Spring Sprung...For Two Days

With all regards to Spring:



Sunning and enjoying the day on the old deck.



Smirking as always.

Timely Soundtrack: "Contacto" by Cabas off of Contacto.
Quote Trapped in My Head: "Oh, I know him! I have his book out in the bookcase!" Spoken by someone answering a Trivial Pursuit Question.
What I Learned Today: Several awesome stories from a wonderful group of people who have lived and worked in the arts community in New York for sixty + years.

Pretty and...

She likes her boys
pretty and stupid
I collect cracked men
shatter them at will
to work in mosaics
they are desolate, I am dissolute
all together we are debauchery
in its finest hour

Aren't you just
the cleverest thing, trying so hard
to flash your eyes
innocence notwithstanding
unable to withstand the game
A woman can always-
everyone has a tell, a price
bet the substance of soul
the blush of your face
the way you look away

The fey lady's chariot comes, but still
Mab's just a charmer who
never quite follows through
until the climactic finale
Oh, the lies she tells, boy
to get you on your back

And aren't we a pair of aces?
you must be hearts
and I must be diamonds
unless we're being ironic again
you're cotton candy
and its cavities
I'm a polarizer, mesmerizer
circus freak sympathizer

Call a spade for what it is
a dish served up stone cold
between revenge and dessert
Atalanta un-tricked

a blackened, twisted heart
hanging by two metal threads
love turned upside down
to propagate hate

Call a spade the shovel
the tool to dig deep
dissect, damage, despoil
as only the Morrígan could.

If they had but known each other
holding hands so small
what a winning team of
women you can never scorn
One to put you to sleep
let a nightmare swish her tail in your mind
erasing all 'hope' and 'love'
Three-in-One to keep you down
embattled, tangled with fear
ravens circling your head

You like your mind
pretty and stupid
Mab collects cracked dreams
and Morrígan shatters them at will
to feed on mosaic-souls
of the desolate and dissolute
all together it is destruction
in its finest hour

~~~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~~~
What? April is National Poetry Month!

Hebdomad

The entire world
wants me to think I'm insane
tries to tell me
today is Thursday

That can't be true, I know it
down in the slinky marrow
of my ancestor's bones
in the way the day hangs

loose-fitting like a cloak
like a Friday cape
across my shoulders
tickling my ankles

Also, I know that today
must be Friday, because I love you
and I only love you on Fridays
Thursdays I love music

or art, or sometimes food
Mondays that dog with the curly hair
or the memory of games
played with my sister at age seven

So you see, it can't be Thursday
for I love you, I am sure I do;
I know it in the marrow
coiled asp-like in my bones

Such a deviation would be
impossible and we all know
impossibilities -and dragons-
are reserved for Sundays

Anyway, days do not care a whit
about foolish probabilities
they know that they exist
sense that it is their turn to be today

Hard to slice, cleave, septisect
a circle equally, hard to
break the hebdomad, harder still
if you take more than your share

Leaving none for dance, for cats
cartoon shows and drawing
for zoos and museums
traveling and my black ruffled skirt

And I love you today.
Under a weakening sunset, with
the week-end moon up between clouds
hide-and-seeking its way

into freedom from the urban yoke
So take your one-seventh
and be glad of what you get
Keep Thursday for, to, yourself

...the newspapers too?
The six-o-clock news?
Your three-year-old cousin
Everyone we know?

...Oh dear, this is terrible
the days have switched themselves
And if I give you Thursday too
where will I put cold milk?

Or was it daydreaming or apples
or painting with ink
I've lost my love-schedule
but I love you, so it must

be today, or tomorrow
even yesterday will suffice if
it can be Friday in this bed
in this quiet kingdom of sleep

gently woken by Friday's sun
I have Friday feet on my legs
running to meet you at the door
wrap my Friday fingers in yours

you love me every day (you say)
I suppose I can manage two

~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~

There, I've written a non-explicit, non-bitter love poem. To...no one.

Mmmm...Leafy!

While the dew was still on the leaves...

The Faded Sheaves

Every time you pet her
she gets a touch more tame
Lady Amalthea breathing,
seething on the window pane
enraged at the honey
creeping into her veins
She was born a feral thing,
beasts quivering under her reign
all the forest her savagery
could barely contain
She wore no halter and
firmly held the reins

Why then this domestication, this
pretty violence made tame?
More damage has been done
by giving her a name
than manacles on limbs
or the cutting of her mane
wind blows fevered heat
sweat slips down the chain
iron holds no relief, no drop
no cleansing storm of rain
of freedom ere the break
before all spirit is slain

slip tilt twist crash
the ocean hurts her deep
flow scream drive blast
the wind cuts her through
too much time spent below
below the thumb of man
She remembers how it felt
to turn the creatures out
raise the ground in welts
then with a terrible shout
bow to the trembling moon
with stardust in your snout

Out of despair, out of shadow
over the spiked gate
A storm arrives, knife in hand,
but it blows late-
mortal now, every tick of heart
makes new marks on her slate
Old age waits with thick fingers
wrapped around her like rings
whispering in her ears
of the end of all things

Late late, always so houred
blame the madness of hares
the egotism of man-children
the braiding of hairs
Lay and wallow in the shame
The birds twitter of men
sing of their attempt to tame
an aspect of our goddess
who rails against the dawn
holds forth against distress
heals the wounded fawn
tramples us to sweetest death

Now what are dreamers to dream
of seeing when they can last see?
What shall our final sight be?
Mab has left, gone are the sidhe
and the Lady is too much woman
and not enough emboldened beast
too little a wild beauty
who brings death to the feast
our savage savior, shameless shiva
converting sinner and priest
lies defeated at civilized feet
wounded, aching for release

Untie the bonds, slip the noose
a whisper, a promise of cyclones
not of love, but of revenge
Clatters, shudders her bones
paling, whisping out the door
out out to freedom
out out to a lack of home
out out out!-side the prison
a world of earth, of loam
fire spitting at the leaves
spittle mixed with ocean foam
a sky with stars thick as thieves

Nettle flowers hold her
keening as she grieves
throws the memory of captivity
of irons, bellows, heaves
from her mind as she has thrown
riders to the faded sheaves
chewing, stomping, cleaving
through wire, bit, and nail
shaking her liberated body
unbraiding her endless tail
waking the animal inside
fates and justice to prevail

with the cold weighing of
once-golden lives and sheaves
for what was once wild
beneath, can never go stale

