Mel's Writitings

Sideshow And Child

Life was to the green robed glory
Of the circus trainers a game
And when they found her lying
In the shade of tents they had
Erected when the sun stood high
At noon when clouds were sparse
And she was young and light
They knew she had forgotten
To lock the cages of the creatures
They had reared and loved
And she had toyed with all
And them as though in red ribboned
Hearts that she claimed
As hers and never let them rise
From green grass, sawdust spread
Until they found the glory
Of the secret circus where she
Worked for meaning that she lacked
And never would discover in
Her disrobed pleasure among
The many rings and bangles that
She wore to lure them near
And keep them close until
The magic POOF! and all was gone
From the magic man's discovery
Of a rabbit in his hat
Of excellent proportions that
Was her and all she had become
As there she lay among the tents
Of many colors where she saw
In the one cracked mirror of
Infinite deception and
A strange kind of beauty that
She harbored at the waist
Of thin and ruby coated size
Amidst the creatures of the show
Who said they loved her, coming
To the costume room to meet her
And show what it meant when they
Said and left her to remember
How she erred when she lied and
Said to the remnant babe
This is the music for the parade.

When she was born an infant
She discovered elephants.
Those great atrocities of leather
And of grey garbed creased
And folded African eared
Savanna roaming prehistorics.
Sweet, she was the darling
Of the big sticked, black whipped
Six foot bearded mammal trainer.
This is the music for the parade.

When she was grown a child
She discovered lions.
Flaming mane of thick grained,
Matted hard and loose around
The pointed, nostriled nose
Of pink and black confused
Into cacophonies of sound
When blown or trumpeted or purred
Down the sheen of sleek, round frames.
This is the music for the parade.

When she was dubbed a girl
She discovered stallions.
Gleaming streaks of black, grey, white
Thieving shades of appaloosa
Grown into ring-side treats
With lace-topped, booted,
Smiles in ruby red false lips
On the combed, gleaned lengths
That shone on white socked hooves.
This is the music for the parade.

When she was called young woman
She discovered wolves.
White glistening of teeth and
Hairs that stand on end along
The edge of pricked up hues
Of muted snarls and passions
Full of living for the prey
In elmwood glens and fern groves
Where it prowls as a mystery.
This is the music for the parade.

When she was left of age
She discovered ostriches.
Tall stiletto pillars lost
In majesty and ridiculous
Size and shape reminiscent
Of the runners of mazes
Victorious by it's ruffled feathers
And vicious beak projecting
From a pool of beaded eyes.
This is the music for the parade.

When she was married off
She discovered serpents.
Rich patterned streaks
In deadly black and gold
Triangled array of poisonous
Fangs strangling the last bite
Of delectable dilemmas called mice
And sunning naps on roads
Made of Roman stones it slid between.
This is the music for the parade.

When she was a worn out wife
She discovered swans.
Curves from bottom to top
Of the arched and pink tipped
Head oiled upon the surface
Down to bunches of flowing
Plumes of bluing washed
Perfection in a floating
Bowl of pond decorations.
This is the music for the parade.

When she was bent in age
She discovered toads.
Croaking bits of sun upon
The water of glittering
Respectively as a piece of shining
Leathery skin and bubbles
In the form of bellowing
Throats and rainbow hued
Water globes amidst the water lilies.
This is the music for the parade.

When she lay weak and prostrate
She discovered moths.
Fluttering myriad colors
In two symmetrical types
Of leaves of a book in which
She wrote her memory and signed
It in that calligraphy that makes
The code of what it could have
Meant to the next in the circus line.
This is the music for the parade.

Sometimes when she looked bac
To Earth where Earth was show
And she the artist and the top
Of the trapeze swinging high
Above the crowd of ordinary
Citizens who voted for the
Right of suffrage which left not
A feminine aspect in her heart
Deceived and left to draw
Longer this line or wristwatch
Ticks and tocks that the surroundings
Of creature comforts snarled at,
Understanding not the victory
Of the Big Ben tower of terrors
And the man who led around the ring
The many rows of tied together
Tails with her perched there
Precariously atop the last
And first when all was said
And done the opposite of what
She knew was right for her to do
To make her previous mother proud
While looking down from spirit worlds
Where the sort of magic wait
To taste the wine of their
Earthly drunkenness and mistakes
That left this child upon the sphere
Of confusing lines of latitude
And longitude and animals
Who took her heart and drained it
Of the last sweet drop reality
Would offer for the ransom of
Her soul to the circus ways
When she was found in the shady tents
Damned and dying when she
Realized the error in her ways
Just like her mother's gone
Before her to the realm
Of the constant crowds and wizardry in
Expectation in which she
Now repeated all she learned
Through life that led her backwards
From the elephant of being born
Of one of the older sorts
To dying in the clutch of the
Moth of small disgrace where she
Cried out and said again
To mother who could not warn the child
When her infinitesimal delusions
Passed her by and took a wing
To the cloud of mist she knew
Was nothing for her then when
Her child said to white droplet ears
This is the music for the parade.

