Fear not, for I shall
bear witness to your
broken egg body as it
dawdles on a day that
might be its last. Those
four jagged cliffs will
surely collapse before
scarlet trumpets descend
upon our land.
I will remember. And
when the violets rise
again, I shall speak of
you tenderly with a
voice spun from honey.
Sleep. Lay your weary
head upon the cool
stone. This unseen
world will fall away.
Sleep.
I often think about the alternate paths
that you might have chosen. The unknown
ones beyond the white picket fence.
Perhaps, you own a vintage record
shop. And smile at customers with
sunshine flowing all over your back.
Sweet and low, your voice floats over
scores of ears – sweat trickling down
rough rosy cheeks.
In the country on a Sunday evening. You
sip on white wine while listening to The
Carter Family. Yakking on a porch swing.
At Hampton Court Gardens you enjoy
a spot of tea. The tulips blooming as
far as your blue, beloved eyes can see.
One thousand roads fan out behind us.
Yellow woods, wondrous and vast, shall
never be encountered again.
Two cumbersome drumsticks slap against
oak boards, straining
to turn their aimless rhythm into a
graceful cadence.
At last, the unyielding determination
of youth tumbles
onto an emerald labyrinth of rose leaves
and cries.
Supple pink lips stretch boldly
towards a breathless,
iron-streaked sky to capture slender morsels
of air.
What haunting songs will make
their indelible marks
on this child’s untouched life? Soon, time
shall speak.
————————————————————————————-
In July, I wrote a short poem entitled Household Songs. A few weeks later I wrote another poem in the same format and ended up naming it Household Songs: II because at the time, I couldn’t think of a better name for it. I have now decided to expand those pieces into a longer narrative poem which will consist of thirty short sections. Household Songs is about the life of Joseph Clarence Strauss, who was born at his father’s homestead in 1867 in Lehigh County, Pennsylvania.
There are two elements of this poem that are not fiction. The homestead in question is modeled after an abandoned two-story home–built in 1860–that is roughly a ten minute drive from my childhood home. In 1865, a Thomas Strauss did in fact purchase that house as well as a grist mill that was on the property, however Joseph Clarence Strauss is merely a figment of my imagination. That house has always fascinated me, even to this day. I have often wondered what its walls would say if they could talk and so for me, the Strauss home seemed like fitting subject material from which I could construct a longer poem.
The respective sections of Household Songs depict a moment from each year of Joseph’s life, in chronological order. I intend to post one section every week.
How many times
have I lain listlessly
in my own shadow
replaying weathered
and changeless
memories instead
of seeking the
unknown and
possibly joy-filled
passages that
exist beyond this
window? Tides
rarely change for
men who do not
know the Sun.
A chubby, bronzed thumb plucks
needless tears from
a flushed face, discarding them quickly onto
the ground.
Commanded to supper, he gallops
past muted white
bells as April’s fleeting sweetness runs down
his chin.
Tongues of the beloved hunger
for delusive miracles
from a holy intersection of mahogany and
lacerated resin.
His presence in the doorway,
like a petticoat
parted by a wanton wind, flutters nigh
sallow feet.
A silk blouse torn from
convulsing, sunburnt hands
falls to the floor in a torrent
of dysphoria.
Weep not for the bodies
who float over
floorboards like docile dust balls going to
their graves.
The King has departed.
Spotted peach blossoms
unfold their fragile wings
in front of sun-melted
faces, kissing the wind
in the darkness as they
journey away towards
the mountainside.
I pray that we shall meet again.
When my Mary was four years
old, she loved wearing a particular
red dress. It had white and pink
butterflies embroidered on it. She
wore that dress until it fell apart.
Grandma Elliot bought that dress
for her.
When my Mary was four, maybe
three, she loved wearing a particular
red dress. She wore that dress
almost every day. Grandma bought
that dress.
When my Mary was little, she loved
wearing a particular red dress. She
sure did wear that dress a lot!
When my Mary was a girl, she loved
wearing a red dress.
My daughter loved wearing a red dress.
A long time ago, I knew a little girl who
wore a red dress. I can’t remember
her name.
sundry folly 