Pageviews past week

Friday, May 10, 2013


Photographs by D.R. Wagner


We have seen the paintings
In the cave of the hunt.
The buffalo are so real in
The light of the torches.
They seem to move, the throwing
Sticks and spears flying about.

Today the sun disappeared
In the middle of the day
For a long time.  Then it came
Back.  Many were afraid.
I was not one of them.

The war is all around us.
There is no way to describe
What is happening.  It is
Like living inside an infection
Full of noise and sorrow.

Certainly we are lost now.
It has been many weeks since
We have seen land.  Only the sea.
Always the sea.  It is so large.

In traveling we have encountered
Many peoples so unlike ourselves
That we could never have imagined
Them.  They are each having a
Unique experience as well.  How
Is this possible?  Such wonders.

The maps are incredible.  Each
Place, each gene, is like a universe
In itself.  Yesterday we made a slight
Turn and discovered an entire
Mountain range we did not know
Before.  I saw a huge flock of bright
Green and red birds flying so vigorously
They seemed to be exclaiming.  We were
So far from them their flights resembled
Writing across the sky, yet full of lights.
I waited for you most of the night.
Just before dawn I realized the river
Was much too high and fast for anything
To cross safely.  I know you will
Come today.  I write this to comfort
My heart only.  I shall keep the watch.

I have never before thought of the rain
As an occasion.  Today it has become
Something I would like to share with you
I spent several hours just sitting quietly
Watching it from the door stoop.

Wednesday, May 8, 2013


Here's a link to a 1932 Disney award winner a"FLOWERS AND TREES"
It is a delightful film.


The Oak tree.

The Chestnut tree

HEADDRESSES (a tale from the hills)

I suppose it was broken long before
We got here.  There were rubber bands
Holding the wheels to the axles.  The whole
Thing tipped and grumbled every time
It tried to do that walk it did.

Everyone still found it very entertaining.
Perhaps the questions it posed
Are unanswerable, like skeletons
Waiting by a windmill for the grass
To reveal the grim beast of the wood.

The forest listens to each leaf, each
Signature of love.  It breaks the heart
To see the fields aflame like this,
But oh and oh and oh what
A wondrous view we have of heaven.
The swans. The clouds.  The magnificent
Headdresses all comforted and astonished
That they are.   We are forced to think
Of our mothers and when they finally
Showed us the great birds and
When we finally touched them
Any idea could be ours.  The whole
Thing just clunked along like a good habit.

Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Brothers Quay 1986- Street of Crocodiles

In keeping with today's fairy tales, this Quay Brothers film from 1986 is a masterpiece.



The housings of my horse
Are embroidered with gold.
My skin is pure blue.
I walk through all forests,
Copper and silver and gold
And i am a story that cannot grow old.

My story is filled with all
Of the royals, prince and princesses,
Kings and queens;
Trolls and the fairies, enchanted
Castles of crystal and dream
And none of these creations will
Be what they seem.

My tasks they are endless.  They
Happen in threes, each one more
Complex, but accomplished with ease,
By magic and cunning, with fish,
Birds and beasts and magical fruits
And sweet candies and treats.

Stones more precious than
Jasper or Onyx.  Diamonds and
Opals and gems of great worth,
Seen always in dreaming then
Clouded by thunder.

The finest of cloth, silks brighter
Than sun and beautiful slippers
That fit only one and that one
Much more lovely than lovely could be
With witches and wizards turned into trees.

Such not are my stories when you
Have passed by.  They live in your
Childhood and are destined to die
Or hide from your grown self
Unless you can be, tempted by
Such things that might move
In your sleep and carry the
Fancies to caves where
They’re reaped by poets and traders
In rhyme and in magic who
Know what steals time.  It is
Through these stories joy
You will find.

Oh love them most well
Or the lights will wink out and you’ll 
Leave them behind
With much of the joy
Such great things can unwind.

There are tales to tell.
There are tales to tell.
Take all of their gifts
For they well keep you well.
Do not leave them behind.

Sunday, May 5, 2013


Old Elm

Sugar Maple

Painted Beech


They were burning pictures
In the villages.  Animals,
Singers of complex songs,
Those who danced to create weather.

We could only watch.  There were
No words, only a high
Humming sound generated by
An intricate beating of hearts.

It seemed a kind of symphony
Based in flames.
We thought it ridiculous. Pictures
Only. No other resources available.

“We have no more dreams.”
They said.  “We have burned them
All.  Nothing remains.”
“Why burn at all?” we inquired.
“For warmth, warmth only.”
“Have you no feeling to warm

“We were once trees.” they replied.
They shook their arms.
One could hear pictures in the wind.
“Why pictures only?

“We love you so much.
Everything but move as you
We do, to prove this love is true.”

And you do not care to listen.
Pictures to you are a kind of memory.
Our action will attract your attention
Even for a passage through the verb.

Come sing with us of places
Still to be made full, of glades and copses,
The willowing of light across a stream,
The kind of breath that causes pause
To see the farther view.  And trees,
Like us, devoid of form but that primeval,
Our language born of flame and its attendants.”