Saturday, November 20, 2010

Awake Fair Poetess Awake

On a hedge of a sofa beyond the crowd, ambushed by my mind's keepers -- hurry and wait, I sought the quiet. There, two gladhand callers with snares fixed on my sacred moments, when lost, an unfaithful lover, or, if found, or given, a surprise downhill feeling, inexplicably giddy, no dishes, no laundry, no calls. A beckon to be still, be glad for the tea. Steel hammers stopped for a snow day -- a grab your purse, sale ahead -- early Christmas -- a full fridge -- gas in the car.

Frippery took notebook and pen from her bag, her divided selves allowed onto the white page. Mary Kay pale beige on hotel terry, a Rorschach for the demented to read, she reread her morning's poem:

Stripes, foliates, foulards, pucker the early grey.
Quilt clutches asunder as young twister touches down,
he, a candy wrapper lock on vast calico field.
Cornrow raider hacks lone country, reads report.
Soft words stir, whilst hard coffee sours the soul,
the new light leaks past yarn maids once so comely.
Next breath chastises last,
sand bucket thuds in seconds to beat the lame rooster,
car pool drums again.

The everyday, genial soldiering -- one part dream, to two parts chore, the anti-recipe to precious time to drink court wine of the artist -- or know when a full glass was already in hand. Downstairs the hall clock's, "bahm, bahm, bahm," a fairy tale reminder named the hours. Her thoughts parted into twelves, then into factors of twelve. A fractional madness.

Time, a mountain ride on smashed Tijuana bus. Bald, unforgiving, curving, spiraling, pressing.

August nylon of crabgrass pushing up. How did that get here? Catching your heel, turning to catch balance, another bit grabs for your toe. Damn! Not my vacation shoes. The quiet hour dimmed again. Cluttered with rules from the undone -- and a driving fear -- from the depth. You changeling, time. Always, a phantom botherer.