I
February 5, 1915
Without pretence among the most pretentious,
Aquarius is in the wrong house.
The snow is deep.
He is born with hazel eyes, black hair
And a stu . . . stu . . . stutter -
II
Sometime in March, 1918
He sits on a tricycle.
No colour yet.
Someone squeezes the shutter.
A hummingbird finds a prairie rose.
And a stu . . . stu . . . stutter -
III
Sometime in August, 1945
The guns recede.
Poppies fetter a Western Slope.
Aquarius seems pleased.
A young man in tweed.
And a stu . . . stu . . . stutter -
IV
Sometime in June, 1954
The house is dim.
He bites hard against the current’s surge.
Bereft are those who will be left unkind
Adrift amidst a broken mind.
Faint is the stu . . . stu . . . stutter -
V
Prairie flowers just cosmic dust.
The Poppy now just Golden rust.
Planets shift from house to house.
Tweed now dwells in The Rising Sun.
VI
December 25, 1999
New sage stage for summer’s run.
Aquarius is where it had all begun.
Is Fargo where it was left undone?
And the stu . . . stu . . . stutter was gone -
Châz
August – 2023
While my father had never been college trained, he was employeed as an engineer in the Southern California aircraft industry during World War II. At that time we lived in the very prosperous community of Santa Monica. Following the War we lived in a one room boarding house.
In 1947 we moved to a new home in Westchester, a growing suberb near LAX and only a few miles from Playa Del Rey. By that time my father was employeed by Oviates Fine Clothing in downtown Los Angeles. His personal clients included Bob Hope, Bing Crosby and Clark Gable. He was an exceptional man in many ways. It was many years before I realized how much of himself he had given to me and my brother. I love you dad, and I’m proud to be your son.
-bp