Tag Archives: imagination

Amen To Wild Days

The recording she sent me, of our old stories of private gods and our valorous children,
has the cold wind of roaring February blowing her straight brown hair and her soft and
gossamer voice.
She sits in the field, our once mighty and eternal kingdom that has faded now, just a field,
as we have grown up, and the tales just slip away forever, you cannot hold them close,
cannot remain that child, even if you never grow up.
My tattering and navy blue hoodie, the one I gave her when I left for the war, from
Weeki Wachee springs, our last childhood adventure, all of sixteen, all out of grace,
the summer when mermaids were taking us down.
She wears it, and her t-shirt of the painting of Diane the Huntress, and blue jeans and
black boots, steel toed for her job, as she sits with our leather bound book of tales,
our own private holy writ of gods now lost.
Her soft, dark eyes cast down, light brown hair blowing over her face, the wind the edge
of tears in her voice as it swirls it up and whips the gossamer like spider webs in the gale,
ripping apart to send to the ancient kingdoms.
I watch this, laying down in my bunk, on my aging smartphone, still good enough for us,
and the working she is sending, of the brave monarchs we once were, the gods who adored us,
and the children we made out of dreams and voices.
I am away at the war, and her, with her mental illness, stayed behind, and she sends her magic,
her voice, our dreams, to me to protect me and anoint me and keep me safe, from friend and enemy,
and The Red Dragons that eats up children’s hearts.
Reaching the end, she closes the book, closes her eyes, says sacred words I cannot hear or pronounce,
and then looks into her little camera as if to look me in the eye, and smiles, beautiful and sad,
then says there will be another child coming from as last night together, this one in the usual way.
She turns off the camera, I turn off the video, and sit in the dark, the stars in the barracks window,
the stars all secret gods and valorous children that has been lost but still light the night and the dark,
and ours watch over us even know, in the war that will be The Red Dragon’s finally victory.
Amen to mad days, and the ones left behind. Amen to brave tales, and our loss that makes us sweet.
Amen to her, and what might yet be.

Mustangs

There are still stacks of opened boxes, the windows still uncovered,

but I feel somewhat safe, being back from the road, and behind a

row of thick trees.

Just a couch and my laptop, and the plastic, toy horses my kid sister

played with when she was little, before the demons started an endless

war in her head.

I sit Indian style in front of them on the floor, hardwood against my bare

ankles, playing with them, trying to make stories and find the right childlike

spell that will make her whole again.

My kid sister, not a kid, now a woman, sleeps upstairs, still plagued by bad

dreams even then. The demons don’t let her be. I can’t call down the angels,

and I doubt God saying doesn’t forsake us.

I put on puppet shows for her, about King Arthur and Guinevere fighting Satan,

and make up ballads of Archangel Michael fighting Satan, casting him out forever,

giving her hope her ware can be won.

At night she’ll sometimes sit outside on the back patio, even as winter comes,

in her nightshirt and jammie bottoms, listening to melancholy hymns on her

headphones. Even with God, this world is bittersweet.

I remember, when she was little, I was her favorite brother, and she followed me

like an angelic familiar, like the hope of a new morning even after a long dark night,

and I remember playing with the horses she so loved.

And she could make me see, in my older and lazy third eye, that we were riders on

the steppes and on the plains and the ancient mountains, priests and warriors in the

world so resigned to evil.

And I try to call that magic now, re-open my third eye so I can make my way to the battle,

so doesn’t have to fight alone, so she can be happy and wild yet again, be Michael chasing

Satan out forever, so she can be Gabriel, telling the world what it needs to hear.

Doll House

Doll house, play god, make the life I want.
Perfect sprawling home, nothing out of place.
A happy couple with happy children.
I give them all the world, that I am not given.
Happy time stories. Playing in a perfect lawn.
Momma there to tuck them in, kiss them goodnight.
Daddy there to play sports with the boy and girl.
And they all eat together, discuss things of the day.
Their world is beautiful. I make it beautiful for them.
Dolls are not people, but I’m not people either.
Dolls can love you if you believe hard enough.
If you believe. If you believe.

Emily Jo

Trees line the creek,
 which babbles, mumbles,
 over slick rocks it tumbles;
 you hear it speak!
Hidden from view,
 a seperate place to hide,
 as big as heaven is wide,
 just me and you!
None hurt us here!
 Our place of dreams!
 We are born of sunbeams!
 We make all disappear!
We are king and queen
 of Atlantis or Camelot.
 Some place forgot.
 Oh! What we’ve seen!
Emily Jo, Emily Jo,
 I still dream of that time!
 Those days and their Rhyme!
 Where did it all go?