Nocturne

Where do you go
When you are sleeping?
While I am watching?
I want to know.

Who is the you
Just beneath your skin?
Behind your closed eyes?
The one concealed within?

I want to know,
And so I stay close by...
As you breathe untroubled and slow...
Yours the breath, mine the sigh.
_____
for Gay Cannon's Form For All

 

Dear Quasimodo

Dear Quasimodo,

It's me, of course. Who else do you know who does things as old fashioned as writing a letter? But I thought that you might welcome one, and besides, even if I were standing right in front of you, you wouldn't hear a word I say, now would you dear? I say that in every sense of the phrase, and in the most loving way. 

I wish I could be there when some stuffy Abbott or whoever hands you this, with the scripty-girly handwriting on it. Let's give them something to talk about! I know you'd like that song...it breaks my heart that you can't hear music, apart from your beloved bells. But never mind. How are the bells?!? I'm telling you, Q, if everyone had something they loved and love to do, as you do, the world would be a better place. And a lot louder, yikes! When you swing on the bell ropes, your face lights right up, did you know that? You are truly a man in his element. It's a beautiful thing.

So, tell me...what about this Gypsy girl you have been telling me about? Esmeralda, that's a pretty name, and to hear you tell it, she's all that and a bag of fireworks. Have you talked to her? Or are you just worshiping her from afar? I'm glad that you are feeling these things for someone. I am. But I fret about you, too, dear heart.

There are no secrets between us. I am your friend. Wild horses couldn't change that. And so, Mr. Bell Ringer Sir, will you forgive me if I say a few things? Do you promise not to be angry, or sulk, or think that I don't care for you? You can be a pistol, sometimes. Don't bother to deny! See now, how well I know you? 

I know, of course, about how you were left on the cathedral stairs as an infant. It is a terrible thing, a haunting thing, to believe that one was not wanted. Oh, Q, how often have I wished that I could just somehow reach inside of you and fix that. You do bring out the Mother Hen in me. And, too, I know that you believe you are ugly. Q! If you could see yourself with my eyes, you would know beyond any shadow of a doubt that you are not. Will you believe me? I have never lied to you, have I? You are not ugly. Would I hang out with you, and write you letters all the way from America, if you were ugly? I think not!

Think about this, please: who has God chosen to be closest to Him, up in the magnificent bell tower of the most glorious cathedral in the world? You, Magoo! Who sees to it that His voice never goes silent? Again, you my dear. And as I have already said, the joy you bring to what you do, is the most beautiful devotion He could ever receive. He knows that. He sees. He loves you, sugar pea. Me, too.

That is why I am concerned about this Gypsy beauty of yours. I hate to give away trade secrets, but I have to break it to you...not all girls are as fabulous as your faithful letter writer here. Yes, true. She doesn't know you the way that I do. She may be all about a handsome face and a noble white steed. What I'm saying, Q, is that I don't want you to be hurt. Would it be all right if I follow behind at twenty paces, just to make sure this gal is on the up and up? I'm teasing now, but in a way, I really wish I could.

You see, dear Q, I know how you are. Just the way you love your bells with your whole beautiful, faithful, glorious, simple heart, you'll do the same with this girl, whether she has earned that kind of love or not. All I'm saying is, don't get carried away with your bad self, dude. Take it slow. See what she's about. If she is as wonderful as you think she is, she'll see what I see. And if she doesn't, then...well, you'll still have me. You'll always have me. 


xox


Sally

Cindy & The Unfortunate Birthday Cake

Cindy did for the birthday cake.
Damn the thing anyway,
As if enough Bisquick and bullshit could 
Make her husband keep his dipstick where it belongs,
And keep her kids from going wrong,
And make everything as orderly as the numbered pages of a Redbook magazine,
Lined up flush and sequential,
Not loonbat crazy in the middle of the afternoon.

Cindy did for the birthday cake
With a ginormous honking big knife
Longer than a mother in law's memory,
And someone's got to answer for that,
For the gashes in the easy to clean table cloth
And the fucked up frosting
And anything and everything that Cindy faked since forever,
Like interest and orgasms and staying sober until five.

Cindy did for the birthday cake,
And it felt hella good.
____

for the dverse Tuesday night cattle call

my 300th Word Garden post of 2011 

Wheels

The woman who broke her heart had red hair
And blue eyes--
A sunset over deep water.
With her head tilted back, she believed,
As the bloom believes in the bee--
She did not, could not, see it coming.

Feeling herself destroyed,
She became a woman of the earth, as the quiet ones
In graveyards are--
A bus station bohemian,
Far down the road ahead of any memory,
Alone, disappearing.

