Friday's Whims of the Time Traveler 73.0: December 23rd, 2007
Harvest Inn
by Belinda Roddie
- A peculiar sight in Holly City
Is the Harvest Inn in a warm sunset
And its six or so frequent occupants
Sit on their balconies to watch
A peculiar sight
But they sit in fading light
While breathing in the golden dusk spun mist.
I
Robbie Tennyson was born in this city
He carries his life in one briefcase
One briefcase! And his music is on crisp, brown sheets
In his guitar case, tucked between the strings D and G
That play their own harmony when touched by the slightest breeze
And Robbie, not near fifty-three
Plays the same old melody every sunset
That goes a little like this:
Tee-willow dee da, lovely the autumn
Tee-willow twitter, colder the winter
But when close intertwined
La da lee, la da lie
They make the perfect evening
Tee-willow, tee-willow, do-willow, do-lie
They make the perfect evening
So he plays and smiles, he never went far
But that was never required
No, it was never required.
II
And dear old Stewart, dressed casually,
Says, “It’s a beautiful thing, indeed –
A beautiful thing! To let music guide me
Instead of me directing melodies,
No requests, please.” He was a radio DJ.
So he talks to himself as he sits by his window
Right above the kitchen, but just below
Robbie Tennyson, so it pleases him when
He hears the “tee-willow, tee-willow” from the strings
Though once in while, he’d like to waltz
To an orchestra’s piece, but this old tune
Will have to do
For now.
III
Then Miss Cecilie Brightman, a younger addition
To this golden apparition in a Holly City sun
Yes, she’d say it was merely a vision
She believes in ghosts, spirits in the trees
In the trees! And they weave such designs
Across the young lady’s eyes – that’s why they’re such
A mixture of colors – a spirit’s touch
And when she dreams, and she does love to dream
Even Stewart would say, “It’s a beautiful thing,” and
What a beautiful thing! And
Such a beautiful face as well and
Someone on another floor,
At every view of her, loves her even more
But she does not take time to similarly adore –
She’d think he was a ghost, just like the rest
Just another ghost.
IV
Cade Tone’s in love with Cecilie
He wants to take her to her “spirits’ tree”
And kiss her behind the autumn leaves
In sunset? Yes, sunset! To Robbie’s song
To the notes heard throughout the inn
But he waits only to see her dream
She lives in another world, he thinks
A world he wants to be within
Twenty-five years, precisely three years,
Two months, and one week’s worth of more tears
He’s shed, smiles he’s bred, laughs he’s had
Then Cecilie Brightman – he counted, backstage, at a show –
He’s a performer after all, you know! Else those tears
Would have been shed for his true love
Rather than the character he’s supposed to dream of
But her dreams! Her dreams! Oh, God, if only
He’d live his days not for a balcony scene,
But on the balcony he dwells upon unseen
By her eyes, waiting for her embrace
In the same city’s sunset.
V
“I’ll treat the world some day!” says a pastry chef,
Hallie Seinbacht, fresh from new school memories,
Thirty-six years, and she’s as giggly
As the time when she kissed Bobby Camillo
During her friend’s party, under the mistletoe
Giggle, giggle, and a dish of crème brulee
Makes for a perfect day
Platters she serves to five or so smiles
It makes it all worthwhile
She goes walking, the flour
On her cheeks like a fine facial powder
And knows, she knows, to make eyes bright
A sweet, a treat, makes everything right
And yet she knows a tart won’t mend her heart
“Bobby Camillo, my Bobby,
Where did you go?”
VI
Benny doesn’t know this city’s name
And when he’s told, he always forgets
His son sends checks, he uses the money for post-its
But instead of reminders, he uses them to write
Sensational tales, dialogues, speeches
Such speeches, such stories, all condensed
In two or so lines
But when he wakes the next morning
He thinks someone else wrote them
“I? Never. Someone else would write
Such tender, romantic phrases.
All I remember is to watch the sunset
In the same chair, listening to the same song,
That lovely song –
Who’s playing again?
Robbie? Such a good name.
I will remember that name.
I must remember that name.”
- A peculiar sight in Holly City
Is the Harvest Inn in a warm sunset
Yet only to a visitor’s sight,
How peculiar!
