BOOK SIGNING

EATING FAIRIES

This poem is included in my book BREAKING AND ENTERING published by Lummox Press, San Pedro, CA 1913. www.lummoxpress.com

EATING FAIRIES

What are you looking at?’ she said.

Zero. I said.

Just zero? she said.

I caught one of them in the garden

Tonight.  It was pretty.  It had four

Wings and made a musical tinkling

When I held it by the wings.

What did you do with it?, I asked.

I bit it in half to see what it

Tasted like., she replied.

It was better than a frog but I

Don’t think I’ll do it again.

They are too pretty.

Did you know your mouth has

A glow about it.  It looks like

There is light inside your mouth.

Your lips are a gold light.

Don’t eat the fairies, I said.

I’m sorry, she said.  I really am.

We don’t have them near our

Homes and I thought they were

Wild things

You have too much owl in you.

I said I was sorry.

You’ll begin to talk like them

Within a fortnight., I announced.

I can already see you look

Different., she replied.

It’s my wings., I said.  They have

Finally grown back but won’t

Be of any real use for a month or so

Are you one of them now?, she asked.

No love, you are.  Don’t touch

Your body except when you

Want to feel the fairy stuff.

No one will believe you anyway.

And it’s hard enough to go out

At night alone because you

Will begin to glow all the time.

No.  I won’t.

You are glowing now.  I replied.

Do you know any of their songs?

Yes, I do., I replied.

Sing me one.

They go like this.

NOTES FROM A JOURNA;L

All photographs: D.R. Wagner

NOTES FROM A JOURNAL

Trails led out of her eyes.

People were walking on them.

A few of the people we thought we 

Recognized.

The moon, crooked behind 

The trees.

One man handles fire 

With his bare hands.

He lifts it and puts it

Into baskets,

Sells it to ladies

Walking down the strand.

There was a blue cherub 

With purple wings

Who never quite made it 

Into a song,

We waited as he tried and gave

Him our guides, so we may as well

Take him along.

He can ride in the carts that carry

the hearts, that bundle the darts

For the trade.

He can spot where the bridges

Have all fallen down.  He will

Tell us of what they were made.

II.

We stopped for the night beside

A stream of water just as the last

Light was climbing up the trees

To make its jump into night.

As it grew darker, the stream grew

Brighter and brighter and we could

See almost as well as in daylight.

The stream seemed to enjoy our being there.

No one had ever come this far into

The forest.  In the morning the stream

Gave us fish, dappled like sunlight,

Sweet of flesh and eager to join

Us in making our bodies work.

III.

When we reached far Marlee

We released many of the birds

We had brought with us from Gothurg.

They flew ahead of us, forming

The shapes of many creatures

As they did so.  The people of Marlee

Could see us coming for miles,

As if a cathedral were walking

Toward them, singing the while,

Telling the tales of our journey

In stories that are still told today.

IV.

Two giants, squatting, eating flowers.

In the next moment they had become trees.

RAINING

 Angel

Wall with snow

After the Rain

all photos by D.R. Wagner

RAINING

It is raining and I am memory.

I am listening to the moments,

Wearing boots and walking just

To hear the sound of splashes

As it wounds the puddles

With the ashes of warm rooms.

It is raining and I am memory,

Sheets of rooster tails turned

Up by automobiles as they tear

The evening apart with headlights,

The hissing of tires in the rain.

It is raining and I am memory

And you are there beyond all this,

Diamonds on your eyelashes,

Sparkles on your lips, a welter

Of words whispered into my ears.

It is raining and I am memory

Washing the edges of the street in sheets

Of weather, smashing into your 

Face, naked as water is naked,

All sound and wind fury,

All language reduced to splatters

On the window glass, all rain all memory

Washing like a heart upon the past.

FRUITS OF THE EARTH

Jacek Malczewski

DanMcCarthy

FRUITS OF THE EARTH

Night decides to take over the conversation.

The shadows stir, the spiders begin

Their spinning toward the dawn.

Spring begins its work toward those

Seasons it will never see. The exuberance

of buds and bright flowers, the dazed

Spinning of elm seeds through the green

Air.  Soon there will be no room upon

The ground for all will be growing.

We do not wait.  We dig the soil, find

The seeds of plants we want to see

In particular, begin the garden rituals.

We too become fruits of the earth,

Laboring toward the harvest, privileged

To entertain the dance through all the seasons.

The morning excuses itself from the night.

The night pales before her great might,

Calls the dark spider back to itself

And bides until the story changes once again.

THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING

All by Florence Mary Anderson

THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING

This belongs to the night.

It has those lights about it.

It has that shape we love

That curls into our own body

As we lie abed, not sleeping

But remembering how sleep

Was and what kinds of gifts

It brought to us.

We are unable to speak,

Think ourselves still asleep,

Covered in the cream of darkness

That pulls on our legs, urges us

To dance if only for a moment.

We stand upon the water.

This must be the part of dreaming.

But we find we are water, we

Move through one another,

Scooped into an iridescence

That we can barely remember,

“Mommy, I was glowing.  Am

I still glowing?  I think I am.”

There is Saturday everywhere.

The morning leaks through the blinds,

Slides across the room and finds

Our eyes.  “Yes, you are still

Glowing.”  Right now, it’s the sun

On your skin, the soft, tiny hairs

On the body captures light for

Its moment and fills the morning

With smiles that will stay with us.

They are the daughters of longing.

LA NOCHE

LA NOCHE

It bothers me

that the night

is outside minding its own

business while I am

in my room half

expecting you to appear

in the bed next to me.

You, with your brow arched,

surprised to have been

shipped across the night

like so much luggage;

the white roses of sleep

still in your skin.

I would be as surprised.

Hello? It would be like

saying hello to 

myself on this late August

night, where the voices

of dogs are so small

in the distance, that my breath

seems huge. no, hellos

would never do.

The dark just outside the

window waits for me to put

the lights out. It has ways

of getting to me, of opening

the dreams like oranges

and spilling these thoughts

of you all around me,

before I can catch a glimpse

of you shuttling across the

night air, not alarmed

at all by this thinking

it is just the changing

of the season that causes

these things. not alarmed

by the love of it. not at all.

Knowing you will wake up

far away from this room,

the night being busy

with so much else. with

traffic and dogs and things

of its fabric as to

make such journeys a

matter of reaching to the end

of the bed and pulling

another blanket up above

your shoulders.