~~~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~~~
A rolling ode gathers no topos.<-- Poems Abound!

Animated I: Breaking the Moon

I: Breaking the Moon.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
It looks nothing like a baby doll.

Thus was Holly Yarrow's first thought after seeing the purple-faced blob that her parents insisted was her new baby sister. Then the oddly-colored thing opened its mouth and wailed.

Its squalling music sounded nothing like the cooing babies always made in storybooks, especially the ones that turned out to be special. The ones that grew up to be magical. Some grew wings or learned spells to make them fly. Others turned out to be long-lost princesses or good fairies that made everything turn out all right by the last page of the book. They were happy all the time, and when they giggled, it sounded like wind chimes.

She could hear her parents trying to calm the baby. Holly peeked around the corner of the hall, a scout carrying out a dangerous mission. Her mother finally noticed her approach, and waggled her fingers in a "come here" gesture, so she crept closer. The bundle continued to throw a magnificent tantrum, fretting without words and twisting its head around on a rotund, neckless body. It lay on its back in a pale green crib, sliding its feet around under the soft yellow blanket.

Cautiously, Holly extended a finger and gave the wrinkled brow a gentle nudge. The skin was as smooth and hairless as that of a mannequin. The baby's head gave an owl-like swivel, her mouth pausing mid-yowl. Her mother, stunned, grasped her father's wrist. Both parents were transfixed by the scene before them. They hardly dared breathe, trying not to disturb this first meeting between siblings.

"What's her name?" All of Holly's friends, family, and toys had names, even the plastic cars and every stuffed koala bear in her extensive collection. So, she reasoned, this new person must have a name as well.

"Maeve." Her mother's voice gusted out the word. "But you can call her Mae. Just like Great-Grandma." Their young infant was keeping strangely silent, staring up at her sister with glassy eyes.

"Ma-" She frowned, concentrated, and tried again. "Mae." She grinned. "May I?"

