#154
Theme: Home Again Home Again Jiggedy Jig
1.
Only Those Who Are Dead Rest In Peace by LeVan Hawkins
The
family home is trembling
The
stairs have been shaking for years
I
have called the Carpenter
But
he is in demand
And
this job
Too
small
So
The
two story Georgian
Moves
back and forth
Back
and forth
Until
it rams against the future.
I
search the mansion for a witness
But
my home has been deserted
And
begins to whirl like a midwestern tornado
Until
it collapses off its foundation.
I
search the street -
Animated
cars of
Lime,
sienna and terra cotta
Make
me a target
Screech,
aim
Run
Screech,
aim
Run
Bullets,
fires and animated cars keep me running
I
struggle through familiar streets
Trying
to remember my home address
Elusive
as my high school locker combination.
I
hear aunt Florence's voice
Proclaiming
the next time will be fire.
I
see our home in the distance
The
carpenter's work has been completed
The
stairs are sturdy monuments
And
the house has been painted
Lime,
sienna and terra cotta
I
grab my spirit
Hold
her to my chest, lower my head
And
dash to one hundred forty-first street.
As
I reach the door
The
old man
Face
unseen and cloaked in darkness
Reaches
for his weapon
I
am tired of running, I scream
I
hurl my spirit through the door
Stand
erect
Expand
my chest
Turn
to the old man
And
demand he take
His
best shot.
©
LeVan Hawkins
2.
Swine by Tom Mueller
This
little straw-house piggy
was
driven to the market
in
a wedding white
stretch
limousine.
She
lounged in the mobile sauna,
sipped
an orgasmic cocktail;
rhinestone
sunglasses
concealed
ill-bred identity.
Paparazzi
chronicled
her
plight and flight
down
posh and wolfless
expressways.
Pigs
who live in fragile houses
often
hit the road.
This
little stick-house piggy,
snorting
powdered Prozac,
stayed
home and miserly
stacked
stones into piles
to
the beat of Bolero.
She
ordered them daily --
gravelgrit-dot-com...
had
UPS slip them
through
cracks in the walls,
Yes,
second pigs
form
solid convictions
that
sticks
and
stones and names
are
seldom broken.
This
little brick-house piggy
wasn't
stacked,
had
no wheels,
but
had a beef roast
boiling
in the kettle on a potbelly stove.
Priggish
and prudent
all
her long life,
she
survived
every
huff and puff
external
danger
till
sepia grayed,
razorback
dulled,
her
tail lost its curl,
loved
ones dwindled
and
then she had none.
She
choked on her wisdom,
fell
feeble and blind...
cried
wee wee wee
all
the way
to
the home.
©
2000 T. Emmett Mueller
3.
Of Homes and Hearts by Patricia Fiske
Not
knowing how or when or where
or
what it would look like
I
found both home and heart
patient,
trusting, floating on intuition,
open
to possibilities, I found them,
a
home and a heart,
places
to plant my spirit roots deep
But
both needed major renovation
paint
and pain stripped from walls
replaced
with vibrant, happy colors
new
carpet, tile and hope for floors
once
sullied by scar-tissue, debris
and
too much traffic
lighting
changed, now lit with love
my
home, now occupied by me
my
heart, ready for occupancy
©
Patricia Fiske
4.
Home by Mary Eastham
You
told me to imagine
the
lights were vultures.
'Blink
once,' you said,
'and
we'll be eaten alive.'
My
will is strong.
I
paralyzed the muscles
around
my eyes
to
stare into faces
the
color
of
sanitized
dirt.
I
realized
I
was living
a
Las Vegas nightmare.
At
the hotel
our
pillows
were
hard
and
flat,
the
kind
that
block out dreams.
You
held me
as
we waited
for
the rose glow of dawn
to
return.
Around
two a.m.
or
was it three,
we
jumped from the balcony
of
our first floor room
to
follow the sounds
of
night fires in the desert.
'Beware
the salamander
on
the rock,' I said.
You
wanted
to
touch
its
soft, moist skin.
Walking
through purple darkness
my
bare leg
caught
the edge
of
an Indian fig cactus.
'Blood
looks different
at
night,' you said
moving
toward me
like
a scientist
with
nothing to fear.
You
stopped the bleeding
somehow
as
the moon
shot
a
twister
of
light
directly
in our path
its
sterling silver glow
surrounding
us
like
captured rain.
©
Mary Eastham
5.
An Afterness by John B. Lee
I
hear
an
almost silent drumming
of
this human heart
and
know
it
is my own.
And
then
between
the quickening
and
the slowing
of
sleep
between
the rising
and
lulling
of
that exited inner touch
with
all the thump
and
thrum
of
something captured
in
the dark
I'm
lost
between
the
fearing of the known
and
unknown ecstacies of life
as
at the end of every
measuring
the
stilling pulse
will
seek and find and soothe so lovingly
the
long lacunae of an afterness.
©
2000 John B. Lee
6.
Full Circle by Marilyn Injeyan
From
a dream so well digested
it
leaks from my pores
to
perfume and distill thoughts
if
only for a sleeping moment
I'm
tucking words away
in
an unfamiliar house where two
strangers
remain in the darkening
room
as I'm asked an offering
for
the bereaved daughter
who
stares through me searching
I
don't know how much
to
give and why
Outside,
I join a ring
of
people, hands held, enclosing
a
small pile of ashes, powdery and fine
Sadness
washes over me and I weep
waves
splashing down my chest
as
I become the circle, connected
I've
traveled countless miles
and
years to disembark at last
I
am the grieving daughter
in
the warmth of hands
while
the gray-blue light
of
evening calls me home
I'm
now the quiet listener
thirsty
ears drinking in the silence
©
Marilyn Injeyan
7.
Home Again, Home Again by P.T. Paul
You
wondered, when you walked into my low-rent bungalow,
how
I could sit on a ladder-back chair
and
laugh as I recounted how I flicked on the light
to
see my black velvet Christmas flats
swirling
lazy do-se-does
on
the river that had come to visit me while I slept -
how
could you have forgotten Hurricane Camille?
At
the family reunion that heat-scorched July,
you
shook your head as I crowed how the doctor,
upon
first seeing my blistered torso remarked,
"that's
one WHOPPING good case of the Shingles!"
(It
would seem that the asbestos fibers
that
burrowed under our skin that summer
of
Hurricane Frederick the Homewrecker
would
have left at least one scar on you?)
"You
NEVER lived in your car!"
you
remark disdainfully
when
I relate the story of my marital exodus
to
yet another appalled family member -
"yes,
I did," I think to myself,
"because
a moving target is harder to hit."
We
are survivors - from a long line of survivors -
lower-middle-class
curs who recoil when kicked,
growl
(if only inwardly),
then
find another, unguarded, route
to
the garbage cans.
My
refugee story is remarkable only in its newness -
another
hardluck manmade natural disaster
will
bump it from the front page soon enough - but,
it
is my own fairytale, warts and all -
and
the ending is happy
because
I chose it.
©
2000 P.T. Paul