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Wednesday, October 30, 2013



She filled her hands
With winter light and October's
Crows, a calcophany of wings
Against the blue of early evening.

Children used to come here.
There were hills and copses and woods
Challenging the imagination with shadows
Caught alive in stories of the Fall.

The road ended at her mouth,
Full of weeds and drifting terrors
Searching for a body to accompany
During the dark evenings of the waning year.

Shaken, she reaches for the twilight
As if it were a vessel of some kind,
Easy on any sea, unmoved and with sails
Painted in the colors of forgetting.

To dream was to vanish into memory,
The twinkle of an eye,
The brush of a hand across a shoulder,
No place for sharing stories, whispering.

This time of year is full of stuff
Like this, fine of hand and bathed
In a crystal construct made of wood,
Made of fire, made of singing.

She was not given to understand
More of this than her hands covered
With the cool and brilliant light.
She wishes us luck as we continue

Toward the shoreline, the same light
Glinting  off the water, infecting
Our minds, making everything in life
A challenge and the turning of the days
Borne on the backs of black birds
Exploding time with cackling and shrieking.

Monday, October 28, 2013


William Ricketts Sanctuary 
Pink Cloud, Locke, Ca  - D.R. Wagner


From the edge of the boat 
We could see the stars
Reflected in the water.  We knew the
Many names of the moon and sang
To the fishes there below, the ones
Who swallowed stars and dreamed
The night sky beneath the sea.
The fish believe we are their rapture
As we sing.  We believe the fish
To be gems of priceless value,
Wandering through the mind,
Bearing the names of the seas.

That night we slept on deck
Listening to the wind and waves
Tell stories of fire on
Islands so far away that one
Can but learn their names,
To visit these places is simply
Not possible in a single lifetime.

When dawn came we could no longer 
Tell if we were male or female.
Deer gather at our feet.  We
Feed them from bowls.  We see
Death with its flocks of birds
Wheel and circle overhead.
We decide to make music forever.
We dance and sail on.

Sunday, October 27, 2013


a snapshot of most of my studio in Locke, CA where 
I'm doing much of my writing these days.


This poem was originally published in my book A LIMITED MEANS OF EXPRESSION, 2011 - Rattlesnake Press, Pollack Pines, CA.  It is out of print.   ISBN 978-0-9834433-0-8

The Perfect Balance of the Spiral

I started out to tell you something,
Something of the morning, the exclamations
Birds orchestrate as marks of color
Against the insistence light makes
Upon us as we move slowly away
From sleep and into the crisp
Air of Autumn before everyone
Is awake and we can sit for a moment
As the day establishes itself in our
Minds as something substantial but untouchable.

But I got lost turning around and
Around on the lawns far from
The house, eyes open, seeing that
Small grove of trees,then the
Lane toward the house, the creek,
Its stone bridge, the two hills
With the folly upon the higher one
Trying to find a classical landscape
This close to the city, finally,
The house itself with the window
Glass looking golden and unreal
As I reeled round and round.

Perhaps a song would help here
But the whole thing will not stop
Turning and the earth itself knows
that and continues to throw up
Wonder upon wonder into our being
Here in early October.  It has its
Own music.  The birds still sing
In the nighttime and we have a piece
Of the whitest moon to take to 
Our beds as we move through the
Picture galleries and the night views
Of the fountains from the second
Floor toward the garden.

We hear string music come from afar.
Closing our eyes for a moment
We find the balance once again,
The bowing to each other, the delicious
Fragility of the dance.