Another Waiting Room
by Walter Ruhlmann
In the sheltering place I hate to
lost on the banks of the Loire
the flows are unsafe,
the waters troubled,
icy, wintry air, sun rays above all.
I rang at Hardy's door.
Not the British counterpart of
Laurel of course – the time
shifted from this point.
I kept no one else's appointment but
for I needed more pills to cure the
night knights and knives had carved
in this damaged brain of mine –
I had to avoid suicide.
I laurel this room for its safeness
the space –
frames and spaces follow me
even in hell
or on the benches where I sat
dreaming, exercising, contemplating
Bishop's art of drawing
maps and landscapes.
That morning I sat on another bench,
in another waiting room,
waiting for Hardy to come in
and ring my bell, remind me of the
cure me from mental hay
fever and send away all disarray.
I sat opposite this painting
by Russian-French artist Sonia Delaunay
– Long Journeys.
Colours and shapes, round and vivid,
all these effects drove me back to
loophole dreamt – hell hole lived –
I even recognized
on the right-hand side
a woman wearing saluvas...
red-striped like Sandia's.
Four panels divide the canvas where
shake hands, dance, pray or swim,
eat papaya, sweets and pizza in the
shades of an umbrella.
Through the window I watched magpies
from tree to tree, in search of
The magpies back there feast on
as they sprout from Saziley.
I watched this leafless tree
reminding me of the nervous human system.
Mine is a battle field, a war HQ, a
shadow cabinet, a closet where dreams and nightmares copulate.
I watched the roof tops and the tree
set on this March morning blue sky,
its clear, light blue lagoon shades
invited me once more to dive
in the depths of navy blue memories
darkening my thoughts,
opening my mouth,
starting my youth,
peeling me out.
The heating system started,
I was still staring at the sky
and in a start watched the closet
hiding the beast.
The flame trembling – I could hear
it – would lick the erected hair on my arm:
this limb never produces any harm,
resting softly and bare on the arm of the chair,
cherishing the feel of the plastic
Hardy came in, my arm lifted me up,
and stretched out towards the doctor's hand.
I sat on the opposite chair. He
waited for my words to come out.
He expected me to hand him my SS
I could still see Sonia Delaunay's
Master of painters in my heart.
Maore let me breathe now.
Let me forget you.
Let me live.
Ruhlmann works as an English teacher, edits Datura, Beakful and Urtica. He has
published close to thirty chapbooks and poetry collections both in French and
English, and hundreds of poems worldwide. His blogs
Ann Marie Rhiel is the Assistant Art Director for Yellow Mama
Webzine. She was born and raised in Bronx, New York, presently living in New
Jersey. She reconnected with her passion for art in 2016 and has had her work
exhibited in art galleries around northern New Jersey ever since. She is a
commissioned painting artist, who also enjoys photography. Her work has also
appeared in Black Petals and Megazine Official.