Last week's flowers wilted, petals fell, water fouled, thrown away with scraps of food — "One bud" and she added a fern leaf, crinkly wrapper, red bow and smile — Warmly taken, coldly received, Rose lies ignored on sunny table, expanding, spreading, trying to be seen.
Purple paper comes in scores of shades — An inifinity of purples is no surprise — But paper? ...who needs twenty five kinds of fuchsia folios? I just need plain purple and can't find it!
Black-capped bandits in from Oregon, Scattering last year's leaves, Scaring the cat (white as snow lying about him), Jumping, pausing, darting — chaos makers — "Look, Aelric!", then gone, daddy's a liar — What's in that mass of cherry limbs that draws you back each year?
First day, last month — White snow, black shadows — Something moves, sun freezes my hand.
Ten years ago, I moved from Salt Lake to California and lost neighbors, views, streams, opera, a packet of poems from 1996, and so much more — but, last week I stumbled across the poems.
It was exhilarating and emotional, like coming out of a suicidal coma and finding life is wonderful after all!
Well… a little like that. Maybe just a touch, for this very specific event.
Hmmm… To tell the truth, life has actually been quite interesting this last decade. The discovery was a bit of a rush, a stimulant, an exhilarant, a mood elevator.
A better metaphor: Imagine that you discover that the little toe on your right foot, which you thought you’d chopped off with an axe 10 years ago, has all along been folded in a peculiar fashion under the other four toes, and that a little clever autochiropractic manipulation pops it right out — now when you prance on naked tippy toes around the house, everything feels just right.
More like that, perhaps, than the suicidal coma.
See them here, if you wish, but, for the most part, they are raving doggerel. They are purposefully scrambled. Do not try to find any thematic continuity in their arrangement.
-- with apologies to Bryan Singer The worst is remembered longest, this cumulative burden overwhelms in time — Such as, my morning angers, swirling out of evaporating nightmares, diaphanous, beloved — These fifteen minute irritations parade twenty four hours through your brain Like typing "Guatemala".
He looked like a stiff wind might blow him away, White hair on bent white body, Wrapped in flannel and painful age — "See that man, Daddy?" — Who is he? "Max, Daddy! That's Max" — What does he do? "I don't know — He belongs to the school" — Suddenly, I fear the bricks might crumble if Max does not return.
Troll phoned after twenty five years and asked about the hat — I happened to be staring right at it, recently discovered in my child's closet — A nameless Mexican beaurocrat was moved by a tale of the hat as gift of a dying lover and lost on a train — He took pity — in two weeks a beaten package arrived, hat intact — A Mayan heart believed and a lover was realized — My friend, sensing some universal urgency, knew it was time to resurect this dead young woman, never born — Her love undending, shielded me from sun and rain.
Someday, Aelric will push A agains E, tuning identity with historical precedence — The good king's ancient stone pressing down his bones has his letters that way — The story and sanctifying sound of "ligature" will spare him and his name — Who argues with dead royalty and a long word?
Jeff can't tell me why he looked through me for three months, seeing only fog in thin air, Fears my future, says he'll fly me out, or I'll force him back to Salt Lake City, Teeters on the edge of brilliant insanity, Sees light in the Will-o-the-Wisp creeping along the runway.