Oasis

 

Well ducks, it was the place to gather in those days.

There were ceiling fans that made one think 

that Baron Von Richtofen might fly in at any moment. 

I wondered whether a man wearing coveralls had to climb

 up on a ladder each morning

to heave the blades into motion.

They served a concoction of fruit, gin, crushed ice,

the low notes from Hernando's Hideaway, and who knew

what else. It tasted like children's party punch

but made our high perches start to  pitch

on the rough seas beneath our jelly legs.

Down some white stone stairs, there was a blue pond

someone had stocked with mallards, as green and gold

as my jewelry. They were free to fly

but could never leave--the desert

would have turned them to cardboard.

We slept with scorpion nets. One night I dreamt

that a handsome man in a uniform of water lay with me,

told me my hair was good rope from India, and

that I had been a snake charmer

in a previous life. He kissed me and it stung.

Ah, love, there you are looking at me through your new

telescope, your young face behind the lens like an egg.

I gave up gin, and traveling, and most other things long ago.

Now I'm talking to you with my bird beak,

free to choose but forbidden to leave

except via packing box, to be sent by air mail over the dunes

to the oasis bar, c/o my younger self, cash on delivery, payable

in florins, code phrase "wing walker." The Baron will be there waiting.

_____________

for Word Garden Word List--Across the River and into the Trees

Music: Hernando's Hideaway

On the Occasion of my 39th Sobriety Anniversary

 

You ask nothing of me that you do not share in every detail.

In a desert place, on the edge of a precipice, you found me

and took every wound upon yourself.

You bled where I bled, and that is as real as it gets.

You offered your hand but left it to me whether to take it. 

I did, and knew that I would never fall, then or ever,

and here I stand, Never Alone, sober and strong

Not because of any book or pulpit, but because

a workman found me in a desert place and gave me His hand. 

______

My 39th sobriety anniversary was last month. One day at a time. 

In Honor Of

They name things after people.

It's done all the time,

like

the George Washington Bridge

or

Kennedy Space Center.

Nobody doesn't like Sara Lee

but then,

Sara Lee never did anything to me.

There are others.

O'Hare airport,

Richard A. Handlon Correctional Facility

or

Willard Asylum for the Chronic Insane.

I'm adding one

and calling it

The Pat R. Harvey Desert.

Its grand scale reflects your self-importance,

its shifting sands your endless bogus tap dance,

and its

vast, uninhabitable wastes

your vacant heart.

I placed a plaque

smack dab in the middle

where the sun is harshest.

It tells the tale

of which curb I kicked your bullshit to.

If you want it,

it's out there where nothing can survive

with your golf clubs

and your

side piece.

_______

for What's Going On? "desert"

.

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