I Still Hear Your Voice

I Still Hear Your Voice

            I still hear it

your voice in the halls

vibrating up through the

floorboards

            calling my name

singing ‘High Flying Bird’

shooing the cat away from

your desk lamp or while you

sewed well-traveled patches

on your quilt

            I still hear it

your voice

your voluminous laughter

echoing in the rooms you’ve

left empty

living-rooms, dining-rooms

dance halls

            and I still hear it

the buzz

of machines in time

with your lungsful

drawing oxygen deep

exhaling in emergency

            it’s always there

the slow outbreath of your last

moment

            an Angel’s soft sigh

you bloomed in freedom

I wither in grief

I still hear it

the sounds of you

                                    especially

when I feel stranded in my joys

            and when I hear it

I look for the rendering

of your

human guise

for a soliloquy

any kind of refrain

I still hear it

            and it kills me

***

Another poem for my dearly departed sister. When I feel the hurt settle in, the reality, the only way I know how organize it is on the page.

I miss you, Big Sister.

In propinquity,

Nic

Imagine a Poem

Imagine a Poem

            imagine a poem

that begins w/ assurance

w/ an openhearted curiosity

for the unsuspected gifts on

the other side of surrender

            imagine a poem

that begins louder than the

opening notes of Beethoven’s

Fifth Symphony & lasts as

long as a trove of old letters

written from past wars

            imagine a poem

that reveals the plight of an

artist in Paris committing

bold feverish brushstrokes

to unadorned canvas to craft

windswept wheat fields &

lush orchard scenes

            imagine a poem

that ends w/ the image of a

red-haired woman walking

through a park in the fall

the breeze blowing red &

yellow & orange leaves all

around her

            imagine a poem

that instills the kind of calm

of a simple window through

which to enjoy the vivid skies

of the day’s end

***

I can tell you with great certainty that writing this poem instilled the very same kind of calm to my often anxious bones and muscles and fibers.

Written for nothing other than the beauty of it.

In propinquity,

Nic

Beautiful Minefields

Beautiful Minefields

“In another life, I would come back as a blond soprano who could sing high, clear notes without fear.”

~ Georgia O’Keeffe

            dear Joni

I am only a featherhead

for as long as your art requires

& what traps await in the time

it takes know exactly when

calculations fail while you are

so busy being free – the one

they say sings first in a patter

to a rue & all the way to rhapsody

in one fell swoop

            all those tinges of sadness

protests, rounds & felicities

surrendered on thin paper

every carefully chosen word act as

slight shunts into oblivion

            I am thinking of you today

from my hotel room trying to turn

a dirge into a love song to meet the

sharp expectations of your dignity

            o’ Joni

I confess

I do lean a little too heavily on your

good graces to emulate your clout

& w/ evident joy of course

in the hopes that one day soon we

might have a chance

conversation that flowers into a song

one that ambles & veers the depths of

my heart & your pockets full of sand

it would be a slow reveal

all those years of bottled

up melancholy

the wash transcendent & bracing for

restoration

restitution

dear Joni

            it still doesn’t rain in California

& yet the hydrangeas bloom brightest

along the sharp chances of the Canyon

while you sit vigil in British Columbia

            & I am desperate to be forgiven

for trying to steal all the light you have

                                                gathered

for thinking I could pass off the extra

syllables of your openhearted heroics

            as my own

If I know you, Joni

you’d send me back to the garden

through beautiful minefields just to

endure basic human longings 

                        just as you did for all

these seventy-five fitful years

***

Happy 75^th birthday, Joni Mitchell. Thank you for the music, the poetry, the passion, the power, the art – all while defending and maintaining a true sense of self. Fucking admirable. Thank you for paving the way.

