flame

huddled beneath blankets against the frozen wind
backs against trunks of ice chimed pines
that shivered magic notes into aching ears
and the dull thud of the axe, peeling skin
and flesh away from soft numb hands,
as it carved golden splinters of warmth
from burnt and blackened stumps.

i remember, i cried to hold the hose
that doused the flames that danced in elfin-tide
across the cypress shingled roof.

and the fire was never hot enough
to stay the cold for long
and that year, winter crept, insipidly,
through rotting board and batten,
into fingers and toes and noses
and the one big coat,
remnant of a warmer time,
became two small ones
beneath once soft and elegant hands.

yet, winter crept, insipidly,
leaking through rusted tin,
drumming into pots and pans
and splashing through cracks
in weathered plank floors.
and the fire was never hot enough
to stay the cold for long
as it settled in fingers,
and toes and lives..

and i remember, i cried
to hold the hose that doused the flames
that danced across the roof.

and that year
winter crept, insipidly,
through rotting board and batten
and leaked through rusted tin
settling into your soul
numbing you into the coldness,
and as the fragile flames
flickered within the old franklin stove,
we huddled beneath blankets
and watched the sparks
within you dim and die,
waiting for a spring
whose warmth could never
melt that ice that had replaced
the fire
inside your eyes.


(note: this poem is based on the winter of 1959...the winter I was five, the winter that my father was away in the hospital for a full six months, and my mother, a proud, soft, and elegant woman who was unaccustomed to the hard realities of survival in the poverty stricken situation into which we were suddenly thrust, was left to provide for my sister and me on her own. It was a hard, cold, long winter complete with a roof that caught fire each time the wood heater got hot enough to really warm the house, and I don’t think that winter ever fully left from inside my mother.)

---

Journeys

Lost deep
within whisper brushed shadow
reaching for the blue dance of moonwash
that plays across your eyes
and lights eternities in a moment,
not touching....only reaching...
always the hand retreats
before fingertips can stroke
the substance that is you.

But I remember the feel
of your skin beneath my fingers
and I have not yet lost
the map that charts the
hills and valleys over which
my lips journeyed,
so many many times,
on their way to the crystal waters
of your well-spring.

I wonder if you remember
my roads and by-ways.
I wonder if you recall the path
to my hearth.
The fire still burns there,
embers glowing against darkness,
casting shadows that pulse and breathe
across empty walls.

But fires do die...and wells fill with sand
in time....

And one day, I will wake from dreaming,
and find that I can no longer
see the way
nor want to make the journey
to your door.

And as cold ashes swirl and scatter
in a thin gray pall
across the steady floors of tomorrow,
I will folllow a different path,.
exploring new and uncharted terrain...

But for now...I remember....
I remember the feel of your skin
beneath my fingers
and I recall the journey
my lips made
oh so many times,
seeking out the chalice
of your body,
drinking from the well-spring
of your soul.

---

     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.