The Mimosa Effect 2

(For Poetry Thursday’s second-last prompt: Last lines, first lines)

It might just be
all in my head
but I thought I heard you
talking in your sleep
dreaming of Mozart
counting time with your fingers
on the tousled cotton sheets

it could have been you
standing on the corner
dark hair straight as rain
a short green coat
and a yellow striped umbrella
then again
it could have been anyone

in the memory of you
the radio’s on
and I can’t seem to turn it off
a ghost in the mind
leaving tracks like bird’s feet
when the fox is near

you said it had to be
a changing forever, or an end to all things
So does the world begin anew

in the hallowed light of a smile
I longed to give you
everything
yes, I said, yes
a thousand times yes
but you were already gone

I know now
I never had you in the first place
oh, I could tie a dozen knots
a million different ways
build fences out of bones
that touched the sky
I could keep you in a box
in the musty, dusty cellar
feed you bits of cheese
through tiny little holes

but in the end
I only face my own reflection
salt stained and scuffed raw

—–

your breath in the air
reflections of clouds
at our feet
we climbed through mist
following stones
our world only
a few paces long
an arm’s breadth wide
in the morning,
there were
mountains and sky below us
secret lakes in hidden valleys
flowers I’d never seen before
who knew
birds could fly so high?

—–

the placement is all
she lays the lace doily
in the exact centre
of the table
the flowers in the
elegant glass vase
arranged just so
the silverware
like soldiers guarding the plates
ramrod straight
in perfect formation

—–

we entertain ourselves
to forget that we are alone
little fictions
to keep ourselves amused
We do not see
the desert beneath us
until it has passed us by

—–

escape, and back again
narrow tunnels dug through
shifting brown earth
the smell of wet loam and rain
stepping on trillium leaves
dew spills over my feet
rotten apples on the grass
time out of season

—–

The following provided the “last lines” that became the building blocks for the re-formed poems above:

two haiku (blue is the shadow)

candles in hurricane glass

fleeing sense and reason

foundations

the body series

I should be writing chapters

it always starts small

I woke up drowning

I won’t go if you don’t go

raw

snapshot poems (a funny thing / hole in screen)

tomorrow’s harper’s folly

tongue-tied ecstasy (prose-poem)

I didn’t want to do this tonight

after the jam (brown paper cranes / fish shifting sands)

    (All poems copyright Tanah Haney)

A perfect send-up of the genre.

(The question of why the genre of bad race movies even exists is still up for grabs. Come to think of it, is there such a thing as a good race movie? Seems to fall into the same mythical category as a good video game movie. Okay, maybe Final Fantasy wasn’t so bad, if you’re into that nice-looking CG anime kinda thing. Which I guess you would be if you’re into video games. Right. Leaving now.)

something
or, the riddle of pockets

Here was something she could use
cold tarnished vacancy of mind
a slate for etching onto
her own stark desires

Here was something she could hide
down in the depths of charity
a cheap facade of clarity
a shaded frosted glass that passed for clear
not one thing did she hold
dearer than that frozen shell

Here was someone she could steal
pocketed like a half melted
chocolate bar in some
wasted convenience store
piloted only by the dead, hollow eyed
mouths open like skulls, empty

She could never see
what all the fuss was about
these flimsy threads and tendrils
holding people together like so much
spider’s silk
she flew through their holes
like a sparrow through a chain link fence
they could not catch her

Here was somewhere she could fade
when all was done and none were saved
she alone would grasp the key
sweaty palm shoved into a fold
of memories,
casualties of some older war.

– T.H. (January 2003)

Image: “Sleeping”, artwork by Mark Harrison, used with permission