In propinquity,

Nic

Hot Dog with Mustard

Hot Dog with Mustard

Tara Maple has just come back from the Trash Pile Street Poetry Festival in the next town over and is craving something to eat to clear her palette of the lavish foods prepared by the loveliest lesbian chefs, all diehard Joni Mitchell fans. She could really grow accustom to mornings spooning passion fruit, mid-days choking artichoke hearts, and evenings sucking cold, plum, raw oysters from the half-shell. In some ways, Tara thought, the culinary delights were more poetic than the actual poetics being presented. One of the charming chefs said that if she had to pair Tara’s latest collection of poems with a food it’d be with her preferred and decadent appetizer: warm deviled eggs flavoured with Provolone cheese, brackish bacon, fresh herbs, and paprika, “Unimaginably luxurious and the very opposite of church picnic homey.”

            Her new book simply titled ‘Artful’ receives a standing ovation after her reading its signature poem, ‘God-Given Madness’. She stood before a horn-rimmed, like-minded audience at the microphone and recites from memory:

I cannot tell which is the most tragic

example of inventive intelligence

Vincent Van Goh hacking off his own ear

Sylvia Plath’s death by confection oven or

standing here before you with my own pre-

curated input bucketing out of my dazed mouth

hoping the high price will set a good precedent

for what will soon be known as gradient descent

Tara Maple almost ceases writing poetry after a recent personal tragedy and after such a warm reception she is grateful she keeps pen to paper. She said as much before exiting the stage and the same charming chef tapped her on the shoulder and reiterates, “You must always write, Tara Maple, we need your words.” And, that’s when Tara’s heart rose up into her throat and it has been there ever since or maybe it’s just her hankering for a little bite of something not gourmet. They call for her to knock out one last quick refrain, one more verse for the road; she is the last poet to perform but no one is ready to go home. Instead of reciting something of her own, she straps on an acoustic guitar and regales them with a nippy Bob Dylan cover. Tara Maple, darling poet, most notable for saying provocative but inaccurate things in her work, croons her best ‘Idiot Wind’ while wearing a t-shirt with ‘never trust a rich hippie’ emblazoned on its front.

            Tara Maple has just arrived home both elated and extinguished. She is not as obscure as they believe her to be. Others, based on how they behave in her presence, consider her to be a mysteriously tough nut to crack but she is not. Her dish towels are miss-matched and hang uneven on her oven door, she enjoys hanging her laundry out to dry, and she enjoys bird-watching and rock shows and reality television, some of it at least. But, because she once at a prestigious literary lunch arrived tiddly and quoted Auden amiably, she has been deemed a loose cannon but with dazzling observance, “She’s gutsy, not to be denied. She looks skeptical through her smile but she is most certainly something of an original. You just never know what she’s going to do or say!” This, a direct newspaper quote from a prissy Shakespeare groupie who happens to host the luncheon every year. Incidentally, Tara Maple was never invited back despite a Giller nod. And what did she really say that was so avant-garde anyhow? One of the laced collars clutching her new Victorian romance to her generous bosom addressed Tara Maple in front of everyone in attendance, “Frankly, I don’t understand a thing you’ve ever written.” And that is when she dispensed the Auden quip, “Real poetry originates in the guts and only flowers in the head. I’m trying to reverse the process.” Lace Collar’s face froze in a vacant stare, “I beg your pardon?” Tara Maple threw her head back in jest and laughed, “My work here is done.” It should also be noted that she wore a Pearl Jam t-shirt under a fancy blazer to the event and stuck out like a sore thumb amid the twill and tweed. Come as you are, the invitation said, so she did.

            Tara Maple has just returned home to her humble abode from a glorious weekend away. Drunk on kinship, wordplay, and accolades, she’s hungry. It is her ritual to unpack her overnight bag, start laundry, run the vacuum over her big living-room area rug, change into something clean and head out for a brisk walk and a nibble. She crosses the road to take the scenic route to the town square, left on Jaden Street and a sharp right onto Wentworth and then straight.

