Turning the Clocks Back
My mind turning tricks on Halloween
I would like to loll around in your whipped cream
lullabye voice today. It is Sunday, you see,
and the clocks have turned back, and the goblins,
since it is just daylight, are not about. All is safe.
But I would feel so much safer in the canoe trip
of your tongue, rocking on the waters that ripple
over time and find me converged on these shores,
these rocky, unscalable cliffs.
I awoke today still dreaming of you, unable to shake
you from my moon-eyed vision, unsure whether the fire
behind your jack-o-lantern eyes was hate or love.
And I cannot get back to that dream, so I yearn
for the lull of your voice, yearn to discern
the once blue truth of your eyes.
But I'll not hear your ghostly voice again in this life:
this my dream and you have told me. Instead, your
hauntings will come on days such as these
when time makes us that much closer, but
forever and ever asunder. So the voice fades,
yet the hopeless hollow of my eyes still flickers.
Tears do not snuff out the flame. Would they would,
you'd be long drowned, and I'd stop trying to build
a seaworthy canoe of reckless rescue for you.
heatherleigh 10/31/04
grandmumsy08 at 12:14:57 PM CST
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An Anniversary out of sorts
October Tenth
The voice was sandy with desert
and with youth prickling
as cactus out of the past, self-
assured, easy-- from such distance
as Suspicion Mountains
from a leveled land
I had never known, from a time
I waited to catch up to.
It was my daughter's father
at the end of the line.
With a glance at my love
beside me, stalled in everyday
traffic, on our way to
another homecoming--
All I could do was giggle
with glee and fear and. . .
abandon.
"About time," both men thought.
(I imagine.) No one knows
the hurt of that hello.
H.L.J. 10/11/04
grandmumsy08 at 5:13:40 PM CDT
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Sound of Smoke
please click the first picture for better smoke stills
It was gallumphing down the street
a hulking, menacing monster growling
with the voices of crushed throats and
cracked hopes, pierced hearts, charred dreams
It gained momentum and fury and heat
with the shrill and continuous sirens' song.
It spewed its splintering steel and glass shards,
and letters --or were they people?-- snowed
from the sky. It was the smoke. The monster
smoke that sent everyone running... fleeing
the streets of New York. A Bad Movie.
So many bad guys. So many heroes. All dead.
The smoke lingers within the voids, the ash.
Two towers are vanished and more.
Yet here is a light, a match... a candle
in remembrance of this September smoke.
heatherleigh, 3 years later
grandmumsy08 at 10:29:40 PM CDT
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Scalzi Weekend Assignment
http://journals.aol.com/johnmscalzi/bytheway/entries/2470
...& the poem it inspired on "Coming Home Day"
Ruby Tuesday
margarita fishbowl we both sipped from
tasting the sting of salt, sneaking
the sidelong glance at who we are,
side-by-side, smiling girls opposed
by mother and sister who cradled
photographs of our unmingled pasts
as if we had to see them to know
ourselves. You are the salty sweet
sip kissed on my lips now, tasty
and dear and singular, shared with
a fishbowl world of lookers-on glad
of our reuniting, our interlocked arms
raised in a forever toast to an us.
You are happily drunk dreams-come-true,
my link, my clink, my wink into bliss
Heatherleigh 12/16/03
+ favorite borrowed photo, animation & its poem
Lions and Tigers and Me Oh My
One of two wicked witches
cackles at the hour glass.
The good witch points to my shoes.
I muster up the magic words
clicking, oh, my heels:
There is no place like home.
The balloon has flown
and the color goes the way
the rainbow goes, away.
I awake from the dream
to the black and white scene:
Here Dorothy speaks of never again
and kisses and hugs all the wrong men.
If I were Dorothy I'd never choose
to give up the wizard, give up those shoes!
Oh my, for me, the twister resumes:
It's not that the movie is over;
It's that the make-believe is.
samEjay, circa 1980, for the Wizard
photo art: Beyond the Rainbow to Oz
+ favorite composite photo and poem is included in album & here:
http://journals.aol.com/grandmumsy08/OneHandClapping/entries/168
grandmumsy08 at 12:36:36 AM CDT
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Secret message #4
&
ampersand or and--
symbol versus language, but
both are connection
grandmumsy08 at 1:02:06 PM CDT
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Draft
Curtain
inspired by comments in
This Sublime Dance
Two weeks prior is the hell
a week prior to hell-- only
in theatre, where hell is not
a place or stage, but Time:
Moments. Frozen only in
limelight, gone, but haloed
in recollection, a tear-filtered
vision at the call of the curtain.
Afterglow-- these are places
of the heart and not time at all.
Connected forever, like blood
to veins, blue on the return trip,
the dramatic re-entrance-- you,
actor, are another who hears
someone else's music, voices
someone else's song, rehearses
someone else's dance, earns
someone else's applause.
You, actor, know that life
is not perfectly placed steps
on cue, but magical accident
in the moment of send-up, blank,
the adrenalin of forgotten lines,
the sweat that forms on palms.
You, actor, sustain the lyrical
nature of this world. You know
more than the writer or painter,
more than the pianist or dancer,
because you have played.
You have become child. Again.
You live in the faint fumes of gas-
light, greasepaint, velour upholstery.
You actually wear a toga, chanting
to the muses over Athens, daily
echoes of Thespes, slaying No
dragons, still dancing with them.
You live, in limelight, someone
else's life, prayer, philosophy, and
crisis. You, more than most, feel.
Sam E. Jay
07/23/04
grandmumsy08 at 11:45:43 AM CDT
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