Night Flight

Strange, these dreams.

Stranger still,
the clouds across the moon
tonight.

Fingers clutch at reason
and come away
with canticles of cobwebs
painting silver pools
that lengthen and stretch,
cat-like,
across hardwood floors,
unsheathing claws
and winding about legs,
upending vision
and spilling cream,
useless lapping,
against fleet-footed words.

Strange, these dreams,

that wrap themselves
in brown paper
and unfold wings
in quicksilver air.

Nocturnal flights
that flash and glint
momentarily,
then drift into
anonymity
among heaps
of autumn leaves.

 

Old Comforts

I am upstairs
sorting clothes into stacks,
keepers, goodwill, trash.
I come across this old shirt,
faded from years of
hard wear and neglect.
Led Zepplin
sprawls across the back
in what was once neon green lettering
and the stairway that once gleamed
on the front
is barely visible.
It sports a triangular rip
near the hem,
and a couple of holes from careless cigarettes
or, possibly other smoking material,
in the middle of the front.
Without thought,
I toss it in the "trash" pile
finish my job
take my shower
brush my teeth
wander non-chalantly back into
the bedroom
study the four walls for a minute
shuffle some papers on the desk
sit on the bed for a smoke
wander to the window and
stare out at the night
turn around and
dash to the "trash" pile,
haphazardly throw worn out clothes
around the floor
until a flash of faded black
and what was once neon green
appears.
I grab it and slip it over my head.
It settles easily on my body
finding all my curves and bulges
without effort,

and feels...

like...

home.

I go downstairs
to where you sit in the old rocker,
one hand wrapped firmly around
a Bud Light,
the other absently scratching
the dog's ears,
while you watch your
Monday night football.
I go into the kitchen
and make myself some tea,
and settle on the sofa
with my book.
Half-time.
You get up for another beer,
and as you pass, our eyes meet,
and you smile....

and it feels...

like...

home.

 

Jaded Juxtaposition

Untimely, unwelcome intrusion...
One more discarded future
wrestles sleep for the key,
arrives at the door
ragged and cold
rattles the knob, slides the latch
enters, unbidden,
snatching the sweetest portions
of this now
to fill its empty belly
in lustful attempt
to transform itself
into well-fed regret

Wizard clock,
naked hands waving
over the queen of hearts,
changing aged choices
into midnight mistakes
that fold wings
and hang from rafters
waiting for darkness,
for tired eyes to close,
then beating leathery wings
against dream glass,
shattering serenity
into slivers and shards,
prismatic reflections
that send rainbows of wrong turns
scampering noisily
through the dust of
accumulated juxtapositions
and anachronistic complications
which toss and turn fitfully
beneath this bed of roses
upon which
tomorrow
sleeps.

 

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Love Storms - 30 page poetry chapbook

email W. Laura Alleman for more info

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     Hi. My name is W. Laura Alleman. No one, remembers what the W. is for and only my chidren, who are various and sundry, ranging in age from 21 to 4, of whom, thank god, only four entered this world through my vaginal canal and of whom, thank god, only four still share this rambling monstrosity we call a house, call me Laura. Almost everyone else knows me as "Phant", "Phantie", "Phantom", Phantomheart", or "Oh my god, there she is again." I am old as dirt (47), although I think by the time dirt is that old it has mostly been recycled into worm poo, so I guess I am holding my own faily well, because I haven't completely turned to shit, yet...at least, I don't think so. My husband, however, might argue that point...Oh, yes, I do have some of those husband thingys, one current, several previous, and I also have a big gray tomcat who likes to rub on my legs after he goes out whoring around the neighborhood.
     I began my long and illustrious university career in Louisiana in 1971 where I majored in Psychedelia, continued my education in California, where I studied Street Bands and Washtub Base Techniques, returning to Lousiana to collect the various assortment of three letter tags that I can hang at the end of my name when the mood strikes me, and the stack of framed documents that collects dust on the top of my hutch. After trying on several different careers, from greasy spoon waitress to oilfield truck driver, I settled into the teaching profession where I spent fifteen years filling my students' heads with literary bullshit and social activism, and from which profession I am currently taking an unspecified leave of absence to decide what I want to be when I grow up. And that brings us here, to The Hold, where I am going to attempt to drive both our devoted readers and our eminent editor completely insane with my flagrant and often incoherent ebullitions and my penchant for erratic and remonstrative ramblings.