            Tara Maple loves coming back. She loves making this walk. The town square, surrounded by a shimming blue ocean where the sunlight dances its diamonds clean, the local shops and grocers laid out like fluorescent dominos, the plush playground where neighboring children frolic and giggle, and then there’s Stanley’s.  She approaches the food cart with its bright red and white umbrella inhaling the familiar aroma. Old Man Cartwright is leaning heavy on his whittled cane giving Stanley a hard time, “I’m telling you this right now Stan, if brains was gasoline you wouldn’t have yourself enough to run a mosquito’s motorcycle half way ‘round that there dime!” Stanley is a gentleman; he puts Old Man Cartwright’s food in his hand, nods and forgoes payment. As per usual, Old Man Cartwright gives a growl of a thank you and carries on with his head down. Stanley greets his next customer with a beaming teeth smile, “Tara Maple Tree, what can I get for you, a hot dog with mustard?” Tara Maple smirks and motions toward the simmering meat in the briny water, “Yes please, Pops.” Stanley blows is daughter a kiss, “Poem for a frank?” Tara Maple nods and breaks into verse. A crowd collects. Tara Maples is happy. Tara Maple is home. Understood.

***

Writing just to write, that’s all this is, really, writing just to write. Nothing more, nothing less.

In propinquity,

Nic

           

Summer Vacation, 1985

Summer Vacation, 1985

Remember that summer vacation

we took with Dad to Oak Island Inn?

It was summer, 1985. We giddily packed

our bags with or Duran Duran tees, shorts,

pajamas, pink toothbrushes and waited

anxiously for the car to roll up and wind

down the South Shore. Remember we

stopped at Lawtons on the way to check

and see if there were any new magazines

out and we hit the mother-load? A new

Star Hits and 16 Magazine full of centerfolds

and glimpses of Simon LeBon and John Taylor,

our favorite guys. Oh, and Michael Hutchinson.

We couldn’t wait to arrive at our destination

to pour over every detail and then all over again.

Remember the weather was hot and sunny? We

checked into our room that was next door to

Dad’s, our patios connected with a dull view

of the resort’s dining-room. Remember we

unpacked our treasures, plugged in our silver

ghetto blaster, popped in our new Kool and the

Gang cassette and dismantled our magazines

to decorate the desk with their glossy pages?

Remember we went swimming and exploring?

We met that creepy guy on the boardwalk. We

were positive he had a hook for a hand. When

he dared share his Oak Island theory he kept

the hand in question tucked up deep inside his

heavy sleeve. Remember we were sweating

in the summer heat and thought it strange he

was wearing a sweater? I’ll never forget the

sinister gleam in his eye each time he swept

his greasy bang away from his brow. I can’t

remember exactly what story he told to us.

Whatever it was had us running clean for the

hills and caused you to have daunting dreams

about floating heads and other body parts.

Remember the next day after hours of more

swimming and malingering Dad called you from

his patio? He was sitting in the sun reading

the newspaper. You went toward his voice

to ask what he wanted and remember you

thought the screen was open but it wasn’t

and your head bounced hard into the net and

knocked the whole panel clean from its tracks

and it toppled over the side of the balcony?

Remember how hard we laughed? Remember

how red in the face Dad was when he realized

everyone enjoying lunch in the dining-room

witnessed your clumsy gaffe? He was a little

beside himself enough to let us go to dinner

alone and order whatever we wanted. “Just

charge it to your room, have whatever you want,”

he said. And boy did we. Remember we ordered

strip loin steaks with baked potatoes, mushrooms,

and garlic bread? It was perfect meal for us two.

I felt so grown up dining alone without Dad nearby.

It felt exciting, extraordinary. I was a happy kid,

proud to sit so fancily with a crisp cloth napkin in

my plump lap across from you, my Big Sister.

