Persephone Abbott (photo

Four Poems

Posted on November 7, 2021

on the floor
recovering from yoga
I listen to the marbled glass ceiling light
the waves playing a soundtrack
from a 1980’s cult movie
old world Baba Cool
Only a handful of people I know
would probably remember that film
and today on
The Other Side of the World
my friend
buried her son.
  The Time When I Brought Chengdu Peaches to Singapore

Between my fingers
this poem
not so distant from a peach
Peel it
hang it below one nostril
wok fragrance in other nostril
Have you ever tasted
the swollen peaches of Chengdu?
so much more flavor
than the muzzled fruit of the West
Packed carefully
lucky red box
ready for Singapore landing
friends and family
urgently feast
But at our table
untouched fruit and
your withering question,
“How was China?”
rot then, my gift
  Biking Mater Nostrae 
Plump mound of Venus
Orange lace legs
Toffee colored saddle
Thrusting nose
Denim mini dress
Pregnant belly
High heels pumping
It’s a Bagel

Some concept, poem or bagel
garlic versus sesame, makes me
worry openly about longevity.
But I know for either one
the road is a short, seasoned trail.

Just a half dozen or even several thousand
ceremonial bagels and prospecting poems
all dolled up for judgement day
routinely buried with niceties
and a tad of suspicion, gosh -
all those calories.
Yet someone might unearth my poems,
wondering what the fuss was all about
many years later, extract and stroke
in vain the damp bagel bones
upon which my words once hung.
Copyright Persephone Abbott November 2021

Leaving the USA Sept 2021

Posted on October 24, 2021

The pedestrian lobbed
A thick gob of spit at the taxi
We were on 3rd, up a bit, almost at 34th
“Fucking dickhead,” the walker yelled
The taxi driver didn’t flinch
Twenty six years driving
A cab around New York City,
His career move from Russia,
Some guy in a tee-shirt screaming
Profanities at him in the middle
Of the street just as he was
Heading towards JFK
About to get some country air….so….
Behind the wheel the Russian perked up
Seeing that cute white Nissan sportscar
Even accelerated a bit, switching lanes
To follow a little closer maybe
Already forgetting about the traffic ticket
He got on Hudson after I climbed in
Tardy seat belt maneuver and the cops
Watching, nodding at me “Ma’am”
As they approached the taxi
Pulled over on top of a bunch of white lines,
Pretty bracelet around the curb,
Requesting a card to charge and the
Happy Dragon Early Intervention Center
Direct off the Horace Harding Expressway
Promising easy access for families
The taxi and the Russian
In moderate traffic rattling
Along the highway
Past the miracle churches and
Wooden houses with barred windows
An hombre in a sombrero on the steps
While Grandpa’s Bus Company claimed
It had already checked for sleeping children,
The sign suckered onto the dirty window.

Three Poems

Posted on August 27, 2021

Germany in August

Listen now

In the meadow near

Old sheep stalls

Musicians performing

Mosquitos dancing

Take up knitting

The suggestion came

For the singer songwriter

Less rhyming,

More sequence.

Out of touch

I ordered

A whatever schnapps.

Last week

I inherited
Music from Larry Fishkind.

He was
A one of a kind
Tuba player.

Unknown to him
He graciously
Bequeathed to me
A short stack of scores
Folksongs, Christmas carols
Americana Copeland
Without the words.
It's time
For new ones
A binary orbit
Star adventure
One foot in tune
With the other

Bad Bellini

Posted on December 25, 2019

Jules Deelder, the poet, died. It reminds me.

I was called up one day, one day back in the day when I lived in Rotterdam. The voice on the phone asked me if I would sing in Amsterdam and represent Rotterdam. As the Rotterdammers say “Amsterdam where is that then?” It nearly rhymes in Dutch too.

I was not an obvious representative for Rotterdam. As in I wasn’t born in Rotterdam. Or anywhere near Rotterdam. The voice on the phone told me that I was recommended by the organization of a local opera festival.

I felt flattered. It was paid. The voice on the phone wanted to show the people Amsterdam that Rotterdam had real culture by supporting a student of opera to sing something, anything, on a national holiday. Rotterdam is not known for opera singing.

The voice on the phone was from a radio station.

So I found myself in a van with two radio presenters from Rotterdam, Jules Deelder and my boyfriend, a born and bred Rotterdammer, who couldn’t believe what was happening. We drove to Amsterdam. Jules Deelder was not enthusiastic, he was pretty stoned. The radio presenters were having a blast.

We were dropped off at the Dam. “You think this will do?” The woman presenter asked me waving at the enormous stage with thousands of people cheering and yelling in front of the stage. My pianist met us at the cafe being used as a green room.

We stepped onto the stage and the woman presenter enthusiastically introduced me as Rotterdam culture and erroneously pronounced the name of my pianist as a potato chip snack. We were the warm-up act for Deelder.

A Poem

Posted on November 21, 2019

Wet Noodle

We’re playing at wet noodle

My dog and I

Because no one is watching

She threw up

I limped home after physical therapy

We can be nauseous and upset

All we want

Together as overcooked pasta

Her body glued onto mine in this chair

This is a good reality

Much better than pretending we’re fine

Someplace else

Forced to

Accommodate secret blows

Covert bashings

No holding up a false picture of bliss

Around here.