Florence Chard Dacey
Poet
In
Autumn
I want to rub rose and carmine pulled
from maple limbs deep into my palms.
Paint my solitude lemon-amber,
watch the spectrum widen.
Press carnelian leaves
against my frown.
Swallow this crimson and cream
till my insides cure.
Stride into honey-yellow trees,
waft forth, breathe whole again.
I want silver-pink rhythm of bark
to jostle my distortions,
grizzled wanton taproot
to pierce the fetid past,
brazen stem, fork of
lightning to incite,
before the winds disperse me.
I want to rub rose and carmine pulled
from maple limbs deep into my palms.
Paint my solitude lemon-amber,
watch the spectrum widen.
Press carnelian leaves
against my frown.
Swallow this crimson and cream
till my insides cure.
Stride into honey-yellow trees,
waft forth, breathe whole again.
I want silver-pink rhythm of bark
to jostle my distortions,
grizzled wanton taproot
to pierce the fetid past,
brazen stem, fork of
lightning to incite,
before the winds disperse me.
–FLORENCE DACEY
Tremor
I lay the Reverie Harp upon my dying brother’s breast. Deaf and unresponsive, he still might be able to feel the vibrations as the strings are plucked. So I pluck.
The harp, the Hospice nurse apologizes, is out of tune, of no import to the profoundly deaf and dying. I pluck the strings that seem in tune, to suit my ear, make sounds I imagine might escape the sarod, the sitar.
My brother’s eyelids flutter in what seems pleasure, the vibrations pulsing through his sternum which will in a day be burned to grey in the crematorium.
I think it is the last, the truest tremor he will feel, the one I make with my aging fingers on metal strings, my face above him, intent on nothing but giving him this true and fleeting rhythm for the journey.
I lay the Reverie Harp upon my dying brother’s breast. Deaf and unresponsive, he still might be able to feel the vibrations as the strings are plucked. So I pluck.
The harp, the Hospice nurse apologizes, is out of tune, of no import to the profoundly deaf and dying. I pluck the strings that seem in tune, to suit my ear, make sounds I imagine might escape the sarod, the sitar.
My brother’s eyelids flutter in what seems pleasure, the vibrations pulsing through his sternum which will in a day be burned to grey in the crematorium.
I think it is the last, the truest tremor he will feel, the one I make with my aging fingers on metal strings, my face above him, intent on nothing but giving him this true and fleeting rhythm for the journey.
— FLORENCE DACEY
Kingdoms
Gone
In the beginning there was the kingdom of sidewalks that led fatefully down Westerfield
passed Birongs and Blasiuses and Brawleys.
Realm of honest scrapes and clearest cracks,
path of glorious bike rides and trails to a creek
where we hid in green, we discovered something wild.
There was the kingdom of the Lake Street House ferny wallpaper, stately turret,
front porch that invited nothing but
easy laughter as you faced the street.
Music sometimes dancing out the windows,
popcorn and sighs in front of Elvis’ gyrations.
The mother and the father stately as lost lighthouses. Trees that held a solitary shimmering swing and we rode high, we could almost fly across the lake, grasping at the grand future.
There was the Kingdom of faces scattered amidst leaves, like snowflakes against a camera lens: teacher, priest, old lady with cats, dentist, boy carrying girl to edge of lake.
Face of summer, curtains blowing
into the bedroom, face of fall cheerleaders’
leap, of the leather jacketed boy who did indeed wear a pack of Lucky Strikes rolled into his sleeve.
Those were the Kingdoms of Kingdoms,
of certain knowing of where and when
you could spy and tremble or pretend to triumph. Where you could get lost and someone would always find you.
Someone would remember you were supposed to be somewhere.
Someone believed you had inherited a place in this splendid life.
In the beginning there was the kingdom of sidewalks that led fatefully down Westerfield
passed Birongs and Blasiuses and Brawleys.
Realm of honest scrapes and clearest cracks,
path of glorious bike rides and trails to a creek
where we hid in green, we discovered something wild.
There was the kingdom of the Lake Street House ferny wallpaper, stately turret,
front porch that invited nothing but
easy laughter as you faced the street.
Music sometimes dancing out the windows,
popcorn and sighs in front of Elvis’ gyrations.
The mother and the father stately as lost lighthouses. Trees that held a solitary shimmering swing and we rode high, we could almost fly across the lake, grasping at the grand future.
There was the Kingdom of faces scattered amidst leaves, like snowflakes against a camera lens: teacher, priest, old lady with cats, dentist, boy carrying girl to edge of lake.
Face of summer, curtains blowing
into the bedroom, face of fall cheerleaders’
leap, of the leather jacketed boy who did indeed wear a pack of Lucky Strikes rolled into his sleeve.
Those were the Kingdoms of Kingdoms,
of certain knowing of where and when
you could spy and tremble or pretend to triumph. Where you could get lost and someone would always find you.
Someone would remember you were supposed to be somewhere.
Someone believed you had inherited a place in this splendid life.
— FLORENCE DACEY
No
Place
When I first heard the harpsichord astounding as hail, when I wove my arms into ribbons of wild white plum blossoms and blessed the first unfurling seeds in my rough backyard garden, when I kissed the first child’s toes and fell into the chorus of mothers--
those days that were near perfect with the body’s ripe pleasure or the vaulting image, the tenderest finish line where golden birds heralded—
I didn’t know then
a man could gather all those
moments into his hands
and pour them out like lava,
like thick ice breaking up on a river,
like all the colors melded
with every voice that stirred the dreamer,
pour them into synapses and veins, old heap of bones till there was no place to not feel.
When I first heard the harpsichord astounding as hail, when I wove my arms into ribbons of wild white plum blossoms and blessed the first unfurling seeds in my rough backyard garden, when I kissed the first child’s toes and fell into the chorus of mothers--
those days that were near perfect with the body’s ripe pleasure or the vaulting image, the tenderest finish line where golden birds heralded—
I didn’t know then
a man could gather all those
moments into his hands
and pour them out like lava,
like thick ice breaking up on a river,
like all the colors melded
with every voice that stirred the dreamer,
pour them into synapses and veins, old heap of bones till there was no place to not feel.
— FLORENCE DACEY