Melody Fahey Artist, Writer A poem for May 13, 2020 . . . Purple Lilacs The purple lilacs came and went, I didn't even smell their scent, I didn't even smell perfume, I didn't even leave my room. The purple lilacs bloomed and died, I didn't even go outside, I didn't even wear a mask. You shouldn't even have to ask Why I was frightened of the air And purple lilacs in my hair And purple lilacs everywhere, And purple lilacs everywhere. The purple lilacs now are dead But they're still blooming in my head. I hear their voices calling me-- They sing a haunting melody. Please purple lilacs go away And come again another day. It is too soon for me to go Where purple lilacs petals throw. Melody's watercolors at a Salem coffee shop, 1995. A 2015 show piece. email Melody Star Scent If you could really smell, you'd smell the stars. I smell the stars. They smell like hot polar ice. They're twice as fragrant in the summer when the wishing star waits for me to notice and make requests. The Big Dipper pours out blessings on my house while the Pleiades hide in the trees, modestly covering their glory with leaves. Sky blossoms will burst at the last fireworks show and ripe light fruit will fall. Obligation From her groggy voice I knew I woke my friend Renee up with my phone call. I could hear her slow face surfacing in her long pale hair. It's strange, she said, I was just dreaming about you. Not strange, I said, that's when calls come. What did you dream? I dreamed that they were showing the story of your life on Public Television and I was telling Don (her husband) that we should turn it on before it was too late. I better get going, I said, and have an interesting life. It was a series, she said, not just one show, on Masterpiece Theater. I really better get going, I said. Engagement The woman with no feet has walked a long way and she's still smiling, so why be sad? Be your own nurturing mother; tell yourself how beautiful you are. You are not this body and the best is still coming. It came before and it's coming again, because the lover really does love you. This world around you is just a betrothal gift-- when he takes you home you'll put it in your jewel box. Preparation Listen: the costume is part of the dance. The way you move, where your eyes look, the tinkling bells, your perfume, all is for the lover. Why wear mourning when he is not dead? Didn't he send you flowers all spring? And now that it is summer your body longs to swim in his gaze. Don't be afraid. The only angel with power over you adores you. Put on rainbow colors, dance before your mirror, for the guest will soon be at the door. The Writings Someone is holding up a giant book. It's blocking my view of the outdoor movie, the inner movie too. What is this book that makes me lean from side to side, to try to see around it? Who wants me to worship words, translations of translations? I can't even see a flower, wearing these blinders. The Call There is a golden telephone hidden in the cupboard. It's so beautiful I can't believe it's really mine. When it rings I hear the voice I love, and when I make a call angels always answer. Profit You can't buy the moon at a yard sale no matter how hard you look, so let your trinkets go and make space for the real gift. If he courts you for treasure, what does that say about him? If she befriends you for status, where is her loyalty? Be a merchant of illusions to satisfy the creditors but don't think about it. Remember that the real lover brings the beautiful moment forever and doesn't charge a penny. Permission May we wander in each other's dreams, flying together, swimming in light? Shall we know each other's thought-things before the mail comes in the morning? Who taught us to wall up our hearts? Cupid's darts won't kill us, if we open our souls like letters long awaited. The piercing joy, the knife that cuts the knot of mystery, these are on the other side of forgetting what we know, and remembering what we have been taught to forget. When my lover turns to water in my arms I swim in that warm lagoon behind the church of my childhood. Stained glass pictures in your eyes are rose windows over the alter and the choir. Practice Flight I flew down low over the green stairs up and down into the yard where I thought: if I fly this low to the ground I may as well walk and I did past the neighbors who stood in front of where they lived like guardians of dream houses of wakening wakening Visit the late John Fahey's family website. Leave a note of remembrance. Read others' memories of John: link here.