Blocks
Five years old
he plays with blocks
stacking them carefully in precise pattern,
multicolored tower touching the clouds
that gather in his imagination,
carefully places a one-armed power ranger,
victor of all battles, symbol of invincibility,
at the base, legs askew.
then, toy airplane in tiny hand
whine of engines replicated
between giggles,
"Here come the bad men!"
re-enactment of horror
and the tower falls.
blocks tumble into a heap.
He pulls the power ranger
from the rubble by one leg
and tosses him on the sofa.
"He's dead now."
And he begins to rebuild his tower.
Block by block.
...And I wonder how long before
the skies of his imagination
are blue again.
Lollipops and Swamp Water
I found myself on page 17 tonight.
Saw my ghost peeking from between the letters,
little black baubles hanging
on a Christmas tree that didn't make it.
But it was me, okay, hiding on the back porch,
covering fading eyes with strips of black cloth
woven from the sweet down of denial,
Racoon-like, dipping paws into water buckets,
trying to find the lump of sugar that I dropped in there
so many years ago.
It's easy to slide right on into the music,
find yourself treading the deeps
when the sax weeps its final note
into the dark waters of that swamp
you dove into so willingly.
Hell, you knew gators had teeth.
You'd been bit before, almost devoured, in fact,
but it sure didn't take much
to send you swimming again
like some crazy rush-lusted kid
who really only wants a multicolored lollipop
to paint his tongue in sticky sweet swirls,
but ends up with a cistern full of swamp water
running ice and fire through little blue tubes
that lead in never-ending circles
winding through flesh, around bone,
and ending up finally
on page 17.
Page 17,
and there I was,
slapping myself in the face.
Wake up, fool!
Spring is long gone, and summer is over.
You gotta be crazy to get in the water
in autumn time. Yeah, I know it was fun,
for a while at least, but it's not fun any longer.
That water's too cold, now, and the gators are hungry,
and face it, your streams are so clogged with trash
that they just run in little trickles here and there, anyway.
And blue fingers and toes
can't carry their weight anymore.
Give those bones a rest, girl...
flashing in neon from inside black baubles
on a Christmas tree that didn't make it,
deep in some hold, lost in some web,
down some lonesome highway.
I'm glad the inconsequential movements
of numb and bloodless fingers,
made out of boredom, and dry bones, and empty pockets,
stumbled my feet on that particular road tonight,
'cause it took me right where I needed to go....
Straight to page 17...
Hollow Time
slow sunrise brings lavender and gold
to a horizon that tumbles
and seethes in protest,
extinguishing candles of ease
to light the eyes of infinity....
and she wakes to another hungry morning.
smiles piled high in oatmeal bowls
feed the starving
while wolves pace inside red metal boxes
clawing and scratching
biting and tearing
seeking freedom to possess the body
conquer the soul
and usurp the throne of life.
kisses and hugs, tickles and pats
postpone the inevitable
only momentarily
as the clock steadfastly refuses
to wave in time with her demons.
stuffing love in brown paper bags,
smoothing hair and dusting off wings,
replacing loose feathers with scotch tape and elmers,
she waits for angels to pack up their innocence
and board bright yellow buses
that will carry them to safety,
away from ravenous beasts
that, muzzled and bound by chains of will,
thrash against motes in dusty corners
where secrets and dreams yawn openmouthed,
waking relentlessly from their fitful sleep.
and the wolves rage rabid and wild
her hand trembles as she strokes the final goodbye
on innocent sunlit face
places lips to cheek
motherly grace
rosebuds and daffodils bloom in his wake
as wheels spin time into solitude
and
she can feed the wolves
once again
upon the remnants of her humanity
feed them well,
so they will sleep
and she can smile
when afternoon sunlight
brings thistledown floating
into her waiting arms
...feed them well,
so she can sing
as she tucks tired halos
beneath blankets of night
filling celestial bodies
with sweet dreams and lullabyes
to soothe and cradle
her universe...
before the unstoppable strike
of hunger into marrow,
forces the hands of the clock
to swing past heaven
and rest once again on
hollow time.............
feed them well....
click for larger view
stairway to heaven
Love Storms - 30 page poetry chapbook
email W. Laura Alleman for more info
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Hi. My name is W. Laura Alleman. No one, remembers what the W. is for and only my chidren, who are various and sundry, ranging in age from 21 to 4, of whom, thank god, only four entered this world through my vaginal canal and of whom, thank god, only four still share this rambling monstrosity we call a house, call me Laura. Almost everyone else knows me as "Phant", "Phantie", "Phantom", Phantomheart", or "Oh my god, there she is again." I am old as dirt (47), although I think by the time dirt is that old it has mostly been recycled into worm poo, so I guess I am holding my own faily well, because I haven't completely turned to shit, yet...at least, I don't think so. My husband, however, might argue that point...Oh, yes, I do have some of those husband thingys, one current, several previous, and I also have a big gray tomcat who likes to rub on my legs after he goes out whoring around the neighborhood.
I began my long and illustrious university career in Louisiana in 1971 where I majored in Psychedelia, continued my education in California, where I studied Street Bands and Washtub Base Techniques, returning to Lousiana to collect the various assortment of three letter tags that I can hang at the end of my name when the mood strikes me, and the stack of framed documents that collects dust on the top of my hutch. After trying on several different careers, from greasy spoon waitress to oilfield truck driver, I settled into the teaching profession where I spent fifteen years filling my students' heads with literary bullshit and social activism, and from which profession I am currently taking an unspecified leave of absence to decide what I want to be when I grow up. And that brings us here, to The Hold, where I am going to attempt to drive both our devoted readers and our eminent editor completely insane with my flagrant and often incoherent ebullitions and my penchant for erratic and remonstrative ramblings. |
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