The photo is called LINE- The poem appeared in Medusa's Kitchen

UNABLE TO EXPLAIN

We sat on the edge of the blue
Inlet and listened for the question
To become complete. A slight
Drift of smoke carried the scent
Of the cities through our clothing,
Peeling layer after layer of feeling
From us as if it were the heart,
Caught in its room of ribs and breathing,
Unable to understand hands, the movements
Of high mountain goats among the pinnacles of forgetting.

Sounds poured forth from us,
Continents of them, ripe and with
A million yellow mouths, all wanting
Something other than words could
Give, caught in melody and stripped
Before our eyes of the darling vestments
So beloved by men everywhere;
Truth, Knowing, the Sublime, Instinct.
“All lost, lost,” the captain said, unable
To recognize the land any longer.

We have no maps for things like this.
We are forever thinking we know
What will happen. We are forever
Calling, searching for echoes, the voice of angels,
The smiles of children blessed with tenderness,
Founded in waking up to see the sun
Slipping between the window blinds,
Not a dream at all, rather a way of knowing.
We embrace them and weep endlessly.
We name ourselves rain forest.

PANIS ANGELICUS

The hour of the Angelus.

The shortest day of the year.

The room all but deserted

But for the figure resting

On the bed, not on light depending.

Hail Mary. The grace of sleep

Through her fine bones

Lift her to vision.

Elizabeth in the next room

Hears nothing, but the soft light

Has a music to it.

Be it done unto me according

To thy word. The language of flowers.

The angel may or may not have

Beautiful wings, may or may not

Be genuflecting next to Mary,

May or may not be whispering,

May or may not be a dreaming,

But the soft light has a music to it.

O res merabilis! Unaque poscimus

Sic nos tu visita, ad lucem quam inhabitas.

Translation:

What wonder! We beg of you

That you visit us, the light in which you dwell.

RELATIVE TO THE SPEED OF THE PAST

My mother’s twin brother was killed

At Normandy Beach while hanging

A telephone line from a pole. Never

Saw it coming. Came back in the

Late summer. The funeral was at home.

He was a handsome man, young and

Beautiful with a kind voice and a bright

Future. There were so many who did

Not come back. Every small town had

Some kind of board listing their dead sons.

Faster than that his nephews and nieces

Were growing old and laughing at how

They looked in the nineteen sixties, how

Long their hair was, how idealistic they were.

Even younger, their children are showing

Off their new babies and are being fussed

Over by relatives. There is still a war. It

Is much more informal these days. No

Boards with names on them in elementary

Schools. Now there are national monuments

With names on them. One must go to Washington

D.C. or the state capitol to see who these people were.

They still gave the same thing as their relatives,

Their lives. It isn’t legal, or barely so, to show

the boxes of the dead coming home.

The speed of the past is wildly furious.

Soon it will be lost again as it always is.

Soon we will stand in the fields of dead

And not one name will carry us away.

We will know nothing once again, implicitly.

Three images. The Triple Rainbow is by Bierstadt

THE HELM

Two stars caught between

The bottom of the mainsail

And the horizon have begun

To assert their importance.

By following these particular

Refugees from an ancient

Explosion it becomes possible

To find a way to proceed

Through this night, perhaps

Find land, a harbor, food,

Come to understanding something

Never before considered; a music

Unheard previously, filled with

Great sighing and an exquisite

Longing the soul recognizes

As an ancient companion long

Forgotten. Such things as this,

Holding this course, tacking

Back and forth across trackless

Spaces, binding all these poor

Stars, I may even hear your sweet

Voice again in my ears telling me

To trust in this kind of judgment,

Bidding me continue, making even

The shortest of journeys a marvelous

Thing. walking to the bedroom,

Seeing these two stars outside

The bathroom window, brushing

My teeth, navigating my way to your

Side, anxious to tell you everything.

Some recent work

LANDSCAPE

I am watching the evening insinuate itself

Into the conversation about the day.

Dinner time had no mention of her, there

Were still doves admiring the liquid amber trees.

The weather wanted to see things differently,

Clearing, then a haze and a confusion of cloud

Types culminating in a less than enthusiastic

Fury as the sun relinquished its part in the conversation.

The path went from the beach up a small creek

But as it did there were lots of trees in the canyon

Holding the creek. Shadows were setting up

Night camps and small birds sought perches

To watch the show. We watched the foot

Bridges ease into the landscape like rainbows that

Had lost their color and were waiting for the

Flare that would say evening was indeed here.

I will stand here until it is impossible to tell

One object from another. There is little hope for

The moon tonight. The evening begins to cup

The sun in its hands and starts to hide

It from view. Why even talk about a landscape

Except that we remember the others who are

Unable to see this evening, who climb to sleep

Without these blessed thresholds to touch them.

Every leaf on every tree closes its lights down

And cries for us to remember it, stores the moment,

Blesses us with change, holds the dark off for a

Final moment and considers the entire world as one thing.

While my photo wasn't in Medusa's Kitchen the two poems showed up there.

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


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.

Recently published work. Medusa's Kitchen did these

WINTER IN THE SACRAMENTO VALLEY
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove

(For Joyce Odam)

The winters here are mostly damp.
The days are grey. They form a camp.
A great and endless fog commands,
All thick and dense, a gauzy stamp.

This weather makes its own demands.
The days are ghosts with oak tree hands.
The morning and the evening change
Without a sound, their cold, white plans.

There is no landscape. All is strange,
Fog cattle grazing shadow range.
There is little here of any sun
To make a mark or rearrange.

A cloistered time. Each day a nun.
A silent time. A seamless one.
We speak another language; one
That quiets time, as days pass, stunned.

_______