I stood still on a path
Snow glaring in the sun
Blinding me to hear
Icicles dripping
Lost for a moment
I can see us at the carport
Working together
The edges now flapping in the wind
Our laughter resonates with me
I start walking slowly
One step forward, I think
One step forward for now
Heidi Sands
12/20/22
Lawrence of Neasden,
Man of action in the past,
Reflected with dismay
How life had moved so fast.
So many years gone now
Since they’d gone to war
And Lawrence no longer
Rode his camel anymore.
It’s ashes rested in an urn
On the mantle shelf
Alongside its photo and
Those of Lawrence himself,
All dressed in style
In their combat gear
With others of the Corps
All paraded in the rear.
Sometimes it brought
Many tears to his eye
When he recalled
Their last fond goodbye
Before they’d all dispersed
Their duties well done
Secure in the knowledge of
A fine victory won.
There’s an empty space now
There in Lawrence’s carport
Where in the state of emergency
All the troops would report.
He can hear the harness jingle,
Hears those throaty roars,
Where in his mind Lawrence
Rides his camel once more.
Through the streets of Neasden.
If the breeze is just right,
Sometimes there’s a little jingle
In the stillness of the night
Is it the shade of Lawrence
Loyal to the very end
One last phantom patrol
Atop his faithful camel friend.
carport door opens
chihuahuas sniff frosty air....
scents compel new hikes
Word Toccata in A Major
Jaundiced ’53 Cadillac in my sweetheart’s carport.
She leaves the hole keys inside the empty fish bowl.
Hidden in her trunk are a set of golf clubs with knife wounds;
Her secret boyfriend with the purple tattoo of a face scar,
Recites from shotgunned memory the Love Song by Mister Eliot,
As my sweetheart bathes upstairs with a fleeting candle and Camay,
Pure white, and scented as eucalyptus breaths in the cooing moonlight.
Fevered ’49 Commodore parked luridly in her back alley.
He retrieves the hole keys from within the empty fish bowl.
Hidden in her trunk are a brace of golf balls with black bruises;
Soon he will trudge through fairway greens in pursuit of exotic birds,
Reciting Prufrock with two young robins pecking seed before him.
Upstairs now, he relaxes in my sweetheart’s bath with Camay and a gun,
Pure crimson, and scented as medusae bulbs in the screaming moonlight.
I watched tiny rivers form in my carport as the heavy rain inundated the dry ground.
Her breaths from inside sounded like a convict in a death chamber.
I watched small debris flow rapidly downstream with bugs clinging to dear life.
The deafening sound of rain drowned out her desperate screams from within the house.
I sat preoccupied with the micro flood appearing before my very eyes.
Her cries seem muffled now. Like the ghosts of summer's past.
The rain slowed and stopped to reveal a vengeful sun.
Silence then filled the house.
The water receded and the day finally ended.
I then walked back through the ajar door...And sat down in my dry but empty house...
It is one of those times
Surely hard to do this rhyme
With plenty of things going wrong
Just trying to get by and along
Cell phone and computer break
Try to write, screen goes haywire and I take…
A deep breath, and another one
Then the wind blows my carport at 3am before sun
Onto my house and electrical wire
Fire department comes to help and prevent a fire
So, here I am with writers block and lack of sleep
I think I need a leap of faith, a big leap!
Heidi Sands
tree frogs are singing
to orange-black tinted clouds
against purple sky
set in the foreground
an A-Frame rooftop peeks out
between long-leaf pines
further off due south
thunder still rumbles and rolls
threatening the peace
a single raindrop
draining from the carport roof
tickles down my nose
the sight and the sound
of the eternal present
in the perfect now
a bottle of red tea on the opposite end
while a television glows out and into the concave
space of horshoe-shaped tables made for twenty
blue chairs and white linen cloth
and the old man wih a long grey beard
sits alone among the decor of clean
and bare cloth and plastic sounds
of in-between game commentary
fill the void
Well it's the reason for tears on your face
Well it's the reason for no embrace
Well it's the reason for no sunlite skies
Well it's the reason for your frown
It's the reason you are so down
It's the reason you're no clown
The recliner is totally down
Caput, Colapse,
And it's no surprise
Tears coming from your eyes
Part of you has died
Lying on the carport
Waiting to be buried
With memories inside
If that recliner could talk
A slender black spot
On my bedroom door at night
Became a crawler.
Around the carport,
Up and down the hall peeking,
The lightning man ran.
Hideous tree men...
Shadows like bad guys reaching...
Monsters imagined.
It was the center of the night
and just off the carport,
forty thousand frogs sang
a round that cradled the dreams
of the neighborhood, the town,
and just then, my life.
I sat, then stood,
trying to get closer to the music;
inside of it, to let the surreal,
surround sounds smooth the folds
of my consciouness. I let it fill
my intangible soul with its sanctity,
stroke my skin with its simple complexity,
in a near-orgasmic surrender to something
I cannot find the words to explain.
My mind sipped the symphonic nectar
that spilled over into my reality
and I wondered if you knew that I loved you
to the ends of my imagination.
Several days of chilly spring weather had been messin' with the dogwood, but Sunday
mornin' dawned Georgia warm and the dogwood smiled. Steamin' mugs in hand, Big Mama's
babies took their places 'neath the saggin' roof of the carport, breathin' in the
caramelized aroma of monkey bread that was teasin' them from her oven. Once she had them
all full and sassy-like, Big Mama wrapped them up with her story voice and took them to
her special places, her memory places. And as she spoke, they were right there with her,
ridin' that camel 'round the pyramids, walkin' the French Quarter with her in her theater
days, and slidin' down the mossy rocks of Hurricane Shoals while her daddy looked on. A
heap a love was goin' 'round that circle of Big Mama's babies, but after a long bit, a
little sadness started bitin' their ankles. It was gettin' close to leavin' time, when
they'd be draggin' a piece of their hearts down old Maysville highway, headin' home to
babies of their own; lookin' forward to the next time they'd be sittin' 'round with Big
Mama, lettin' her hug 'em up good, with more of her fine cookin' and her "mamaanems".