Moon at Midnight – Part VIII (day 1982)

(part VII)

I helped Amy and Frank chop wood for five days
In exchange for…
Well, I guess it would be food and board
But I was mostly staying for the company
As they were both such enjoyable humans to be around
And their two lazy dogs, Rudd and Jip,
That I still don’t understand why
They weren’t the first to greet me
And Claire, who I nicknamed Clarinet
On account of my sweet mother’s favorite instrument
Who was the child I had heard Amy speaking to
Upon my arrival.

They came from the South
Frank’s old man was a cattle baron down there
Whose ruthless ways, along with his two brothers
Had driven his kind heart out of there
Before he found himself crazy
Kind enough to send him off with
His share of the ranch, though
Amy was his sweetheart
And probably had a lot to do with his tenderness
Having been in love since they were thirteen
Holding hands in the pews at the Sunday sermons.

Amy was the only daughter of the towns only Doctor
She was tall and kind
And treated everything she came in contact with
As if it were the most precious thing around
Yet balanced it with just the right amount of sternness
That kept any good family working smoothly
Her parents missed her dearly
And came to visit once a year after the thaw
To check on the health of the family.

Had I set my heart out to build a more perfect house
I don’t think I’d have been able to
The patio afforded a view
Stretching out in front of the house
Down the meadow to the small stream
At the far end
The exterior had board and batten
Of pine that Frank had meticulously fired
Into a most beautiful looking color
Inside, Amy’s oven was perfectly stoked
To afford just enough heat to boil a pot of tea
But not enough to break a sweat
Which sat on the kitchen side of the middle of the main room
And on the far side were two rooms
One for Amy & Frank
And the other for their planned family
That currently was filled with household items
Amy needed close at hand
A sturdy table Frank had built
One met on the right just as they entered the house
And to the left upon the wall
Was where shoes were left and coats hung
And following along was storage
And more chairs to see to it
That no guest was left standing at the door.

part IX

Knee Jerkin’ Jamboree (day 1942)

This sunshine in my sky so high,
Oh Lordy, sit down and sing me a song today
I’ve got little dancers raising glasses in my heart
And the whole town’s coming down
For a good ol’ knee jerkin’ jamboree!

Have you thought about bees on a Sunday?
Bending fullness of a flower top
Slowly wrinkling it’s cheeks saying: ‘Hi!’
Waving lazily in the afternoon sky
Cause Oh Boy! I’ve sure got some cheer!

You know, I sure know this old barn door,
And today there’s nothing more I could want;
Squeaky hinges and drying wood,
And the smell of it all goin’ back to earth.
What’s happening to my soul? It’s a damn good day.

White Blues (day 1921)

It was late, early as the birds wake. The sun making it’s trajectory project through blind slits that tickled my nose and ruffled pure white sheets that smelled of everything I had ever dreamed. I wished I had worn my own button up so she could wear it, cotton thoughts underneath the purest thoughts I could believe, her ear lobe dangerously close to my sanity I buried deep into the sleepy eyes she wiped away.

She was business and I was coffee on Sunday morning. Her ancient wooden bowls with carved and stained mosaics sat on bare shelves between three curiously new vinyl records I had yet to identify or spin, so my bare feet sadly ripped spaces beside this cocoon to leave invisible heat scores on a treasure hunt around pieces of clothing that each had still alive memories attached, each a little puddle of our reserve that began as we stepped towards our island.

As the needle scratched dangerously towards the first note, it was the crackling that trumped even her cigarette into casual, I spotted her pinstripe skirt, now draped across the wicker chair underneath a baby blue Fender Telecaster she had plugged into a tiny hand held amplifier to show me what she knew of blues.

I propped myself up with her pillow and through the patio window I saw she was looking at me.

photograph courtesy of model / Lisa // photography / Jen Hill
photograph courtesy of model / Lisa // photography / Jen Hill

Be My Lover (day 1805)

Why can’t you be my lover?
Why cant skies call us
Hand in hand
On a lazy Sunday
From beneath checkered sheets
And last nights crumbs?
Why can’t your body tangle
Wrap the heart of my smile
So tightly in a slow gaze kind of way?
Why can’t a sidewalk be
Our waltz through a park
Hand in hand and stopping
To watch two swans bathe themselves?
Why can’t our tub be lit by candles
With a glass of wine to share
From a lazy notebook dream
On a midnight kind of Saturday?
Why can’t our every day
Hold our dreams just so,
Where routine is charming and light
And the tips of your fingers
Remind me of the frost on morning’s flowers?
Why can’t we share memories,
In a caravan of love?

Into Light (day 1443)

So long to a once was land;
Wings of an unscented angel
Wandering like a
Sleepy Sunday robe.
And I am a rose,
Twisted pedals and tall,
Chasing after the raven –
People’s strongest burden.
We never had sadness
Till a promise was made,
A gift of ill-fortune
Saddened thorns in our side.
Join me till I’m fortune unmade,
Where I can feel better
In a long line of stardust
That take hallows like
Delicately dropping blossoms;
Piano lightly touched
Into silence.
Ascending again into light.

Days of the Week Poem (day 1332)

Butter me on Sunday
Split my hands upon the door,
Call the lady Monday
At a quarter after four.

Lunnegan Lunnegan Lunnegan Sat,
Place your bets here and I’ll make you a stack.
Gone is my friend, night after Tuesday.
Biscuits and rawhide are left in the mud.

Every missed Friday
Is a Wednesday fallen flat.
For opening the windows
Comes Thursday tru-ra-loo lore.

Leftover Lovers (day 1110)

She was a woman who cared for her lovers
The same she cared for beggars and friends.
A little lone heart with a name stuffed with blues;
Hobo’s delight in a $10 Marlborough,
And my love never lasted in that smoke-house saloon.
Love in a little back door room.
My dreams and I was heartache by Tuesday.
Though I swam like a digger, I was surfaced and saved
In my own lonesome song.
She was a heart made up of elastics
And my twangy delivery
Was the Wednesday that I’d never start.

So don’t go treating your lovers
Like left over flipping page books.
It’s a forgotten stack, the dusty pile,
And we’re a never ending love song
With toes getting colder.
A common answer to sufferin we kept inflicting,
Two unspoken lovers on two lost Sundays.
Two out of tune guitars
Waiting to behold warmer mornings,
Just waiting on leftover tea.

She made me get up later
So we could talk of traveling gypsies
And listen to leftover records
We’d forgotten to play with brandy.
I collected your answers in tiny glass jars
For your leftover spells.
I wasn’t branded in passion;
Painted on that old saloon wall
With some unspoken love song
And leftover cigarettes sailing the sea
As I woke up to Wednesday
On a Tuesday afternoon.

A Discussion With Myself (day 1077)

day 1
What discusses me?
Sits in its bedroom late at night
And debates.
Contemplates.
Deliberates and swaps memories
With fact like evidence.

day 2
What discusses me?
In a large cozied pot
Of herbal mint tea leaves.
A fortune read.
Destiny.
Visions undecided.

day 3
What discusses me?
In my discussions with my lonely mind,
Flip-flopping wrinkled sheets
That crease my minds
Soft footsteps
Through lazy Sundays.