A very different, but no less sincere, kind of tribute. This one to a very close relative, now deceased. My novel delves into the mystery behind her behavior. Working on it hurts, but. . .isn't all roses and daffodils, right? Part of that Great Adventure I mentioned. Going to fall down and skin our knees, even break our limbs. . .h e a r t s. . . . .

Hard to Pin a Dirvishing Clown
                    
                  For Jean
 
In the 1800's, one could have the hair
of the departed made into a pin.
A butterfly, a rose, a bird
that would not stop singing.
If not a pin, an ornament
suitable for hanging.
 
I do not have a hair.  I do not
have a picture with your spirit.
If your laugh could have been harnessed,
I would have ordered. . .no.
What was best about you,
you could not be pinned.
 
Pin the rest of us, I grant.
Just never yourself.
Spying a lens made you dive
behind a  spine as stiff
as a stay in a hoop.
Instant Lady  
hides smile behind tight lips
slashed ruby.
Once copied someone toothy.
Away from the camera, you chortle,
you mock.   Not always kind,
but dead on the spot.  The Clown
in that longing song.  Or not.
Dickensian character hogs
stage,  all quirks and winks
and lightning changes.  Costumes
half haute, half dragged out
of attic or rubbish.
 
Your hair stayed black.  Only a hint
of silver.  Good for a chameleon,
but for the shifting, twirling
shapes. Out-of-sync rainbow.
And the rocket’s red glare,
the bombs bursting in air
fogged by chain-smoked Lucky
Strikes.  Still make our eyes burn.
Bellies shake.  Always
roll in the grave.  
On my chest.
 
 
(c)  Phyllis Jean Green, December 2006
      In Memoriam
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