She plucked my courage. Counted out my years.Wasted.
Sense. I choose the place, the baggage, the time. Fear
She packed my plumage; the pinks, the yellows, the turquoise.
I packed my memories, my hopes, my dreams, and my fears.
Tuck them safely at the back. Home
Valium, nerves, alone. But not alone.
Who am I? Free at last. She said, move on! History.
I can be me or not me. Sunglasses, disguises, books. Protection.
Lipstick, lingerie, longing. Expectation, hope. Forgotten
Bird of prey? Bird of paradise? My choice.
Ode to a Good Uncle
Suspended on invisible threads
From the great oak, your boyhood toy planes burned
Ghostly glows, dripping drops of hot plastic fire, against a starlit indigo sky.
Awoken from our sleep in the quiet dead of night
We children gaped, wide eyed, at this, yet another magical spectacle.
A world created by you, for us.
Urging us always to spend some minutes in the clouds. You said:
Peer through the speckle and splash of rain on the window pane.
Seek out the rainbow!
Dream. Soar. Escape
Through your eyes, then, this child went to Kathmandu, Timbuktu, and London Town.
And with flowers in her hair, San Francisco.
Three little sisters dancing like dervishes to Dylan and Cohen.
Eyes bright, faces flushed.
Once upon a time you told me
The arrival of us three small girls added light to your then dark world.
And, good uncle, you later to ours.
Not money or gifts. Not just chattels to be fed, clothed, tolerated.
Good uncle, giver of Presence and Time. Kisses, hugs, laughter.
Questions and Talk.
Wonder. Joy in your eyes.
She. Draws me in.
Warm. Playfully kissing.
She. Pushes me out.
Cold. Violently raging
© Diane Keane