....From The Tree Of............Sudden Joys
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_______________________________________________________ strange little happy why do i sometimes feel a little giddy, no foreseeable lightning in my skies no reason why this bliss this silly, light as air, as deborah kerr as cooly 'right' as 'this is the night' when nothing's on the slate. i've come to table late and can't demand a drumstick, but i've brought an appetite, and a small aperitif: this leaf, now drink it in. It is this Spring, 2003 in flattened, ovoid, 'tipped-to- point-at-end' and phosphorescing pho-to syn-thesizing, god damned fine perfection; if i were a man i've have an erection for this leaf- that's it i'm finally seeing with my third eye wide. Come kiss me. Pattie Cake Seven weeks is far too early for a smile -a real one- not of gas or angels tickling fat wee piggy toes, but Bill insisted turning up the ends of mouth and showing shiny gums to Gram. Full cheeks above the chins, eyes lit with light inside, I swear were lanterns of the lost who found their wretched way home by following their longing to a twelve pound little feller, who shook with joy each time the Baker Man marked it with a 'B'. I Said To Life, Surprise Me Insect wings, thin veined, silvery and see-through seen through sunlight, papery fall leaves I find in books long past their pressing -the first shy smile at twelve to signify a beau found when I didn't realize I was looking past my Barbie dolls--all things delicate and breakable-- the kind that fly away, fleeting, full in the face fine spindrift of our lives, that surprise -day in, day out with such sweet magic, cherish. Whatever delights, albeit embarrassment is what we feel at first will burst with laughter later: yesterday, the way my leaning in to kiss my eighty year old lifelong friend and priest, produced a gapping of my neckline to reveal me to the waist he hooted- grinning like Groucho he crowed, "Woo! I'm gettin a show here!"- these are the moments. These-- no others - are what matter most. Unexpected The back hill hacked of trees, a long, brown slide of dirt that once was foresty and green is a sight grown common; hardly notice how the scenery has changed. One of those things that disappear, lush to barren, pass it every day, blends into other disappointments not worth noting. Except the highway department planted vetch that flourished in the heavy spring rains and today, the view from my back door is a slope of purples- blooming purples- standing up, emerald ruffs round each: sometimes something happens. To Sleep Parasailing fifty feet above the rancor playing out below in the day I've left for sleep- seeing tops of trees, your thoughts like steam rise slow, stream past me kissing calves and toes. It is a touch I know: a sheet of gathered percale pulled up to chin, keeps nothing out but thoughts of what may be curled and curling tighter in the dark about to spring, but cannot harm me with this cloak like a second skin that keeps it out, locks the light in, lifts the heart to taller spire, leads me higher, deeper, away to where I've always been the girl who lives in the moon. Mysteries We Live With I found, and quite by accident, my cat likes cold spaghetti. Can't be good for him, but today, as I lifted the lid off leftovers from Sunday dinner with my mum, he smelled some spice he liked. Something smelled before I'm sure, in the years we've been together. Surely I must have eaten pasta a time or two around those twitching nostrils, but today he came and sat right down in front of me and stared. Eyes unblinking, steady, burning till I spied him, brought the dish down to his nose and he began to nibble like he'd found God. How odd they are, these cats, how desperately desirous for a minute how they saunter away, forgetful a moment later, as though to say: "Who me? I am a cat, you silly human- not Pavorotti though I do sing rather sweetly, don't you think? Now take that plate away. Some one could see you."- and I did. The Importance Of A Good Exit It was Bette Davis big; her lighthouse look swept round the room and stopped. Turned down the lamp, stood one minute more and with the bitchdog voice she shared with no one, said: "There's not a goddamn thing I'd choose to keep", and that was it. Said they never saw her ass sway out the door with such aplomb. Born Again There's nothing like a lake of sheets clean, sweet-wrapped around my hips to make me feel I've never sinned. Something in the starch of it; a crispness my old boot-kicked soul believes in more than prayer. After bath, before I'm dragged under the layered numb, I come to some new innocence by swaddling: a babe new-pinked. I think there may be a milk bubble on my falling open petal lips. Payday At O'Shaunnessy's Downstairs were whiskey-sharpened Irish scowls, throwing fists, then arms around eachother. In the back, was a Catholic whiff of frying cod. The serving girl's catcalls banged like bells. Were stirring up a different kettle of fish just as O'Reilly asked O'Malley please, to bless him. Bloody-nosed and ruddy-cheeked from too much Thursday mayhem, those two vowed to take the Eucharist after Father McFinney heard their sins first Friday next, and with a promise of holy second chances, they took Bridget and Maureen with the bum and runny leg upstairs, to make the iron bedsprings sing. Residual Faith Standing in the golden haze blinded by sun enough to raise the dead, I reach up with my hands- hands of a five year old- to capture wishes in a floating dandelion seedling we called a Santie Claus, white as a whispery beard and light as thought. Somehow, I still believe. On To Page 9 .............. 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