Remember when we checked out and Dad saw

our dinner tab? He cursed under his breath at

the front desk but paid the kind folk without

complaint. Remember we bought captain hats

and posed for pictures together? Remember

when we got back to Halifax? Dad took us for

a walk along the waterfront. I bopped along side

you both in my humble attire without a care in the

world because I felt like the luckiest girl on the

planet. And, remember for years later we’d look

at ourselves in those pictures and reminisce? How

we’d laugh at the way Dad near dropped his paper

when you busted through the patio door and how

the only reason we even bothered to buy a

captain’s hat at all is because Simon LeBon owned  

a boat called ‘Drum’ to sail in the Whitbread race

and they capsized. Remember how scary those

news headlines were? We were so worried for him.

I remember it was one of the best summer vacation

trips I ever had. One for this history books for sure.

Remember all those Sunday dinner’s at Dad’s in

Portland Estates when we’d recall that time away

together while Dad dished up shrimp in garlic

butter just for he and I because you hated seafood?

Remember? I remember everything as if it happened

yesterday. Memory, it becomes a vivid thing when

it is all you have left.

***

One of my favorite summer memories in poem form. Keeping them all alive, forever and ever by remembering.

In propinquity,

Nic

Nightshift

Nightshift

            Everyone who knows me is well aware of the fact that I’m basically afraid of my own shadow so imagine the shock and awe inspired when I announced to my small circle of friends and family that I took on a seasonal gig as a ‘haunted house actor’.  Mother said: “Now Nomi Rickles, why would you go and do something so foolish? Silly girl. I know you’re saving for a camera but this job is not a good fit for you, darling.” Best friend #1 said: “Are you fucking kidding me?! You’ll have nightmares for LIFE!” Best friend #2 said: “Ten bucks says you won’t last day. You’ll be a haunted house drop-out.” Best friend #3 said: “No way! That’s SO cool. Can you get us free tickets!?” I expected my mother to be aghast; I was frightful out of the womb. As for my friends, obviously I got them tickets and they had a spooktacular tour through ‘Murder Hall’.

            My first night on the job some poor schmuck wearing a bloody pig mask in the kitchen scene got kicked in the balls repeatedly by a soccer Mom he scared the bejesus out of. He popped up in front of her and let out an earsplitting high-pitched squeal and her knee mashed his junk black and blue. The whole premise of these haunted house things is prey on people’s worst fears and phobias, soccer Mom had a severe aversion to swine I guess. Needless to say that guy never did come back to work.  They did warn me that their employees often bore the physical brunt of the resulting terrors, an occupational hazard, “We’ve seen some of the toughest looking guys shrink into weeping children when confronted by their worst fears. Some of them even shit their pants.” My only hope was someone didn’t have a heart attack in front of me. So far, no one has. Well, almost.

            I was the last one hired so I got to go through the house to experience it for myself before suiting up. I wandered through behind a gaggle of cheerleader types which was a mistake because they screamed just for the sake of it at least until we reached the dining room. One of my soon-to-be co-workers acted as a severed head, a mangled center piece for a ghastly last supper in the middle of a long planked dining table. One of the cheerers, giggling, sidled up to the table and leaned close to the plated face, “She like looks sooo freakin’ real, like oh my God.” The other girls closed in around her shoulder at the table’s edge and foolishly marveled. My soon-to-be co-worker, who looked very much like a twice possessed Linda Blair in ‘The Exorcist’ snapped open her eyes at the same time psychotic strobe lights started flashing and a loud split second blast of death metal sounded. Her eyes were wide and crazed, teeth gory and snapping ravenously, tongue flapping like a demented demon. It petrified the first girl so bad that she toppled the others like dominos. One of them left crying with a sprained pinky finger.