That is where she met the man,
Who counted out his life in silver blades--
She thought she could stand to be with him,
Since she wouldn't really care,
And so,
Then and there she poured herself into his emptiness
Like a jar of smoke.

Each night he sent the knives at her--
They seemed to come out of his bright white cuff, like bones,
As she turned on the target wheel.
Each night in front of a popcorn crowd,
He built a skeleton around her from fifty paces
And she became its face and heart beat.

"Do you love me?" he demanded sourly
In the small hours after a show,
And when she said "no", the next night he missed,
Twice, and cut her.
She knew that to stay meant being carved,
A bar of soap vanishing to satisfy his anger.

The buses are comforting in their way,
But now, back on the Greyhound highway,
She finds her vision empty;
Blank as tomorrow, without the flying knives,
Without anyone's body to be heart for,
Without her red-haired love with the deep water eyes.
___

picture by Metin Demiralay

Salon

At Lady Mott-Bayfield's regular salon in March of 1872,
Certain Arctic explorers were displayed
Like cakes on a tray.
Did I say "displayed"? I meant invited, welcomed, feted!
They held tea in china cups,
Answering questions from thick-bearded men and fine ladies
As the snow from their boots slowly melted
In a trail from the door to where they stood.

"What did you see?
"Who sponsored your expedition?"
"Terribly cold, I expect?" (this last sending a ripple of titters through the ladies nearby.)

Cold, yes.
We left fingers, toes, and twenty-seven immortal souls there,
On the endless pack ice.
We saw things...
Things that were there,
And things that were not;
We saw enormous, yellow-white bears circling our camp at all hours
In hunger and in curiosity.
(The guests now quiet and hanging on every word,
Making a ring around the explorers as if they were moons.)
We saw seals
Pulled up from their dens by the bears, who could smash through the ice with their great paws and tremendous weight;
Our friend Roberts had become disoriented,
Believing one of the seals to be a woman or a mermaid
Depending upon the degree of his fever.
When the bears caught his particular darling,
He dashed out on his frozen twig-legs, lurching,
Screaming,
Tears freezing on his cheeks before they could fall.
A bear shattered his skull with a single swat,
Letting the madness out,
And his spirit.

One of the salon attendees clears his throat.
A lady's hand flutters at her heart,
A practiced gesture,
Half sincere this time.

It was dark around the clock,
The sun an impossible memory
Like warmth, or a wife.
There was no respite from the cold,
The wind over the open ice,
Or each other.
We had long since killed all of our dogs and horses,
(Someone sets down a cake, making a small noise in her throat)
And we ourselves were dying by degrees,
Losing first our sense of mission
Then our equilibrium,
And, for the twenty-seven, life itself.

There is silence,
Then a hearty "I say!" from a railroad magnate.
The explorers are never invited back,
And a maid cleans up the messy slush by the door
The moment that the last explorer has left,
And it is shut, firmly, behind them.

_____
linked to Real Toads open link Monday

3 poems in the style of Emily Dickinson (but with leaven of Fireblossom!)

HONESTY

Honesty and Tactlessness
are siblings, but not twins--
One lives in solitary pride,
the other stays with friends.
_____

RESPONSE

Up the narrow stair behind
the empty choir loft--
I carried your sweet letters, dear,
in ribbons pink and soft.

Your letters could not sweeter be,
if angels held the pen--
What jaded Heaven sends today,
the next calls back again.

We used the empty choir loft
to have what angels lack;
These letters full of high fine light--
one match will show them black.
_____

FOR MOTHER NARCISSUS

Are you surprised when I am cruel,
and be what I must be?
You taught me well, now go to hell--
Full reciprocity.
_____

for Real Toads Sunday mini-challenge HERE. The first poem is from 2008, the other two are new.

Checked Out

Little black dress,
new bag,
bee-stung lips.

Perfect French nails,
blow out,
Fuck Me heels.

To die for--
she got that look
to die for, girl.

I saw her kiss another girl--
total dyke.
Lookit that Barbie girl--
not dyke enough.

To die for--
she got that look
to die for, girl.

I saw her kiss a guy--
makes my skin crawl.
Maybe she not a wise enough girl--
maybe she not a girl at all.

To die for--
she got that look
to die for, girl.

Torn black dress,
empty bag,
split-open lip.

Broken off nails,
she bleed out,
how's that feel?

To die for--
she got that look
to die for, girl.
_____
written for my new feature "Fireblossom Fridays" at The Imaginary Garden With Real Toads.
______