THEY ARE

They are standing on the edge

Of the stair, gazing at the jewel

That is the dawn unfolding, neither

Afraid nor apprehensive. The day

Will cascade upon them, then through

them, wiping its silly smile across

All that lies before it. A blessing

Of a kind, but without the quiet

Voice that calls the powers to itself,

Dispersing again in a million

Amens. They drift before

The wave crashes, before the fire

In the fireplace really takes hold,

Declaring the memory of trees

To the damp air, before the clanging

Bells that threaten to topple

Childhood, clear water and singing

Into a collective murmuring of illusions.

Still they stand before it, eager to be

Enveloped. This is the world, for heaven's

Sake. What choice is left at this point?

We kiss it full upon the mouth,

The surface of the eye floating

Scars and image alike, a gray morning

Suddenly relieving itself of the clouds

And exclaiming at the green presents.

A KIND OF SINGING

—D.R. Wagner

The light beginning to crackle and glow

Around the buildings on the horizon.

In traveling through this place

We have no idea why such a phenomenon

Should occur. It’s rather like a

Small child being born and immediately

Becoming recognized as a great king.

What are the chances of such a thing?

The evening scoots down the low hills

As if it were another child, on a slide,

Being called to dinner just as he

Finally gains his spot at the top.

What to do? Come home now?

Sit down, press one’s legs into the

Sides of the slide and take as much

Time as possible to descend to the ground.

Everyone will understand somehow.

When we reach the bottom of the hill,

The entire landscape looks embossed,

A storybook cover one could run one's

Hand over and still feel the real worth

The story has to hold. No one has

Visited this place below the hill

For so long we have forgotten the songs

That used to be sung about it.

We believe we are making up a new song.

________________

On January 8 Medusa's Kitchen published the following photos and poems

Medusa's Kitchen published this photo I took today. An angel choir.

Today Medusa's kitchen published this little Suite I wrote earlier this year.

SUITE

These pathways are lined with anxious

Dreamers, unable to sleep.

The floors are damp with longing.

Animals drift past unaware of our

Presence.

We speak to each other abandoning

Communication.

Some live their entire lives like this.

2.

The trees are terribly upset.

They shake their branches pretending

There is a wind. An elm of great age

Has split itself apart. Pale ropes

Cascade

In a rage from within the white wood.
Rain. Snow. Are you alone my

Darling?

3.

Can you hear the red voices

Naming your sweet children

Like an adagio or an intemperance

From the stomach. Unable to swallow

We offer them to your red seasons,

Our hands uncleam. We send them back

To God as if they were a charm

On a little girls first bracelet

That has become lost and causes

A crying as only little girls cry

For lost things. Take away their

Guns before we are all dead.

4.

The dream of the children inviolate.

A spinning our of control, beyond

All kinds of dreaming. Children

Are reduced to names. We forget

They shot from or bodies fully

Alive. We have no idea how love

Impacts the core of our being.

We will do anything to name

How we spin everything against

What we really want to happen.

We call it our lives. Then it becomes such.

5.

So still we think

It might be the young

Of some deep forest animal.

It is not. It is our heart.

6.

I’m breaking the morning.

There are spirits drifting

Through our bloodstreams.

We offer them to the gods.

We think we are smiling

As if there were more information.

Some how there never is enough.

We smile to ourselves.

Whatever we think is poison.

7.CODA

IRIDES

Window shopping

For souls. Sometimes

They are the broad

Leaves of the deep

Purple iris. Sometimes

They are the vestments

Of the eyes as they gaze

Into those of a lover.

Sometimes they are shopping

Four souls, forcing dreams

To submit to their fantasies

Without regard for the hours

Being chanted aloud before

The sun has even considered rising.

Louis-Constant Sevin-Rhyton with fox's head. circa 1862 - Musee d'Orsay, cast silver, repousse and chased-photo: RMN, Herve Lewandowski

Rattlesnake Review #24 has published the following in issue number 24-Winter 2009-10

NOTES ON WATER

We are always amazed at the way

Water says to us, reflections,

The cusp of foam upon its lips,

Those barriers that keep us

Away from the edge.

Color in the water.

The water on fire.

The way it sees all things

From love to funerals.

Sometimes there is a great breath

Taken, one we cannot name,

That, as it moves from

The body becomes the name of time,

But always we remember,

Not always a “new, new”

But a roiling up from the bowels

Of earth,

Built like a melody,

To hold freely without using

Any room. In the eyes,

In the ears. We see ourselves

Moving.

Sometimes we think we are drowing

But no, we are being carried.

It passes around us, through us

And WE ARE CARRIED.

Listen to our names.

GOD MUST BE CHLORINE GAS

God must be chlorine gas.

On Niagara Falls Boulevard at 1:00 AM

The red lights went on. All cars

Stopped. The air became green with

Chlorine gas as it vented

Into the air of Niagara Falls.

Five minutes of clouds full.

Dreams of death in its many forms

Caught in headlights and a view.

A road stretching toward

The Falls covered in green gas.

Claxhorns blaring danger.

A line of cars watching this

Terror blows into our very

Air. There was no escape.

Eventually the traffic light

Changed to green itself and

Suddenly it was safe to proceed

Through Klieglights on ghost figures

Closing valves against any future.