But no – to citizens,
To mother and fathers, sons and daughters,
It is their nightly harvest
Of reminders:
This is Holly City
In one inn,
In six or so souls,
Locked together in a golden dusk spun mist.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since December 23rd, 2007.
by Belinda Roddie
- A peculiar sight in Holly City
Is the Harvest Inn in a warm sunset
And its six or so frequent occupants
Sit on their balconies to watch
A peculiar sight
But they sit in fading light
While breathing in the golden dusk spun mist.
I
Robbie Tennyson was born in this city
He carries his life in one briefcase
One briefcase! And his music is on crisp, brown sheets
In his guitar case, tucked between the strings D and G
That play their own harmony when touched by the slightest breeze
And Robbie, not near fifty-three
Plays the same old melody every sunset
That goes a little like this:
Tee-willow dee da, lovely the autumn
Tee-willow twitter, colder the winter
But when close intertwined
La da lee, la da lie
They make the perfect evening
Tee-willow, tee-willow, do-willow, do-lie
They make the perfect evening
So he plays and smiles, he never went far
But that was never required
No, it was never required.
II
And dear old Stewart, dressed casually,
Says, “It’s a beautiful thing, indeed –
A beautiful thing! To let music guide me
Instead of me directing melodies,
No requests, please.” He was a radio DJ.
So he talks to himself as he sits by his window
Right above the kitchen, but just below
Robbie Tennyson, so it pleases him when
He hears the “tee-willow, tee-willow” from the strings
Though once in while, he’d like to waltz
To an orchestra’s piece, but this old tune
Will have to do
For now.
III
Then Miss Cecilie Brightman, a younger addition
To this golden apparition in a Holly City sun
Yes, she’d say it was merely a vision
She believes in ghosts, spirits in the trees
In the trees! And they weave such designs
Across the young lady’s eyes – that’s why they’re such
A mixture of colors – a spirit’s touch
And when she dreams, and she does love to dream
Even Stewart would say, “It’s a beautiful thing,” and
What a beautiful thing! And
Such a beautiful face as well and
Someone on another floor,
At every view of her, loves her even more
But she does not take time to similarly adore –
She’d think he was a ghost, just like the rest
Just another ghost.
IV
Cade Tone’s in love with Cecilie
He wants to take her to her “spirits’ tree”
And kiss her behind the autumn leaves
In sunset? Yes, sunset! To Robbie’s song
To the notes heard throughout the inn
But he waits only to see her dream
She lives in another world, he thinks
A world he wants to be within
Twenty-five years, precisely three years,
Two months, and one week’s worth of more tears
He’s shed, smiles he’s bred, laughs he’s had
Then Cecilie Brightman – he counted, backstage, at a show –
He’s a performer after all, you know! Else those tears
Would have been shed for his true love
Rather than the character he’s supposed to dream of
But her dreams! Her dreams! Oh, God, if only
He’d live his days not for a balcony scene,
But on the balcony he dwells upon unseen
By her eyes, waiting for her embrace
In the same city’s sunset.
V
“I’ll treat the world some day!” says a pastry chef,
Hallie Seinbacht, fresh from new school memories,
Thirty-six years, and she’s as giggly
As the time when she kissed Bobby Camillo
During her friend’s party, under the mistletoe
Giggle, giggle, and a dish of crème brulee
Makes for a perfect day
Platters she serves to five or so smiles
It makes it all worthwhile
She goes walking, the flour
On her cheeks like a fine facial powder
And knows, she knows, to make eyes bright
A sweet, a treat, makes everything right
And yet she knows a tart won’t mend her heart
“Bobby Camillo, my Bobby,
Where did you go?”
VI
Benny doesn’t know this city’s name
And when he’s told, he always forgets
His son sends checks, he uses the money for post-its
But instead of reminders, he uses them to write
Sensational tales, dialogues, speeches
Such speeches, such stories, all condensed
In two or so lines
But when he wakes the next morning
He thinks someone else wrote them
“I? Never. Someone else would write
Such tender, romantic phrases.
All I remember is to watch the sunset
In the same chair, listening to the same song,
That lovely song –
Who’s playing again?
Robbie? Such a good name.
I will remember that name.
I must remember that name.”
- A peculiar sight in Holly City
Is the Harvest Inn in a warm sunset
Yet only to a visitor’s sight,
How peculiar!
But no – to citizens,
To mother and fathers, sons and daughters,
It is their nightly harvest
Of reminders:
This is Holly City
In one inn,
In six or so souls,
Locked together in a golden dusk spun mist.
The work you see here has not been edited nor altered since December 23rd, 2007.
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