The Twenty-Eighth Capsule

Part First
DAWN

Half-light, haze lidded, royal blue.
Air in chilled and biting breezes.
Dogwood bloom across the slope takes part
In the road-lined morning terraces of trees.
Drooping, dripping tulip fed with dew.
Rose head tried to make it to this day.
Dragon in the shade, a green-leafed nap.
Red snapping jaws and pink and yellow primary.
Painted by the grass licked fingers, touching
In black, in blue, in violet, in velvet wine.
Cataract bends upwards, stem line spiked.
New unfolded infant leaves held close.
Flowing damask kneels by silver urns.
The common cup tips, sipping, vowing stains.
Morning prayer now rising through the walls.
Caress the diamond jubilee of the sun.
As Luther may suggest for closed door whispers
Say "into thy hands I commend myself".
Be gone, "go joyfully to your work" and lower lids.
Sign of the cross, a jar of hermetic fruits
Hand in hand and here the day begins.

Part Second
MID-DAY

"Half," the medieval tolling bells reply.
Half the fountain emptied, half the sun
Is showing. Cut down the center with the holy blade.
Hospital murmurs strike off one half marks.
Calendar geometrics slashed to "8".
Spiral bound, the words wait for notation.
Shadow on the road cast either way.
Symmetry is the marble game they blast
On concrete, baked and boiled and bird flight dreamed.
Partial canvas covered, finger pause.
Banquet of the evergreen congregation.
Water, leaving rings on scrubbed down glass,
With lemons, with the ice from morning purloined.
Confidante by the fern arms waits for me.
They are old, their methods false.
Astrological position makes the spreading true
Of heartbeat shadows, tiny cakes of wisdom. "I thank Thee." Allow me to correct.
Pattern of the lace is cut at this, the last rose bud.
Sell it to the man who comes to beg.
Begin again with "1", progress to "0" on the counter.

Part Third
AFTERNOON

Spin, spin, and weave and spin.
Chaotic dance for some, rock rest for home.
Path-ridged are the stone age foothills old
Where the stony cliff cut back with TNT
Is weeping on the fork of sheeted sadness.
Lancelot comes down for "tirra lirra" on stirrup stones
And leaves the mystic, wonderful in disgust.
Make this domestic debris, appliance thrusts
Alpha and Omega of the cliffs.
Nonetheless, the cherub sleeps, the young man sings
On bridges to the caverns of despair.
Take the trail, the rabbit hole delights.
Librarian secrets, nothing belongs to you.
Shelving the tear soaked night in modern leaves.
Universe measured, the way kaleidoscope thoughts
Are bathed and clipped. The falcon wing
Under embroidered lady�s gloves and emeralds
Seeks sky and vapor clouds and distant plains.
�Tis half, beyond, �tis nowhere in between.
Zenith of what I weave, of what I spin.
Obligatory lessons nowhere learned.

Part Fourth
EVENING

Romance where the sun careens and falls.
Drunken by the light, red spurting blood.
Strings plucked, leisurely, temporary cushion.
Linear shape inside a linear dimension.
Depth it has, it holds my life, my love.
Weep the curves, the flowing rivers of breath
Down my throat transpired, I breathe alone.
Pansy punishment tonight in coup de grace.
Last, the very last, apologies for what occurred.
Detail work is all that�s paisley left.
Eventually to leave the much walked labors
To next dawn. Torrents leave the view, the vista raised
In six hour visions from which I write and dream.
Eyes drop slowly, softly, filled with ferns.
Procession of the cakes and trees and stars.
Reminder of the mail and news and shelves.
Erasers take position, patience reigns.
Clouds part and the brilliance rests in peace.
My feet among the flowers fade away.
To ephemeral specters, evidence.
This is when they sleep, I stop their clocks.

