a short poem I recently re-discovered and 3 of my photos

ROAMIN’ IN THE GLOAMIN’

Leaves, be feet for the wind.

A passing of silver hands through the streets,

Eyes moving as though on great strings. Leaves.

Soft golden feet of my own age invents itself

Like a journey or the thoughts of a fine wolf.

Oh we don’t even look at the stars.

So many things keep us from watching.

The sounds of voices my little ones,

Listen to them rise.

some photos and a poem

WALKING ALONG THE ROAD WE STOP NEAR A STREAM IN SPRINGTIME

You have found bits of song caught

In the spillway of a beaver dam. They

Are church-like in their praising. They shake

The collection of sticks

Piercing the face of the dam like so many

Bayonets. A rain begins and spills

Upon the surface of the pool, each drop a book,

A crowd, a child, a Golden Heart siging to the fools,

To what is left of the dancers, the poor shoulders

Of the river made to bear a cascade of tears.

They have built a monument on the edge

Of a cliff. It is impossible to get close enough

To look at it without plunging into the mind of God.

We stand watching the little fires in its towers,

The pitiful way it seems to contemplate the end

Of day. A vibrant eye peers from every window,

Some of them weep as only ones who have seen murder

Can weep. Ships send up flares to illuminate this place.

We walk along the edge of the pond where the grass

Grows tall and yellow. We stop and kiss each other

Before deciding to lie in this place and create

Another world, full of wings and the silence invented by snow.

We are unquenchable as acrobats before the highest throne.

House, knife, wonder, tears, cold, a flute,

Lambs, bridges, hills, the beautiful dark,

Silver bells opening like journeys, a crying,

Weaving a web around the heart that it may

Not break. All of the heavens resting

In the corners of your smile.

new book by D.R. Wagner due in April 2011

Rattlesnake Press will publish a new collection of my work in April 2011. It will be titled "A Limited Means of Expression". I am working on it now and will be doing so for some time. We have discussed so me of the graphic design and Kathy Kieth is editing the manuscript. I am looking forward to the book. Contact rattlesnakepress.com for more information.

Ollabelle - Jesus On The Mainline

Ollabelle - Soul Of A Man

three more poems and three images I found recently

THE SAND

The sand has the name of the journey
For it has known the seas, can speak
Their names and tell the storms
The secret places where the wind hides
Its stormy jewels and sings its terrible
Songs. Oh the night. Oh the night.

And we hold the sand within our hands
And we let it go between our fingers
Making patterns with its soft body,
Its gleaming eyes, the mantle of
The waves. Oh hear, we die in seas
So cold the ice itself grows teeth
And spells our ship till it
Commands and we, even climbing
High into the masts can see no
Land and fall, oh yes we fall
For twenty leagues and call
One to another across the loom
Time makes with water and here
You came, and they, dear friend,
My dear, dear friend are made of sand
Are made of sand.

NIGHT LETTER

You said this blue sky was imperishable
But now it is gone and there is frost on
The edges of the pond every morning.

All these thoughts I had of you have gone
Away suddenly. There is nothing left to think.
I can only look out across the valley now.

I’ll sing a little song to myself, one
That you used to enjoy. It is about
The sound the oars make when they
Scrape the gravel in the shallow water.

Maybe that sound will stop my sighing.

SPILLING

We were not supposed to compare
The miracles when they occurred.
One was certainly not better than another;
The roses of Juan Diego to those of Theresa
of Lisieux. We were not to crumple at the
Tiniest comment. What of tears anyway?

We should be able to rise up to the very
Top of buildings without moving our legs.
Surely there would be the burning that carries
Us higher and higher to where
We could finally become less and less.

So we spill over and flush the earth
With our tears and quiet sorrows.
We will open the serape of Juan Diego
To see the face of the Virgin, we will find
Joy in the smallest things as we watch our
Hearts empty and fill with love like the locks
On a canal, lifting us up or lowering us

To the clear way around all obstacles,
The way singing does or looking into the eyes
of the beloved, the light reflecting, souls dancing.

two poems and some photos

THE BANNER UNFURLED

We were standing below the eaves

With the rain coming down hard,

Almost unbroken as if the water were

A solid that had been forced to

Reconsider its mission. What was it

To do? Be drunk? Irrigate crops?

Flood a street? Drown an animal?

That and the day around it, gray

With an insistent dull red of the

Traffic light breaking through the torrent

On a predictably regular mission

To change the day with its insistent interruptions.

It was no good.We knew we would

Be here for a long time. The world

Had turned soft and soggy around us.

We were no longer able to talk through

The down pour. I remember thinking “This

Is what it must be like all the time when

We grow old and once again live alone.”

I knew this wasn’t so but it

Became a banner and I imagined

The years running away from me,

Afraid of what would happen next,

The water rising above my shoes,

Slapping at my ankles.

TINY SHARDS OF GLASS

We were sitting in the other room,

The one away from the woods.

We were unable to see what was making

The noise but we all could hear it.

We all heard different things.

That it was music seemed a general

Agreement but what clothing that music

Wore was what mystery would come

To claim as a definition.

I was dreaming the form.

Nothing had prepared me for it.

It kept breaking like promises,

The kind made when you’re really afraid

And will forget when the light returns

Or the danger passes or we recognize

Someone we know and everything isn’t

So scary anymore. It burns.

When I opened my hand there were five

Planets, each in flames, each a different

Color. This was unacceptable

But brought much comfort from the noise.

We had supposed it to be something,

Anything almost, a place to begin,

A room toward understanding but

It was not. It was a mere stone,

A place to stand, to emote and to

Have a place where we could see

These planets in their luxurious fire

And gaze at them without fear

In not knowing what they were

Or why such a thing should be.

They were unelected, like love does

When it finds itself in a depth

It has never seen before, much less

Understand, yet still as true and wide

As the great Missouri river in full

Flood, everyone standing on the banks

Wondering if we shall perish or merely

Break into tiny shards of glass.