Elise Geither teaches at Baldwin-Wallace College in Ohio. A poet
dabbling in theater, she enjoys studying the fine line where poetry and
performance meet. Her horse, Mighty Thunder Cloud, inspires writing that
runs away at an unexpected moment and sparkles like a copper penny in
the July sun. Elise is part of the "No Fear of Rejection" writers group
in Ohio and will be reading at the Columbus Arts Fest on June 3, 2000.
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Zephyr House
I traveled to Zephyr House
once a year in my thirties.
I had learned, somewhere,
long before
That dreams which are colorful,
Blue-sky-on-water clear,
Often come true.
If you dream of a river,
That dream alone
Can go on forever.
In '78 I met the boys at a bar
Where regulars included
Don and his poodle, Ruby.
Don drank whiskey in ginger ale
And fed Ruby Nut-Hut peanuts,
Often bumming a quarter from me
For a withered, salty handful.
Don lived in a house his ex-wife had bought.
She left, practically flew out of town
When Don took up with his cousin Jamie and,
At the age of 40, became a hippie again.
The house nearly shook at night
With the cranking blue-ice voices of the Lady,
Town Fools, Kim Mitchell, and Duran Duran.
The kitchen baskets filled up with small white bags
That they'd burn later
Like glowing hills of sugar and snow.
We smoked cigarettes,
Packs a day,
And talked about the ice slowly sliding
Down the mountains.
A year later, I returned and found Don, Jamie,
And three Arabian men living in Zephyr House.
Jamie had changed all the lights
To blue colored bulbs,
And the five spent most of the day
Smoking under the garish, dawn-chasing light.
Two women came and left a few times a day.
I never knew who they saw at Zephyr House.
I imagined they talked too about the ice
And drank beer
From paper cups.
Ruby stayed and a year later I did too,
For a week.
I don't remember much
except that we watched TV at night.
Don wrote a column, I think on corn,
And drank all day
While I walked the gardens with Ruby,
A few beers and two packs of reds.
I would chase after Ruby in the woods,
Wait for Jamie to come home.
Watching sit-coms, I found that my knees
Fit neatly in his side
And he laughed in all the right places.
After the week, I swear I floated home
On sweet smoke and spent
The next two weeks drunk,
Trying to forget the week,
The roses,
Ruby's painted toes,
And the butterflies reflected
In the eyes of my boys.
I stopped visiting them a year ago.
I work, pay insurance, listen to talk radio.
They still have the same LPs on the phono,
The same dusty jackets strewn about the floor.
Zephyr House is without winds.
The smoke has held on like a sticky layer of cocoa
That engulfs us,
Drowns me in its sweetness, darkness.
Even after I left, I felt it, coughed it up,
Tried to rid myself of it s weight and pleasure.
I took Ruby with me.
I cried for her when we drove away.
I wish they'd paint the house from blue-gray
To yellow
Or pink
Or white
Ruby, stretched out, laid one painted paw
On my leg and we drove away
From silky dreams,
Nights and nights of muddled memories
And dusty plans
And flew into the icy-white summer winds
With candy on our lips.
Dizzy Lake
It was raining. I remembered.
The rain made the city electric.
Puddles reflected the neon signs,
The sushi shops, the news stands.
The drops fell like icicles.
Back in my room I pulled out
Six sheets of paper,
A comfy blue pen.
The brandy.
I swallowed again.
I stared at the window and remembered
The butterfly flutter of hands,
Hands drifting over my eyes, cheek, legs,
My own dark eyes reflecting back.
I shook the memories from my head.
In dreams, he never called to me.
The quiet black lake.
The bird that calls and calls.
My own echo.
I smash my eyes shut.
Only four pages? He asks.
Jesus. For two years it was only two pages.
You are not here.
I poor brandy on the paper.
His smile fades.
I look out the window again.
I remember.
I fall into small green shards.
Six pages filled with words.
I wait until I am filled with birds.
I Hold
I hold my poems
Like fallen leaves,
Throw them n the air
And giggle as they float down.
I give myself the autumn.
I take away the summer,
Release the hot white heat,
Give way for the smell of burning,
The birth of corn, wheat, flies.
There are silver sparks
As my hand rushes
To write it all down,
And golden poems
Fall down on me
Like sparkling rain,
Like the night we bent down
Under the falling moon.
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