Sagamore Hill

At first, I desired that you would come back to me.

Pulling at the complex, showiness  of every instance

of hallucinate that mingles truth and falsehood

under that hood of hope. Then I saw that the robins

had returned to my yard with the big males poking

at the bottoms of the females. And the wild vines,

mostly the Dutchman's Pipe, were beginning their

fabric crawl as if they knew every imaginable consequence

of yard and Ark. In the clamor, two new hatchlings

had fallen from the nest and were immediately devoured by

the ants. I told Curtis how most of this, even

all of this, reminded me of that image of

Roosevelt, him crawling up the path at

Sagamore Hill until his arms gave in. I recalled

the bliss of being held again by someone. My arms;

anyone. laying my face next to the giant phone book,

whale tooth yellow, the names all grouped by

alphabet, not religion, or want, or how much

darkness is between the darkest and lightest parts

of their soul. Perhaps a few, like me,

the accordion of awaken  sea creature, can tell, that when

squeezed will weeze out beauty and breath:

every misplaced Noun of oneself. Each and every

unloved particle of want and straight faced

secrecy. Like the way in middle school

 the girls were separated by size and tears.

The taller girls they gave basketballs to. The shorter

more fidgety ones got flower sifters and timers,

needles and Gestalt until their fingers were

baked half off and the patterns on their stained

skirts faded with analysis.

See what I mean? The very token of you has been distorted.

You will not return. In fact, the language of returning is a forest.

A green holiday. Soldiers marching up a fortified hill.

A foal learning to graze. Syrup flavored with pomegranates.

The Gregorian chants of invertebrates calling to a

spineless doom. I remember your warm kisses as

the cab driver who turns and places change in my

palm, then lets me out on some distant shore. So

if you write blue down in some flaky confection,

then write it down a thousand more times.

It will eventually turn into the sky.

Reviews

[Donald Meikle]

Hell of a trip down memory lane thanks for the ride

[Bacchus]

I want to hear this read-over a mic
your voice- your inflections.
Just a stunning piece.
that when
squeezed will weeze out beauty and breath.
I'm sure we all just want to squeeze the rest of you out to hear it all!

[h d e rushin]

that interesting Bacchus because I never like to hear my own voice..But I am working on recording some other poems that I read on the café just to get use to hearing it. Thanks for those comments my friend....dana

[Terpsichore]

Some poems are just words on a page, some paint a picture; this however is a sweeping, all encompassing panorama that no artist's brush could ever come close to capturing.

As ever, you enrapture me.


T

[h d e rushin]

thank you my dearest Terpsichore//. I've been away for a few days but it's always good to hear from you....dana

[M. Shepherd]

Reading this feels like the easy cadence of a dream, one thought or memory morphing into another without question or linger, yet it retains a sober theme and cohesion. Everything has to do with everything else in an intricate, complex way like physics - all those tiny strings seemingly loosely connected but bound so tightly into an abstract fabric. This is a tapestry. I could look at it all day.

[h d e rushin]

"an easy cadence of a dream"......I like that Marcie. Thank you my friend for those insights...and good morning to you....dana

[M. Shepherd]

Haha just read my own review again and realized coherence* where it says cohesion. :)

[W.k.kortas]

What struck me immediately is how poetic the first three and a half lines are--immediately followed by robins f*****g, which is a grand joke whether it is conscious or no. The breadth of this is downright majestic, even by your standards, and the final stanza is the whole damn world mixed with just the right amount of plaintiveness, heartfelt but not throwing the whole thing off the tracks. Maybe the finest thing of yours I've read, and by extension of the finest things, period.

[h d e rushin]

I am constantly humbled by your reviews my friend....Thanks for your wonderful comments and good morning to you...dana

[highonwords]

wow - i am speechless, so many lines of wisdom and glimmers of philosophy as i read the poem - i felt many possibilities opening for me - my fave lines are the first three lines and the second paragraph of the poem, especially that warm kiss and that distant shore, blue that will turn eventually into the sky - all that sorrow over small things could be us and beyond more - great writing, dana :)

best,
steph

[h d e rushin]

thank you so much highonwords for those kind comments....dana

[highonwords]

hi dana :) please call me steph :) thanks

[h d e rushin]

I sure will.....steph

[highonwords]

:)))))))))))

[jacob erin-cilberto]

damn this is good....we can never go back...

if only we had it to do over again...with the knowledge we have now...how much would we have done differently....

i would have walked right up to Judy Fracaro and asked her out, instead of never talking to her...she got away like the whale from ahab...
and yes, the phone book, names alphabetized , not by any other means...no prejudice....no notions...just by name...alone.

i remember what Casey Stengal once told his team for a team picture..."okay, everyone line up alphabetically according to height"--

i think the speaker here is asking the past to come back, not necessarily one person...

as always, your writes take me places.

j.

[h d e rushin]

thank you dear brother....And imagine the notion of going back anyways. People change over time. Not only their looks but their insights and outlooks. I remember Judy Francaro by another name, Audrey Payton. And yes, she got away, not because I didn't think about her, but
because I couldn't temp her to acknowledge me. Great review my dear friend...
It's raining like hell outside here in Detroit and probably raining there in Ill. also.
Stay dry....dana