She broke away from that intent gaze, spinning in off-center loops around the room. Her voice rose in a giggling chant. "May I, may I, may I please? Ma-ma, da-da, may I eat peas? Kick trees? Eat cheese?"

Drew scooped her up and whirled her around, the two dancing to the tune of several more nonsensical questions. Callie leaned over her new treasure, whispering "Those two are a few weaves short of a basket. You and me, baby, we're the only sane ones here."

Mae let out a piercing yelp and stretched her arms out towards the edges of the crib, her small hands pinching the air. Callie sighed, suppressing a grin. "May-be not."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Their new baby would lie in her crib for hours on end, chattering up at the pale yellow ceiling. She made friends with butterflies, screamed at the first sight of any stinging insect, and tugged at the curls in her dark hair whenever she got tired.

Holly thought of her as an interloper, a poor excuse for a child. Whereas the older girl could run, her baby sister could barely sit up. Mae didn't know the words to the songs on Turtle Time, or how to play hopscotch or even tag. Plus, her yelps sometimes made it difficult for Holly to get to sleep at night. Of course, this last liability could be turned into an excuse to stay up later and play a little longer. Still, Holly found herself dreaming of the day when she could take her little sister out and teach her to find cloud-animals or make a dandelion-seed explosion.

It took a while, but gradually Holly began to recognize Mae as a companion. She was closer in size than the grown-ups were, and could be used as a distraction whenever Holly had done something unscrupulous. Also, Mae never complained when her sibling borrowed her toys or didn't show her the pictures on every page of her storybook. She could even be induced to chase Holly in an impromptu - albeit slow - game of runaway train. Life was good. Well, mostly.

At first, Drew thought it might be the room - drafty, noisy, even haunted. Perhaps the children could hear the neighbor's dog or the birds outside the window by sitting still and listening. He had strained his own hearing, stared at the cheery walls of the nursery, had watched and waited just like his youngest daughter. There was nothing there. While Callie did admit that Mae was a little more introspective than most infants, and prone to fits of gazing at nothing, she laughed off his suggestions that their children were hearing voices or seeing phantoms. Though there were times when they would find her in the oddest positions and places. Once they had found her sitting cross-legged under her crib, hands in her lap like a little old woman. She would be found holding bits of paper no one could recall having dropped or folded in such odd ways. The parents were divided: Drew worried and Callie laughed at their "little adventurer".

Several times, the two had caught Mae having a staring contest with a celestial-themed mobile. A blue moon winked down at her, while a golden sun gave an impossibly wide grin. Both had tiny round mirrors for eyes that played hide-and-seek with the shafts of sunlight streaming in through the nursery windows. Callie was enthralled, but Drew was frightened by the stillness of Mae's tiny face. After a full minute, he broke the spell, swooping in and gathering his youngest child into his arms. He deliberately turned her furrowed face away from the colorful object, tickling her stomach with his lightly callused fingers.

Drew had expected to feel ridiculous every time he thought of the mobile with a shiver of fear, but there was something about the way it hung there. He had thought of replacing the it with other twirling bits of plastic, ones with cutesy giraffes or kindly-looking bears. But he knew Callie loved the old-fashioned thing, and would scoff at the thought that it had caused any of Mae's odd behavior. Sinister as bits of shrapnel, frozen mid-explosion, tolling out its alluring song: clink-chime-chime-clink, clink-jingle-chime-chime...Drew shook himself. Now he was staring at the blasted thing! Here we go, he thought, here comes the embarrassment...that proves this is just a load of rubbish. Mae might have a real problem and I'm blaming the decorations.

Ka-clink-chime-jing-he set his shoulders and walked out.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Holly stretched under her sleepy bear blanket, woken by the storm of noise in another room. She frowned, concentrating on the voices slipping down the hall from the crack underneath her parents' door.

"...think we should take her to the doctor at least." Her father rumbled, lower in pitch and straining to keep his voice down.
"...ever heard of taking a ten-month-old to a psychiatrist?" That was her mother, tones not quite dulcet but quieter than her husband.
"...do you suggest, then? We sit here and pretend...normal...can't stand it when she just lays there and stares!"
"...some more time. She's just thoughtful and curious...doctor says her hearing's fine, vision good, we've all heard her yelling, so it can't be..."

