Black Calla Lilies On My Grave

 

When my home was made in the wind

in owl-silence, as patient as the planets,

black calla lilies grew upon my grave

where Hera's spilled drops transformed.

I had a million sisters, the scattered stars,

a sibling mobile telling night-stories

as I slept on the silver surface of a stream.

My mother was the moon; my father flame.

Black calla lilies grow upon my grave,

where I was born into flesh, a sentient stone.

I wandered off, unattended or so it seemed,

and made my home in sand and sorrow.

Like a branch in the rain, my body grows

heavy, a stiff cocoon my winding sheet.

Below me, the black calla lilies watch

as if I were now the sister-star singing.

Where is the wind where I made my home?

Where the owl-silence and the patient planets?

By day my father whittles, by night my mother shines,

whispering, " 'Calla' means 'beauty' dear child--

Come home to the lilies, to the wind, and to us."

________

for What's Going On? --"say it with flowers"

Music: Ane Brun All My Tears

The Mandolin, the Bouzouki, and the Oud

 

As we mount the scaffold

(and when

have we not been climbing?

when?)

let there be 

the marvelous kiss of a lively mandolin.

the wry, sensual bouzouki

or

at least, 

the mournful deep pool of the oud.

Let the hangman arrive

on a plumed black Arabian,

the doula with her arms around his belly.

(and when

have they not been so entwined?

when?)

Let her feed him Greek Easter bread from her fingers

with blackberry jam

and churned butter.

There is no word for him 

or us

to say.

Allow him these joys before his task.

Let there be wags

irreverent, wearing bright smocks.

(and when

have they not appeared costumed this way?

when?)

let them tell jokes and ribald stories

so that we might forget our aching knees and hearts.

Let them tilt back their heads 

lifting geysers of Athiri wine up to God

alone in His white pagoda.

Let the blind boy in his dusty thawb 

hand us grapes 

as we ascend.

Let him strike the gong 

announcing our circular travels.

(and when

have we ever left these stairs, even in dreams?

when?)

Let a young woman lead a gray donkey

peacefully across the streets we leave behind.

Let the sky be almost clear and blue

but for one cloud, one bird,

and one sun unblinking.

Let the rope be strong and well tested.

Let the holy man sleep,

his book falling from his lap like a restless child.

Let our memories 

explode like confetti,

and sleep like lions.

Goodbye, the world will say

and then again, always again,

Hello.

_______

for Word Garden Word List--George Hitchcock

and The Sunday Muse #245.

Music: Zorba's Dance-Sirtaki

Angel For Alley Cats

 

"Never trust a man in a blue trench coat,

never drive a car when you're dead" --Tom Waits, "Telephone Call From Istanbul"

Don't drink that donkey piss, Angelo.

It'll make you dream of broken bells.

You'll wake up with a six-armed woman

who keeps her heart inside a sandy shell.

Come with me, Angelo,

say you'll pay them tomorrow with windfall money.

I know a place where saints serve spring water 

from blue painted pitchers, and it tastes like honey.

Angelo, don't you have a mother somewhere

waiting by the window where the spiders spin?

Pretend I'm a rolling bottle and follow me

down the Old Beach Road where she'll let us in.

What am I gonna do with you, Angelo?

Is there fare for fortune under your hat?

Leave it, but bring your bouzouki

to play like an angel for the alley cats.

_________

for The Sunday Muse #224.

Music: The Psychedelic Furs "Heaven"

 

Phaleron

At Cassie's Diner,

the eggs are never over and rarely easy.

Your waitress may be falling in love with you,

or with your husband, or with the hard "R" when you say ,

"I must have left my bag in the car."

She may be in love with you, or

you only think she is.

She may be unavailable, or not even listening as you order. 

Every plate is a surprise

balanced on her arm like row of flat Earths,

the coffees steaming like new planets

And one of them has your name on it.

The napkins open to exactly the right passage,

the one you thought you'd never find,

Written by Athenian scribes in shimmering antiquity.

Aren't you glad you came?

(That was unexpected, yeah?)

Cassie's Diner is conveniently located

at the intersection of Eros and Morpheus,

open 24 hours, accessible by accident, vegan-friendly, 

unpredictable buffet, situated on a slight incline, nice view of the bay.

_______

For Dverse Poetics: "Poetics at the restaurant."

image at top is Charlotte Gainsbourg.

Medea Visits Phaedra On The Ninth Floor

 

Hey Phaedra, what gives?

I came as soon as I could.

Creepy how they lock the door like that.

Hey Phaedra, shh now, don't cry.

You're emotional and it's late in the day.

They said something happened with the kids.

When they call like that, it's never good.

Acamas will be all right, he's in his room with his cat.

Demophon told me it's all a lie

and Hippy himself won't exactly say.

Did they give you those little cups with lids

for pills to take with their shitty food?

God, Phaedra, it's so hot, why do they lock the thermostat?

Theseus will be all right as long as his martini's dry

and I'm sure he doesn't think you're cray.

So, Phaedra honey, just tell me this,

was it Hippy who put you in this mood?

You've been just like a mom to him. No one's denying that.

I know it's cringey but what happened? Tell me. Try.

You know I'll listen. I'm here. I'll stay.

This all got Theseus where he lives.

He's gone to Poseidon's to bitch and brood.

Phaedra baby, Hippy's just talking trash.

He's confused or maybe even high.

Aw honey, who can figure brats today anyway?

_________

Rimas Dissolutas for Dverse Poetics. 

Persephone

Sexy Persephone, not that anyone would know.

Hades keeps the lights off, the room too warm.

Her children howl from nightmares Morpheus leaves low

like suns going down at the base of the spine.

Restless Persephone, gone bitchy in the ashy shadows,

escapes to fenced April, daughter of deities.

She's a woman, she bears worlds purple with jacaranda,

wisteria, yellow-eyed pansies and Queen-of-the-Nights.

Circumscribed Persephone, prisoner of fence and filigree,

no Ubers in the Underworld, though taxis crowd the tarmac

from city to jungle to ice cap, gathering thick ten feet away,

carrying businessmen dry as last month's paper left on a sill.

Persephone, I ride on your skin, behind your lids, 

trapped as you are, wishing myself fecund as you are,

as frayed, as foxy, as fenestrated, a thing unto ourselves,

rising like spring stems garlanding a world denied.

Persephone, we lie in tandem in a dark grave, like butterflies.

___________

for Sunday Muse #160. 

The School Of The Ancients

A bird spiraled down out of the sun,
Black as a Bicycle ace,
Glib as an undertaker.

She broke her fall on the turnips from the truck I had lately fallen out of,
And, oh, what a fabulous line of bullshit she had.

I made her pancakes,
The good kind, with spiced plums;
She ate them,
And ate me,
Indiscriminately.

In the shadow of the wing of the bird with the fabulous line of bullshit,
I gave birth to a child,
An unlikely child,
The scourge of the countryside, in those days.

That's the sort of stuff that I called joy,
When I was younger,
Before I knew any better--

But now my child is grown;
I know bullshit from bath water,
Shibboleth from Shinola;
I am ready for you, my fresh love, the way Athena was ready,
Setting her owl after the faker birds,
Smiling to herself,
Finally satisfied.
______ 
for Ella's challenge at Real Toads. My words were child, bird, shadow, and joy.