises
a nest above
with a hundred sticks
alone
onto our byway
two feet
not his
alone
onto rooted path
missing
his hand
brushing mine
and I start
to hum
unclench a dormant song
I sang very young
alone
hungry for
mystical
wing-glide of a hawk
Never Never Loved
dressing dolls in Grams fragrant kitchen
Grandpa just passed
in back bedroom
can’t remember his dying face
only the darkened room
“I never loved him
I always loved George Mickich”
Sis would carry his evening pill
I would bring in half-filled glass of water
window painted with stars
black jagged mountains
his slow hollow breathing
“I never loved him
I always loved George Mickich
I was only seventeen, what did I know?”
But they had three children
a long life on Washington Street
she would pull him up from rocking chair
unabashed tenderness
giggle and bounce on flowered carpet
a polka singing from walnut Victrola
“I never loved him
I always loved George Mickich
I was only seventeen, what did I know
Pa said Grandpa could have me when I was seventeen”
I hear grandpa’s rhythmic hammering
bedecked in paint-stained overalls
touching up chipped window pains
white-washing the pickets, replacing, straightening
“I never loved him”
I remember that seven-year-old afternoon
smelling walnut bread rising
inhaling those words and I have abided
with her revelation, my whole life
still transfixed
that such a little story
made such a wonder
(Previously published in Ibis Head Review.)
Grandma’s Harmonica
Sometimes it lives on high shelf
above her white kitchen sink
between nail file and silver letter opener
Sometimes it’s tucked in her apron pocket
when she shakes it out, taps it against her thigh
out fly crumbs, thready fuzz
Sometimes when we coax her to play a ditty
her curved hands mold around and it seems her limber
wrists are forever inventing new ways to dance
Sometimes she breathes into it softly
trying for an effect
one phrase over and over
Sometimes thin penetrating tones
a violin feeling
float about for a time
Sometimes she makes harmonica cry like a bagpipe
round holy chords like an organ
bitter skirl like grandpa’s reed pipe
Sometimes she plays waltzes from the Old Country
pinches her lips, gently taps right foot one-two-three
linoleum answers under soft beat of her shoe
Sometimes her eyebrows lift and drop to fast rhythms
And she begins to dance around pine kitchen table
in a trance, a dream, back across the ocean and
Sometimes we begin to imitate her leanings and whirls
follow her hips, whistle wind through our pursed lips
hold easy-to-carry-harmonica in our empty hands
(Previously published in Ibis Head Review.)
I lost my gift for being alone
here I go
onto rooted path
near my house
like the road
I walked as a cherished child
alone
humming
brushing against families
of wild flowers
with innocent pink palms
filled up with melting pleasure
of a scolding hawk
alone
here I go
alone
on our familiar route
we walked
before dusk
talking of
simple tasks
completed
tubers and rising
of wild irises
a nest above
with a hundred sticks
alone
onto our byway
two feet
not his
alone
onto rooted path
missing
his hand
brushing mine
and I start
to hum
unclench a dormant song
I sang very young
alone
hungry for
mystical
wing-glide of a hawk
Never Never Loved
"I never loved him"
I heard her say to Mom when I just turned sevendressing dolls in Grams fragrant kitchen
Grandpa just passed
in back bedroom
can’t remember his dying face
only the darkened room
“I never loved him
I always loved George Mickich”
Sis would carry his evening pill
I would bring in half-filled glass of water
window painted with stars
black jagged mountains
his slow hollow breathing
“I never loved him
I always loved George Mickich
I was only seventeen, what did I know?”
But they had three children
a long life on Washington Street
she would pull him up from rocking chair
unabashed tenderness
giggle and bounce on flowered carpet
a polka singing from walnut Victrola
“I never loved him
I always loved George Mickich
I was only seventeen, what did I know
Pa said Grandpa could have me when I was seventeen”
I hear grandpa’s rhythmic hammering
bedecked in paint-stained overalls
touching up chipped window pains
white-washing the pickets, replacing, straightening
“I never loved him”
I remember that seven-year-old afternoon
smelling walnut bread rising
inhaling those words and I have abided
with her revelation, my whole life
still transfixed
that such a little story
made such a wonder
(Previously published in Ibis Head Review.)
© Marianne Lyon