Holly huffed a lock of black hair out of her eyes and scrunched up her face. She snuck not-too-clumsily down the hall to her baby sister's room and slipped inside. Abstract floral shapes bordered the ceiling and walls, and the room smelt of talc and that indefinable smell of babies - sweet when they are sweet, sour when they are sour.

As always, Mae was happy to see her, gurgling and drooling a smile at her sibling. Holly picked her up so carefully it was almost in slow motion and set her on the floor of her playpen with a few soft blocks. Bringing along a picture book, she climbed inside the pen to play. She could tell her parents what was wrong with her sister: she was a baby. Babies were all nuts. They preferred playing with their food to eating it, crawling to running, staring into space to reading a book. As the two girls began constructing a pastel-colored tower, Holly wondered what had prompted this latest row. A slight breeze ruffled Mae's dark hair in a wave and she giggled as Holly grasped her own hair and made it stand on end. As if in answer, a clink-chime-jingle came from over her crib, across the room. Mae turned unerringly toward the sound and widened her pale eyes; watching, waiting, almost as if she were listening to the most fascinating fairy tale ever told. Holly worked her five-year-old brain hard and thought...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Callie was taking a much-deserved nap. She would never recall just what had pierced her dreams and made her stir fretfully. A slight sound, an unstealthy step? Some maternal instinct that spoke to her inner mischief-detector? She roused herself with the ease of all mothers of infants after many long nights spent half-awake.

She managed to get both feet in her slippers and one arm in a bathrobe before the crash came.

Her feet were moving before she had identified where the sound had come from. Perhaps her unconscious had been keeping tabs on the rooms, for her legs brought her to the nursery. A flash of blue and a broken-sounding "clonk" helped her single out the problem.

The beautiful mobile, the one Grandma had sent from Egypt, lay shattered on the floor. The little eyes that had once winked so charmingly out of the moon's face had been unceremoniously crushed. Only half of the sun's enigmatic smile remained intact, a thoroughly demystified Mona Lisa.

Mae sat in her playpen, waggling her arms at her mother, asking to be picked up. She showed no signs of upset or shock; indeed, she seemed more aware and alert than ever. Holly came running out of the washroom, her hands dripping wet and her face slightly red. She had nicked her pinkie on a stray bit of wire, but, she reflected, it had been worth it.

Holly felt that someone must take the blame for the so-called disaster, so she confessed to her father, somehow sensing he would be the more reasonable of the two parents. She was punished, of course - two days without dessert and no watching TV for the whole weekend, "and stay away from breakable, valuable things!" She had stopped listening halfway into the short lecture, choosing instead to reflect on her new role as the conquering heroine. She felt quite proud that she had defeated the Bad Ones, just like the clever princess had defeated the wicked ogres in her favorite book. Of course, she’d had to lie to her parents, but Holly had a scale-like conscience: she could tell that the weight of her half-truth had nothing on the good deed she’d done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Something had changed.

Callie paused on the stairs, waiting for the settling-in of the tension that hovered over her nerve-endings every time she entered the upper floor. Nothing. Delighted, she wandered absentmindedly down the upstairs hall, her footsteps muffled by the thick carpet. Her youngest child was engrossed in a game of pile-the-blocks, with a healthy dash of clap-and-sing. Drew joined Callie at the doorway as the two breathed a sigh of joy. With each breath, each step their newly upright daughter took, the memory of that miniature storm of wills faded from the Yarrows' collective memory. Gradually, they forgot there had been a handmade windchime, brought back from Grandmother's travels in the Middle East; that Holly had been unusually clumsy, that Mae had ever been strange or fretful.

But the horror of what Holly had seen...she shivered, even now, to think of it.

So Holly, too, hid it away in the recesses of her child's mind, never to be taken out and examined, even when she got Old and Wise like her parents said she would be one day. She imagined locking it in a trunk, throwing all manner of heavy things on top of it, and leaving it in the attic of a house she would never enter again.

She would not think of Mae climbing the ladder to the attic, one bootie-clad foot at a time, scratching her tiny hands at the trapdoor, falling asleep with bloodied nails and whimpering at her dreams.

How had she unlocked the gate, with its hidden latch?
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
~~~~~~~~~AEW~~~~~~~~~