Wednesday, July 4, 2012

Sleeping Into Art \ Yet The Mock-Orange Still Blooms

Nancy:  So much ink!  So indelible!
Sleeping Into Art
While the poet sleeps
the pen wicks ink
and her nightgown blooms
with Himalayan lakes
Rorschach tests
The Dragon and the Phoenix
encompassing wisdom.
Freed of the rigidity
of words, the pen
glides on
fulfilling its potential
on and on
a Japanese screen
a garden lush with camellias
far archipelagos.
The poet is sleeping
     on and on
the pen slips to the floor.
Alan:  After enough years in a small town, we half-know so many people.  They lend their names to the land, at least for awhile, until all sign and memory of them fades.
Yet The Mock-Orange Still Blooms
That’s Bill’s place.
Gone – what? –
ten years? fifteen?
They say he fell asleep
smoking.  On oxygen,
too.  Bad combination.
Went quick.
Left a black space,
charred out
between the road
and the woods.
No one cleaned it up.
Old green garage
to the side,
untouched.  Small.
Hardly room for a car,
tractor maybe.
Last winter it finally
went.  Roof down.
Just two walls now,
leaning in.
Oh, and that shed.
Back there under the trees.
You wouldn’t notice
without a good look.
Last thing standing.
Old.  Eyes
not too good. 
Drove slow.
Way over on the right.
Took his wife around.
Guess she was lame.
Used to pull up
to the mailbox.
She’d open
the window,
grab the mail.
Then he’d swing left
across the road
into the dooryard.
One time, toward dark,
he didn’t see the other car.
T-boned.  Killed her.
He wasn’t hurt.
Stayed on there
‘til the end.
Never knew him much.
Just to say hi to,
around the neighborhood.
Wonder who else
drives by, thinks,
“That’s old Bill’s place. 
Gone now – what –
ten years, fifteen?”

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