weight and the mime dog

Weight and the Mime Dog
went jiving in the Vietnam jungles of 1940’s hat’s
went penny whistling in old streets of coats and dresses
that they found in cellar rooms of purple grandmothers
who drift in deaf worlds
they had to climb Kilimanjaro to reach the attic doors
had to curcum-navigate their merry-go-round of excitement
so as to be as silent as possible
little Weight and his flying Mime Dog
tip-toed kwela guitar tunes over dark creaky floors
there little hearts racing like Easter Traffic
little pirates feeling their blood thirst for treasure
obscure conquistadors of erroneous wanderings
Weight and his Mime Dog
awoke the rituals of play
called on graves of ancient Greek actors
with trebling alto voices and noses full of snot
they enlivened the attic with such joyess play
that the businessism of time went out the little round window
and when mothers voice search-partied through the echoing house
a tactical hasty retreat had to be juggled
an out of breathe Weight and a hidden away Mime Dog
gathered in an official capacity in front of mothers stomping feet
Weight gave his snake charmers smile
and all of that would have worked
if his head wasn’t still halo’d by Grandma Sally’s little old church hat
Weight was sent to the dark side of his room
the big moon of trouble loomed in Fathers 7’o’clock return

- ©Sjaka S. Septembir, 2005

(Things have calmed down after an overly hectic period peaking at the handing in of my thesis and the death of my gran. This poem references that kind of granny idea, and it's fun...)