Her hair is a web come falling
tiny knot spiders withering down
She remembers dancing the Charleston
big bands when music was music
Her hands, graceful birds fluttering at her sides
she turns slowly, eyes half closed, drifts off into space
searching for the face of her lover
gone, half a century gone
She lifts a tissue to her lips
protection against the poison city
No more men in her life, she declares
having outlived husbands one and two
Children are pulling clumps of grass from the yard
“Stop that!” she admonishes in her frail voice
It reaches them and they blink at her, wide-eyed
One small tongue wags at her; others soon follow
She takes a halting step down the stair
points and shakes a trembling finger at them
Sitting on the top step, I prepare to catch her
Her bones pop and she plops down next to me
“They’re not supposed to be here,” she groans
“This was to be an ‘adults only’ building.”
Yet the past fourteen of her eighty-seven years
have been spent here witnessing the passing of children
She is quick approaching adult death
fearful and awestruck, alarmingly aware, stunned
Last year, after the chemo, the radiation
her voice died and she ceased to sing
I enjoyed her songs, the lady next door
She was wont to sing in the morning and the afternoon
her voice a god thing
sweet echoes of a life lived good and true
I seldom understood the words of her songs
The meaning was clear as the pealing of bells
the sound of her voice, full extension of her being
a lifted appendage of emotion
Sometimes when I came home from work
I lingered on the balcony porch
eager to hear a single note, a mumbled syllable
the crooning sound of the lady’s voice
a bridge between time past and worlds unborn
Lately she has been quiet, a requisite sorrow upon her
simple, absolute, more powerful than her song
I find myself a place, kneel and say a prayer
‘Take this burden from her heart; fill her spirit with joy
Lend it full voice in the end as before
shadows set to dance when the sun disappears
they are one become independently wrought
created then torn from the face of god’
Yes songs, they are the language of years
hummingbirds, voices of new children, the lark
violence of boom cars and madmen honking
slick women children writhing the coming tide
Will their aged faces remember the words
bodies turn and eyes half close
reminisce the quick step pirouette of dead husbands
fathers lost and a brace of children
She tries to stand and I help her
too fast, her bones creak and complain
The sun breaks down on dying root
clumps of grass pale in the afternoon
Faces of children fathom, so does she
the dawn of first summers and winter glow
I offer her a trade, a wink for a tear
She hums a moment; her lips smile down
She adjusts her wig, dignity reestablished
I witness a vanity of ages
The children laugh, create metal warp sounds
slapping and twisting the sign: ‘KEEP OFF THE GRASS’
I am keenly aware in the moment, the sameness of grace
hers and the children’s faces
They are beautiful and must each the other learn
where death walks, life dances afraid
Swan Song was published by Skyline Literary Magazine 2002
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
tiny knot spiders withering down
She remembers dancing the Charleston
big bands when music was music
Her hands, graceful birds fluttering at her sides
she turns slowly, eyes half closed, drifts off into space
searching for the face of her lover
gone, half a century gone
She lifts a tissue to her lips
protection against the poison city
No more men in her life, she declares
having outlived husbands one and two
Children are pulling clumps of grass from the yard
“Stop that!” she admonishes in her frail voice
It reaches them and they blink at her, wide-eyed
One small tongue wags at her; others soon follow
She takes a halting step down the stair
points and shakes a trembling finger at them
Sitting on the top step, I prepare to catch her
Her bones pop and she plops down next to me
“They’re not supposed to be here,” she groans
“This was to be an ‘adults only’ building.”
Yet the past fourteen of her eighty-seven years
have been spent here witnessing the passing of children
She is quick approaching adult death
fearful and awestruck, alarmingly aware, stunned
Last year, after the chemo, the radiation
her voice died and she ceased to sing
I enjoyed her songs, the lady next door
She was wont to sing in the morning and the afternoon
her voice a god thing
sweet echoes of a life lived good and true
I seldom understood the words of her songs
The meaning was clear as the pealing of bells
the sound of her voice, full extension of her being
a lifted appendage of emotion
Sometimes when I came home from work
I lingered on the balcony porch
eager to hear a single note, a mumbled syllable
the crooning sound of the lady’s voice
a bridge between time past and worlds unborn
Lately she has been quiet, a requisite sorrow upon her
simple, absolute, more powerful than her song
I find myself a place, kneel and say a prayer
‘Take this burden from her heart; fill her spirit with joy
Lend it full voice in the end as before
shadows set to dance when the sun disappears
they are one become independently wrought
created then torn from the face of god’
Yes songs, they are the language of years
hummingbirds, voices of new children, the lark
violence of boom cars and madmen honking
slick women children writhing the coming tide
Will their aged faces remember the words
bodies turn and eyes half close
reminisce the quick step pirouette of dead husbands
fathers lost and a brace of children
She tries to stand and I help her
too fast, her bones creak and complain
The sun breaks down on dying root
clumps of grass pale in the afternoon
Faces of children fathom, so does she
the dawn of first summers and winter glow
I offer her a trade, a wink for a tear
She hums a moment; her lips smile down
She adjusts her wig, dignity reestablished
I witness a vanity of ages
The children laugh, create metal warp sounds
slapping and twisting the sign: ‘KEEP OFF THE GRASS’
I am keenly aware in the moment, the sameness of grace
hers and the children’s faces
They are beautiful and must each the other learn
where death walks, life dances afraid
Swan Song was published by Skyline Literary Magazine 2002
http://wordwulf.com
Inquiries: [email protected]
© 2018 artwork, music & words
conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner 2018 ©
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