A Little Elegy

A recent poem that I had the honor to have published on the Peninsula Symphony Facebook page.
https://m.facebook.com/story.php?story_fbid=10153660283825872&id=55802430871

Most of you have heard of Atlanta Symphony bassist Jane Little’s extraordinary career and unfortunately, her recent passing. A friend of Peninsula Symphony, Betsy Mars, has composed a very poignant poem that we wanted to share with everyone.

A Little Elegy – by Betsy Mars

RIP Jane Little
Record-breaking bassist
February 2, 1929 – May 15, 2016

Little by name and small in stature,
Jane was summoned from the stage.
The final curtain called at last,
keeping time to the music, she bowed that bass
and her life’s arc ended.

An exit worthy of Hollywood lore,
an incomparable finale.
Her endurance was record-breaking,
Her holy wood was breath-taking:
a near-perfect orchestration –
harmonious and unexpected.

Upon the stage she left her measured mark, a triad:
her own two legs, and the bass, her phantom limb.
Through seven decades she had borne the weight.
Not the fleet-footed ballerina she once had dreamed,
she was all depth, all resin, now risen.

In concert with the golden age,
as the last bars played in an uplifting swell,
her spirit pirouetted quietly to the rafters.
She took her final bow in synch with the music –
a departing spirit, hoping for reprise.

Lunch in the Ivory Tower by Betsy Mars (MY FIRST JOB Poetry and Prose Series)

Thank you to Silver Birch for another inspiring prompt and for publishing my poem.

Silver Birch Press

Lunch In the Ivory Tower
by Betsy Mars

Racing in between classes
we waited, prim primrose uniforms,
soiled aprons, leaky pens in pocket.
Checking our stations with fingers crossed.
Kowtowing to the power-hungry manager
who assigned them, knowing he held our fate
in his perfidious palms. Ass-kissing: first lesson.

Serving, invisibly, the uncivil engineers,
the antisocial workers, the hyper-political scientists,
we jostled in the kitchen before the wheel of fortune
which held the ticket to our tips —
begging Gil, the grizzled Cajun,
as he slowly stirred
the pot of gumbo, dropping ashes
and ignoring our pleas — currying favor
with busboys, supporters in the cause. Second lesson.

Mixed-up orders, kitchen crookery,
we were all complicit, all forgiving in the rush
to get our esteemed professors
their daily bread — liver and onions,
Monte Cristo sandwiches, glasses of wine
or endless refills of coffee. Insatiable:
further education.

Nobel prize winners or underachievers…

View original post 319 more words

Illumination, poem by Betsy Mars (LOST AND FOUND Poetry and Prose Series)

Source: Illumination, poem by Betsy Mars (LOST AND FOUND Poetry and Prose Series)

Philadelphia Freedom, poem by Betsy Mars (ME, AT 17 Poetry and Prose Series)

Philadelphia Freedom by Betsy Mars Philadelphia freedom beckons endlessly on the radio — the soundtrack of the bicentennial year back when my own centennial seemed so distant. At seventeen, l…

Source: Philadelphia Freedom, poem by Betsy Mars (ME, AT 17 Poetry and Prose Series)

I killed him with love: Ode to a mouse

My latest publication – tribute to Davy, my best and worst loved mouse.

Cadence Collective: Long Beach Poets

By Fernando Gallegos

By Betsy Mars

I socked him away,
safe from escape,
with warmth
to the touch and softness –
smelling of mouse
pellets and hay.

Like a lucky rabbit foot
to stroke in the night
when demons came
calling for me, he comforted,
but I slept right through
to the mourning ­
He was cold
and hard to the touch.

In my guilt, I emptied
the sock and left him
rigid in the cage,
To be discovered
and buried,
along with my memory
of inadvertent, mindless murder.

At eight years old,
I learned that love could be lethal.

View original post

Mexican Hat Dance, poem by Betsy Mars (ME, IN A HAT Poetry and Prose Series)

My latest on Silver Birch Press.

Silver Birch Press

Mexican Hat Dance
by Betsy Mars

Golden, capped in the strong sunshine
against my father’s shoulder I stood tall,
and between my parents I felt alive

in this land so distinct and familiar.
The air was redolent with chocolate and spice,
electrical with lightning storms and surging hormones.

Taking the leap, cliff divers descended
in sheer drops for my entertainment
as I ate up the scenery and the sensation of being weightless.

My hat perched at a jaunty angle,
confident in a way I never felt
at home in a strange land.

Between pulpy bulls and bleeding fruit
proffered from vendors at the beach, I felt
like Hemingway discovering his muse —

but much less courageous,
cowering at night in the hotel room,
thunderstruck and hatless.

AUTHOR’S PHOTO CAPTION: Me in Mexico at age 13. This is one of very few photos that exist of me in a hat. Hats…

View original post 198 more words

Post-election comfort food

Sillage, poem by Betsy Mars (MY PRIZED POSSESSION Poetry and Prose Series)

My most recent poetic publication, which I’m honored to have on Silver Birch Press.

Silver Birch Press

Sillage
by Betsy Mars

I dream of genie, on a trail of vapors
you come, as I crack open the cracked box —
I slip through a scented wormhole of space
and time to the heart of the matter.

In another dimension, I follow close behind
on the essence of you — the base notes
left in the bottle.
My conscious mind amnesiac,
but my primitive nose remembers.
Scent remains unperturbed.
A complex perfume, imported,
outlasting you and your body —
French, at your service, no memorial
except your legacy of language and luxury.

The box sits on the shelf, idle, until I need you;
and then, with one whiff I follow,
transported to a splintered realm —
wholly, holey, Holy.
Shadowed and strung with trip wires:
nurture and neglect, ice and fire.
Memories dissipate like a genie
after three wishes are spent.

My first and only wish would be…

View original post 216 more words