Herbie Mann Comin' Home

Thursday, December 29, 2011


Tingling inside the entry hall, left of the foyer stairs

where guests have glanced in worry, hot, up at her shrine.

She's not here and this is a strange, after-hours tour

any room to be cooked by flashlight, meat smells in the air.

What was that song heard coming, coming in, about gone love?

Booties forensic with quietude and task

padding up to the second floor, toes outstretching like beast noses

toward one room and crack of the next for discriminate sniff

so when it comes to choice, one follows the wits, the point of it all

as if it were a jungle night, one can't be heard,

to her mumbled voice on tape by a bedside jug

garbling her text, her very own whisper that it's all okay, he's here

the country, it's in good hands, watch:  the last act's simple comedy --

and the world goes wet, spit pearls like the ones at her neck

making it a new day in the dark, turning it upside down.



  1. Helen,

    Thanks! The Willow Manor post by Tess helped loosen things up for me.


  2. the first line instantly draws me.


    Happy Happy New Year.

    Appreciated your support of 2011,

    Best Wishes for the year of 2012…

    Your contribution is always welcome!

    Lots of blessings and cheers sending your way.

    See you soon.


  3. Edgy intelligent write...of which I have come to expect from you, TF...I really like "the world goes wet, spit pearls like the ones at her neck"...wow...

  4. Tess,

    Thank you once again -- your prompt activated me!


  5. I have read many articles about Marilyn, heard a few songs, but nothing, nothing, captures her as well as you have, TF. Achingly excellent!

  6. Cher,

    Getting to your comment very late. Thank you for such a generous response!