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Saturday, May 4, 2013

A CONVENIENCE OF CHAOS






A CONVENIENCE OF CHAOS

The honeycomb keeps the tally
In an even, golden blood, once
Held in the mouth of every
Beautiful worker bee that plies
The structure and its liquid gifts.

*

I found wolves in my heart.
Their white and shining teeth
Pushing past the bone to explain
To this heart that it was
To be discovered, made part of the wolf.

I was forced against the most
Beautiful pine tree I have
Ever seen and felt the white,
White teeth open my thigh and then
The symphony of the pack was upon me.

Ribs turned to bleached instruments
From which music has fled
Except for the coldness of a great
Howling across ice fields and
Thick-crusted snow.



WilliamDegouveDeNuncques

Wednesday, May 1, 2013

FRAGMENT FROM THE HILL JOURNALS

My rock.
The only rock I ever bought.
Purchased just outside Fallon, NV.

Six eggs.

The American Falls at night.
Niagara Falls, NY
copyrighted photo

FRAGMENT FROM THE HILL JOURNALS

The clouds were dark that evening.
Seen from the window they could
Have been thinking, brooding, but

Eventually the stars climbed to their
Places and waited once again for
The cool flame of the crescent moon

To remind everything its light touched
That it was the most powerful beacon
For this time, that anything the night
Might lack could be had in her light.

The table was already set when we came in.
The walk from the villages had seemed
 Inordinately long.

Water had found its way inside my boots
Making a squishing sound as I walked 
To the bench in front of the fire, removed
Them and began drying my feet with a soft blue cloth.

‘I am never coming that way again.
It looks too much like earth
With its meanness and killing.
I was struck with flying things more
Than a few times.   The houses were
Hovels and one of them, near the 
Cliff edge looked to be in a state
Of constant flame but never
Seemed to burn.  Flames out
The door.  Those horrible people
Gathered round, all talking and
Gesticulating.  I hate the way they
Talk.  It isn’t language and
That horrible stench. God.’

Ramon poked at the fire.
‘You’ll feel better after you have
Had something to eat.  This is 
A safe place.  No one has even
Ever heard of these white caves.’

I knew it was true, that if we
Had to be anywhere, this was the
Best of places to be.

‘I did manage to bring two of the horses
And there is enough food for a 
Couple of weeks in the packs.’
‘We will send someone else
Next time.’

I rose, walked across the room
And sat heavily on the bed.

The next thing I knew, I was
Waking.  She was kissing my lips
And making a little morning song to me.

‘You worry an awful lot too’, she said
‘You tossed and turned all night.’

‘These wars will be over soon.’
I said, barely believing myself.

‘I don’t think so.,’ she said.
‘It has been like this as long as
We have been here.  We keep moving
Higher and higher up these cliffs.’

‘Come here.’, I said ‘I will show
You a very special dance.  I rose
And bowed and began to move.

The smile on her face was better than
The dawn all that week, had been.


Tuesday, April 30, 2013

THE WIND'S TALE








THE WIND'S TALE


It starts with the birds.  Wind can place them
Where it wants them, a kind of skywriting that
Is so elaborate cultures could actually read them
As they moved upon the wind, daring and articulate.

The thermals curve and swirl.  From here flight seems
Without effort and the wings upon them must be an
Imagined sound of wind over primary flight feathers.

*

The temple of night snow under a full moon.
The wind holds the flakes and I have heard them
Touch the ground, owned by the wind, made to
Describe the landscape by the wind, shown the drifts

White and deep before the howl of blizzard interrupts
The lesson and confirms the myriad voices this whiteness
Contains.  “I will hide everything from you under the pleated
Drape of snow.  And we will recognize this same tale 

In the desert, in the sand dunes and the wind voices
Caught in canyons and dancing with dust devils, tornados
Hurricanes and other extreme manifestations, wheel
Within wheels spinning with millions of copies of mantra
Locked inside them.

This is that same wind. “ Open your hand and feel it
Move over your fingertips.  We will ride the great vehicle.
We will be the be the birds floating over the highest places.”


Monday, April 29, 2013

THE REMEMBERING WIND

Floor Pattern

Illustration from forthcoming book
BREAKING AND ENTERING
Lummox Press, 2013.

Skull Bridge

Photos:  D.R. Wagner



THE REMEMBERING WIND

Spring to Summer, Summer 
The vernal pools with their white birds
Gathered at the edges. The gold
On the rocks. That oak tells
Everything it knows.  This is
The remembering wind.  This
Is its time.  We will see it so 
Seldom we will try to touch
Its tall choirs swirled with clover
fields and flowers of a thousand colors.

We catch at its fine strings, shaking
Ourselves to believe.  This is the 
Remembering wind.  It glistens
Like jewel stone glistens.  We are
Learning to speak once again.
The tall ships move into our
Language, their sails full of 
The Remembering wind.

It is morning.



Sunday, April 28, 2013

WORKING TOWARD AN ANIMATION - D.R. WAGNER

video

WAKING UP WITH YOU BESIDE ME



photographs:  D.R. Wagner

WAKING UP WITH YOU BESIDE ME

I dreamed you beside me in the morning,
The winds of sleep still rolling through
Your muscles, fields of diamonds cascading
Your dreams, white water on the white of oblivion.
You did not see me as I lay beside you, watching
Dawn slip across your skin.  You did not know
I kissed you then or that you were other than
Your present self.  I know and only I can know for sure.

I was surprised in this dreaming, dreaming that
You dreamed about me.  Who knows what highways
Sleep will let us travel?  All our lovers in their cars,
Zipping through the chemicals that unlock door
Upon door and let us see these loved ones again,
Living or dead.  I dreamed that we were loving,
Making love with all attendant skies and being touched
by angels as we were there together, again and again,
Falling in and out of sleep, first you there and then
Again you not.  I spread my hands upon the whiteness
Of the sheets and they were flat and cool, not you at all
And of more substance than such dreams.

This morning you were gone.  You were birdsong
On the electric wires, the net of energy that surrounds
Us in our cities.  You were slow breezes off the delta,
A dancing in the leaves of the trees, the sound of the mind
As it clears all sleep from its fine sifting screens, a moment
When, before the water hit my face, when you were truly
Real and I did not know that such a thing as this were dreaming.