Waiting For My Second Line 

When the Parade has passed

and the cheers fade,

when the party ends

on promises made,

then I'll come along,

then I'll dance. 

I lie in the dark and they come,

always the same echoes,

the same strains ~  

No matter where or when I rest,

from the cradle right on through

my darkened fevered childhood

on through nights alone or in

a swept togetherness off and on,

in hospitals and at home,

always always every night

I hear it ~ 

Like you hear music through thin walls

or from way down the street,

or across waters calm and dark,

always muted just beyond earshot

just beyond reality,

wafting within the darkness swirling,

kissing my ears maddeningly close yet

just not there;

always always every night

I hear the music ~ 

I thought it was a haunting,

following me,

no matter where I slept ~ 

The darkness brought it to my edge,

the soft sad strains of a sinking ship's band

merging into and with jaunty unknown melodies

like an enveloping wave takes your sanity,

from weeping violins to some honky-tonk sound

or hurdy-gurdy never heard

in my wakened world,

with background chattering and clattering

far away,

this darkened party of ghosts;

always always every night

I hear them ~ 

Confusion reigns in darkness;

why and wherefrom,

if not haunted ~ 

Each night I strain to hear some full detail,

a note, a word, a chord alone;

only the distant brass clamoring

and sweet melodies floating

and fading further away,

just beyond the night,

but now

I know who they are ~

I know them all,

those who wait for me,

who will dance and sing

when I arrive,

they wait for me,

to celebrate me;

they play for me every night

my beloved band of ghosts ~ 

always I am hearing them,

and I am waiting

for my Second Line.

 

 

© ACG

27 September 2013

 

Indiana Oregon Morning

In the cool mist of morning coming softly on,

I sit outside, rocking slowly ~

My old chair fits me close

like a favorite sweater;

bundled in blankets I breathe

in the fresher air of Fall,

grateful after the summer's choke

for the gentle misty after-rain within;

I doze rocking slow.

Our patio overlooks a meadow

that falls away and into

a distant line of trees that guard and stand firm

before the East Fork of the White River

just beyond;

the fog formed after the rain comes,

it curls around and across my meadow's edge

and rolls in swift white waves,

clinging and coming. 

My half-closed eyes deceive,

even my breath tricks me,

as the treeline recedes

taken by the mist

and the meadow is swallowed by the fog

ever so tenderly, until

all that remains ~ 

~ and I dare not breathe

or open my eyes

fearing to break the magic spell

cast by Oregon memories ~ 

~  All that remains

of the shrouded trees is

the Ghost of Haystack Rock looming

rising and sighing in my Indiana meadow-ocean

that faintly glows before me;

O I dare not breathe

or allow consciousness

lest my vision fades,

as soft soft mists kiss me

and sweet sweet air envelopes me,

lacking only the sea-salt scent

and that haunting taste ~ 

Somewhere in my brain,

there is admission

and regret.  

But still . . .

 

© ACG

19 September 2013