Abduction of Alice

What a clever ambush to build

and how the fingers itch

to run away

with these thoughts and presentiments.

What a wondered world this is

where even the flowers sing

(though every rose, it's told

must have it's thorn).

I am lost with this growing self

that is this and that and the other

and suspiciously smally me.

They call her by my name

and say how she has grown,

how lovely she has become.

I am unknown

bewildered in this wilderness

by how tame it seems to be

but everything (oh everything)

has it's teeth.

And so the flowers sing

waltzing matilda, waltzing matilda

oh matilda waltzing home.

I want to wander home.

Will someone walk

with me through this land

where the flora snarl

and I am slowly sure that something

is becoming someone

somewhat like me

which leaves?

And the flowers sing

and they tell me,

It's a mad world, a mad world,

and I know, I know.

What a clever ambush

to build in these words a

wonderland...

Art Never Stops Growing

I have been blessed with beautifully gifted friends!

Miss Megan Feniak has once again taken some scrap of mine and transformed into a unbelievably lush piece of art. Turn your attention to the screen, ladies and gentleman, and prepare (after clicking all the right buttons) to be overwhelmed with gorgeous music.

http://spaceshipsandthings.blogspot.com/2010_09_01_archive.html

Tomorrow and Tomorrow

How bold a thing man is to take Fate's pen from her hand

and demand to do her weaving.

How hungry he gnaws at her coloured thread

tying anxious knots in haphazard patterns

What a thing this Delphic frenzy

and still he claims his unfettered freedom

So write the battle hymns and sing the ballads loud

(the dirges will come, will come, will come she cries)

Spite the night and mock the day

What can stand against man with sword in hand?

Here him lift the anthem cry I think therefore I am

and look and hear what is man

this standing thinking thing.

So wind the horn tell the long tale

Build the lonely road and choose the only love

Rage until you fill the empty echoes

and build your homes into the wilderness.

So spite the night and mock the day

Cry down witch drown

For I am Macbeth and unafraid!

(It is a tale

Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury
Signifying nothing.)

Freedom Drive

it's a rainy day

lets run away

there have to be stars

somewhere under all this grey

you grab the wheel and I'll find the map

we can use it to spread across our laps

we'll look at the roads like veins

and trace the thickest with our fingers

we'll follow them until they cluster

and then tumble out into a new freedom

here at the heart of the world

It can rain if it wants too

we don't have to wait for it to clear

I've got you and you've got me

and there's nothing else to fear

Is this then the Age of Men?

Spandex doesn't hide anything

with it's breath-tight grip.

That's why the heroes wear it

to show they have nothing to conceal.

No gaping wounds, no trick knees

not even the ridge of a scar

to tempt thoughts of mortality.

So here they come

flying to the rescue

without even the dust upon their feet.

Congratulations.

How great to be the Untouchables

saving the untouchables.

What happened to the knights of old

carrying their virtue like a weight

across their shoulders in iron?

They knew what a dangerous thing

it was to claim to be

anything more than human.

To come thundering instead of gliding

with the hours of travel behind them

weary and worn with armour chafing

but arrive ready for battle.

What sacrifice in defense when

your smile is kevlar thin

and if you seem to die it's only

in order to emerge alive again?

Rather ride with mortality astride

looking for the red dawn

for justice and for peace

and the fear that would freeze

the best of these

if they could ever feel it.

So here to the weary warriors

who have seen too much of dark

here to sharpened swords and dulled armour

to truth and justice and fear

all wrapped in one.

Hail.

And for the invincible, the sure

a suit of spandex with nothing to hide

and nothing inside.

Tripping.

Something about the act of motion

these days

nauseates me.

Sitting toes curled in as far as they will go

and I can't quite close my eyes

because we might not make this turn

even though we always have

before.

It's not that I don't trust you

with your long hand on the wheel

and your mouth telling me

where we are going and where we should be.

It's the Road.

I'm afraid of closing my eyes

of losing my head

and being swept away.

I'll end up somewhere I never meant

with a stranger beside me

and you somewhere behind me

at the very tip of my shadow head.

I will never reach you there.

I have tried-

but you always stretch just a little further than I can

and slip into the dark.

It makes me sick to breathe

thinking like that

but I'm sure the Road is just waiting

for me to look away

to think of you or freedom or speed

and I'll be lost forever.

I will never find you again.

Sometimes counting the streetlights helps

or seeing how far I can push my feet

into the thin carpet between me and the pavement.

There is metal too, I suppose

and that helps because metal won't bend

but then I remember magnets

and am terrified all over again.

It is strangely quiet now.

We have stopped and you are looking at me

waiting to open the door.

Today I reached safety unstolen.

Tomorrow the Road still waits

with all the patience of the future.

If I love him

I found you feathers for years

wrapping them in tissue

and packing them away in this

shoebox from the first heels I ever wore.

(No one told me that I was supposed to check

and see if they would leave you taller than me.

How was I supposed to know?)

One winter I found a cardinal's feather.

It was the greyest day

with the pavement half-melted

and the clouds uneasy in the wind

crouching against the horizon.

I found it on a last mound of snow

half buried and I was afraid

that the bird was still there

curled beneath the cold like an ancient king

waiting in his icy barrow.

It is the only red feather I found.

There was the one from the beach

and the sparrows that built their nest

above my window left a handful as a gift.

The box is almost full.

I gather my secret treasures

from under the bed and slip outside.

It is almost time.

One by one I lift them out

and lay them along the wire frame.

The clock flips on through the minutes

and I am almost ready.

the cardinal feather at the very tip

and the time is right.

So I light each birthday candle

that I have saved from each sparkling cake

making the last wish of all as the wax drips free.

I made these wings for you.

Don't fly away from me.