By J.J. Tindall
DEAD DAISIES
I wish.
I wish my hair
was like the leaves
of a tree, wait,
like a copse
of oak and elm.
All because of autumn.
That my hair
would change
with the seasons.
Can you imagine?!
Spring: light green
with lavender highlights,
rose tints
in the beard.
Summer: green a depth
of southern rivers
waved by the moon.
Yes: autumn would be glory.
Burnt orange, fuschia (!),
auburn and amethyst.
A festival
of blood-like tinges.
Winter? Christ.
Best the metaphor mix, fellas.
It doesn’t fall out
in clumps but rather turns
a distinguished white, like
the feathery curtains
of the Buchanan manse
In East Egg. Grand!
Summer past is like Limoges
Daisy: “Do they miss me
(in Chicago)?”
“The whole town
is desolate,” jills a sweating and
(can you imagine?!) young
Sam Waterston.
“All the cars
have their left rear wheels
painted black
as a mourning wreath
and there is a persistent wail
all night.” Burgeoning night,
elbowing daylight to the
far side
of the feather bed.
Now the daisies
break out the wool skirt,
the velvet cloche,
the spiky boot,
with a voice of gladness,
a smile of elegance and beauty,
gliding into
our darker musings.
And my burgeoning vanity.
Comes the Nordic night,
the chastening gale and
the retreat to remembrance.
Before the brusque lake buries
our painted wheels
and dead daisies
in thick, grey drifts:
ye dreamers with empty hands
make a wish.
–
J.J. Tindall is the Beachwood’s poet-in-residence. He welcomes your comments. Chicagoetry is an exclusive Beachwood collection-in-progress.
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More Tindall:
* Chicagoetry: The Book
* Ready To Rock: The Music
* Kindled Tindall: The Novel
Posted on September 26, 2011