            A few weeks into it the front of house supervisor asked if I’d go survey the line for the tough guys to toy with a little more and those already super terrified so we didn’t mess with them as much. I was disguised in a black reaper cloak mostly to hide my facial characteristics I wear inside. While perusing those queued in line, I felt my heart skip a dangerous beat and the long scar on my back blister at the sight of my childhood nemesis. Brandy Vance once lived three doors down from me in junior high school and was a year older. She tortured the living hell out of me every chance she could and then maimed me. If it hadn’t been for her father coming home early from work with a migraine no one would have witnessed me barricaded in her backyard while she slashed me across the back with a length of barbed wire. Her poor fragile father, beyond horrified at the act, asked her why she would ever do something like that to me. While knelt on the grass sobbing and holding my bleeding flesh, she leered down at me and then over to him, shrugged her shoulders casually and said, “Aw you know Daddy, for shits and giggles.” Fucking bully. They shipped her off to God knows where but I didn’t care because she was gone. I’d hoped forever. I’m pretty sure her parents split up after that and her father had a nervous breakdown. Her witch of a mother still lives three doors down but she keeps to herself. Brandy must be visiting. There she was, in line for ‘Murder Hall’ cozied up to some beefy troglodyte in a too small varsity style jacket. I snuck back into the employee only area with one thing on my mind, revenge.

            I admit that because knowing Brandy Vance was coming through I didn’t elicit the number of bone chilling frights I’d been getting in the days previous. One guy jumped back so hard he dented one of the makeshift walls. I got a bonus for that in the form of a gift card. It’s the only kind of job where you are rewarded for damages incurred. If I’m being honest, ‘Murder Hall’ is just as daunting in broad daylight as it is in the pitch dark. It’s fashioned after a 19^th century decaying mansion that feels more like an creeped out asylum and home of the best startle scares, my room has a two tier terror. The room I work out of is an upstairs bedroom. There’s a fog machine, a cracked mirror and it looks as though the paint is peeling from the walls. Across from an old brass bed with browning linens is a dilapidated bassinette, sort of in the middle of the floor, the focal point in the room. Inside of course is an animatronic demon babe that springs up when someone nears it or attempts to look inside. That’s the first tier. Once the morbid nursling sinks back down into its bed, I step out from the shadows in whatever disguise I choose that day. People think the scare is over and then I emerge from the shadows for tier two. I’m fairly tall and big-boned so my presence tends to loom large in the foggy haze of the darkness and depending on my mood sometimes I’ll drag myself across the floor to grab people’s feet and legs. I am so surprised I haven’t been kicked in the face yet. Because I was out monitoring the line-up awhile I had to rush to get ready and couldn’t find my usual garb which looks a lot like the girl from ‘The Ring’, a pink dress with a long black wig draped over my dead looking make-up’d face. I’m tall and big-boned but flexible so I can contort. It’s how I landed the job in the first place, that and my theatre background. I’m proficient in voices. Instead, I stole an ugly pair of mechanic’s overalls and stuffed a cushion in the chest area to make myself look ominously large, threw on a pair of heavy work boots sitting by the sofa, covered my head in an old gas mask, wound my way to my usual room, and waited. It seemed like a shame I had to cover up a particularly excellent make-up job but in the end, it was more than worth it.

            Throngs of thrill seekers entered my room and the more they poured in the faster my heart pounded. One unfortunate soul landed hard on the floor crying in the fetal position just from the baby. I didn’t have the heart to surface from the shadows and make it worse. I have no balls to mash but there was no way I was getting a beat down before I avenged my own oppressor.