Part Fifth
NIGHT

"Midnight," booms the pendulum of pain.
It only takes that millisecond transient
To set the counter. "0" it reads, then "1".
Dwelling on the zero, obsidian secrets.
Father, my solitude does not reflect.
Smoke curls up from candles, soul inspired.
Let no one know, it�s not for human ears.
Lift the fire from the grate, drink it down.
This tower of Babel is closer to nothing but myself.
That the mirror knows, hushed, it takes my passions.
Transferred on speeding, silver decked black trains
Light removed from angles to the mind.
Flicker, firefly drenched, pulses compete.
Colors all dead, all drowned in hopeless holes.
Spinning, fall among four poles, refresh.
Banner reads the date, repeat aloud
What this is you hear, they said "osmosis".
Natural is the clock and finished tapestry.
From here leaves wilt, the shrapnel shoes walk on.
Coal banks rest, moon enthroned the flash
Of what transpired is gone. The day is done.

The Best is Said Which is Not Said

Teach me not, tell me not.
This is how it goes:
I am filled with wigwam secrets.
I am your mystery pool of light.
"What," the crowd replies and says,
"Say it in the crystal clear."
Maybe now, maybe then,
This is how it reads:
I am captured, piping thoughts.
I am the circled, great unknown.
Streamers trailing, find me not.
Ask me not me not again.
I am tree ring, weaving loom.
I am all cylindrical strata.
Red-faced, every tongue declares,
"�Tis cruel, unfair, �tis justice leaked!
Speak not so false! Speak truth! Speak true!"
Sighing strings and leading isles.
Patience, now it goes:
I am web of iris cages.
I am wall of eyeless gardens.
"Thoughts lead straight and hears lead silent!"
Each and every soul rebukes.
Glance from snaking, stony roads.
I am pipe of bubble breezes.
I am inked and turtle towers.
Stand upon the witness stand,
Testimony long and drawn.
Answer just in adjectives.
I am hand of optic creases.
I am birdsong, bush, and brushes.
Take me out in dark ensuing
Tie me to the blindfold trees.
I will speak, I will release this.
Free my hands and heal my wrinkles.
People start to weep in torrents
Children start to cling to dresses.
I am captured by your passions.
I am drowned because of clearness.
They will litigate no more.

Hermeticaly

Clam shell in a clenched fist.
The stuff of life.
Laced and woven round with cloud breath.
He is celestial,
I am there.
He is leaning over the guard rail
To touch the eagle
I am the spreading tree
Above stony encampments.
Artificial sky
Too thunder prone.
Interminable silence
In the crystal capsule.
Fence around a stallion,
I am the land expanse
Under throbbing hooves.
Viceroy of timidity, monarch clipped.
Man-made yellow stripes.
He is driving forward.
I am there.

Vial of Departure

One clawed, piercing finger bends
Through darkness, heartless, invisible arcs.
Explosion on the other side and the veil is torn.
A sphere amidst the numbers sees a sight.

Landscape on a curve, a rolling ball
Cannot be halted in the daring, jarring bounce.
Playthings to the side, a heap, a molded ile.
Cacophony of strings where horns were seen.

Where is Miranda? Call her, lead her back
To grasslands, to the mystic steamer trunk
In her Spanish shawl she fled, she flew and sailed.
Suitcase full of vials; she is alive.

Down on dreaming Turkish carpets
Lowered over stylized to the stylite.
She drops with hands upraised, she disappears
Into the ocean, midnight, she is gone.

Miranda of the grasslands, born of water.
Lament, alas, the stars are seeping tears.
Her face through shimmering fountain springs;
The pale white skin....the vial, she is alive.

Palsied waves take part, the chorus blasts:
"She is not here. For she has gone away."
The varied crowd, an audience dressed in silks
Take rowboats to the island of the eyes.

Clattering hooves, white glittering slippers beat
To throw the ropes, the clocks, the bags of tea
Rush, rush plumed hats and gems and silver mirrors.
Miranda lies in curls, the barnacles creep.

Song of stroke of twelve, a melody, a paper cloud.
Framing hair, white skin, the blood red lips.
She rises from the waves, they part, they sigh.
She sings with lashes closed, beyond the web.

A tear, reluctant drop released in half light, flames.
Come let her be afraid, come let her scream.
Invisibility becomes her well, the prophet�s robe.
Drapes her figure, pillars.....and the vial.

Plod you up the hill, the arc of pain
The trail of tears, Miranda is not here.
Her music is the starfish path, she follows, lifted up
On steps of stone, of twisting roots seeking was she contains.

Take the horizon, leap, fall spinning down.
While cupped hands reach, bare and strained
To take the half-lit moon, the faded crescent
Past your hallucination to the sea.

The pointed, grasping finger bends
To this deception, imagination, a rolling end.
She pulls the veil around her, igniting night.
Miranda drinks the vial. She is alive.

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