            Brandy Vance and Meat Head entered the room alone, the first after a long lull in traffic. They slopped into the room, giddy and crass, striding over the gaps in the creaking floorboards, the scritch of tree branches scraping at the windows sounded behind long dusty ripped drapes. The sound of her pitchy voice made my mouth go dry and sour. It made me wish I was stationed in the hall closet so I could have pushed her down the old warped staircase and watch her tumble until she was twisted like a pretzel at the bottom. Violet daydream aside, I went into terror mode when Meat Head loomed over the baby. I triggered its rise and he let out a blood curdling scream, “That fucking baby just scratched me!” My favorite parts of the baby’s anatomy are the razor sharp teeth and matching fingernails but they are mere rubber and in no way harmful should a paying customer come in contact with them. Brandy Vance rolled her eyes at her companion, “Yeah, I’m sure. It’s a fucking rubber doll, nitwit.” She reached in and pinched the doll’s hand unaffected. He shook his head, “If you’re going to keep being a bitch like that, I’m out.” Brandy Vance cocked her hip and sucked her teeth in contempt, “There’s the door, asshole.” Meat Head followed her lead and stormed out muttering expletives under his gruff beer addled breath. Somehow the stars aligned. Meat Head abandoned her in my room and the traffic lull persisted. We were alone. I surveyed her from my dark corner while she poked around unfazed. She looked slight and I felt potent. I never thought I’d ever have the upper hand with Brandy Vance but there we were, her prowling around like she’s above it all and me dressed as an unhinged serial killer with a shiny butcher knife prop in my hand.

            Meat Head was long gone and there was no time to waste. Brandy Vance pulled at the tattered curtains and twirled herself around. I stepped antagonistically out of the shadow a mere step behind her. She smelled like stale cigarette smoke and perfume. I inhaled inside of the gas mask and it hissed just at her earlobe. She froze. “Babe, is that you? Babe?” Without thinking, I wrapped my cold gloved hand around the back of her neck and squeezed tight bending her neck leftward. Her body tensed. I teased her jugular with the fake blade of the knife and I growled at her ear, “Tell me why I shouldn’t slit your throat ear to ear … Brandy?” The sound of her name raging out of the mask jolted her. She tried to free herself from my stranglehold but the more she tried the tighter I squeezed. I couldn’t help myself. I felt the slash of the barbed wire flailing against my skin all over again and the urge to snap her like a twig grew stronger, “How do you know my name!? Let me go!” She urged me to set her free, her voice cracking, my heart raced so fast I thought it might lurch out of my chest and punch straight through her back. “See you in Hell, bitch …” The blade grazed her neck. Brandy shrieked so loud her voice gave out. I heard others coming for the door. I shoved her forward by the scruff of the neck. I heard her bare knees crack against the floor. She whimpered and rubbed the back of her neck, “You psychopath! You’re not allowed to touch me! You’re getting fucking fired, asshole!” I was overcome with a conflicting permutation of wrath and euphoria. Rage for her cross my path again and conjuring up the abuse I endured and elation because while I only intended to frighten her when she was in my grasp the desire to really hurt her intensified, payback for the scars she left on me mentally and physically. Before she could get up off the floor, I bound across the room and blew through a large crowd of teenage boys with my knife held high and menacing. I scared them shitless. As powerful as the sensation was, I wasn’t a bully, I wasn’t Brandy Vance. But, it terrified me at how tempting it was to cause harm.

            I rushed to the dressing room area and disrobed in the middle of the shift. I put everything back where I found it and sat in my plain clothes trying to catch my breath, the make-up on my face smudged, my hair matted. The site manager ran in and asked me where Devon was, eyeing his work boots and overalls in plain sight, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him all night. Everything okay?” He threw up his hands exasperated, “No everything is not okay. I’ve got a customer out here claiming he practically strangled her. His ass is grass.”

            Sorry Devon.

***

I started writing this little exercise one evening sitting at Kelly’s bedside. I intended a little something chilling to post for Halloween but I couldn’t get back to it. It’s still needs some work but the draft is here one day shy of one of my favorite holidays.

I didn’t do a thing for Halloween except write this story. I was too sick with a cold yesterday to pass out candy. Zoe did it for me. Bless her heart. Maybe next year Erica and I will dress up and have some fun.

Hope you had fun reading this little tale. I got the idea on my way to work one morning passing by the haunted house thingie at Alderney Landing. This little story evolved in my head and I started pecking at it in bits and pieces. This, aside from a proper edit, is the result, blogged for your review.

In propinquity,

Nic