A PLACE FOR THE MOON

A PLACE FOR THE MOON

This path leads along the shore

Line for about a mile then ducks

Beneath some wind-shaped pines

Into a cove where the moon may

Always be seen as it assembles

Its lines and hoists itself

To the night sky.

Years ago many people would gather

Here to watch these preparations,

But now this place is mostly forgotten.

Those who came here have mostly died

Or have gotten themselves, far, far away, no longer

Thinking of this place.

I came here with gifts for the moon,

But it will not receive me and prepares

His rigging, mixes his huge variety of lights

And sits down for a few minutes

Before it is time to lift above the tree line.

I watch it practice becoming huge then

Diminishing to the much smaller size

It uses to reign as lord over the night.

It flips though its phases, tucking itself

In here and there, using the shadows

To his greatest advantage to remain

As beautiful as possible.  It is

An amazing display and takes place

In that regal silence the moon demands.

After awhile, I am joined by a few

Others who know of this place.

They come for inspiration and to restart

A sense of wonder lost to themselves

In their commerce with the world.

For centuries this place has been

Such.  I have seen the winds here,

Flocks of owls and creatures who

Build the night.  Last to arrive

Are the dreamers in their gauzy 

Garments, truly stardust and breathing,

Smoothly and deeply.

The moon begins its ascent.

The night settles into itself perfectly.

KING LEAR ON THE HEATH

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KING LEAR ON THE HEATH

The swarms are moving in.  They pass

Through our breath and fog the glass of days

Completely.  If they have bones, they use

Them to make music, a curious dry, music,

The sound of grasshopper wings in a still field.

We begin to write the opera they contain.

“I am more alive that you.”, wail the flutes,

Lugging their way through storms and broken

Reed to light upon the quick scarves of the 

Tongue and burst into colorful flame, capes

Unfurled, as if they were not paying attention 

To how the story might go.  They eat heroes

And heroines alike, spitting out the small bits,

Extinct and irrelevant but always catching us,

Making us regret their actions, passing us

With thick arms and buckets filled with fascinating

Treasures from the deepest parts of the sea.

Finally we are asked to walk among them,

Suspend belief, give ourselves over to their

Crackling displays that take language out

Of the senses violently, pulling our hair

To direct us in the direction they will have us

Go.  We become weary meeting other people.

Looking for the light in their eyes that allows

Us to understand they have seen what we 

Have seen, heard what they have heard.

From on high we can watch the doors of perception

Swing open and closed, millenniums of behavior,

Always similar to our own but finally crouching

Behind one another, As flies to wanton boys, 

Are we to the gods. They kill us for their sport.

We will leave the room quickly, dress without

Caring, only to be warm, find our way into the snow.

We will get into our automobiles, humming to ourselves

To keep some sanity and drive off into  music finally

Done with it, lucky to be alive.

IN THE LABYRINTH- I KEEP WANTING RAIN

All photographs D.R. Wagner

IN THE LABYRINTH

I have told the children that it was still raining.

I asked them to come to the window and see how this is.

Look at these cards I have been given.  They are neither

Playing cards or Tarot.  The may be a marked deck.

This one has an image of a coyote on it.

While we were speaking a bird with a wren-like sound

Landed on my head and tapped my head lightly.

It came as a surprise.  I suspected this for the bird as well.

It wasn’t like it never happened that that I saw you

Out on the trail, just at the ridge top.  You had  binoculars.

You were looking toward the fire.  It was still a mile or so away.

I knew I could never reach you. I asked the angels for help.

They told me to keep walking.  I wavered in my belief.

Later, I set up a creche decorated with bright candles.

Something was moving in the corner of my eye.

I could not longer understand why I had to be on this 

Road all alone.  It was the wrong season.  The weather made

Travel nearly impassable.  The rain streaked the windows.

I continued to stand with the children and watch it.

"THE MYSTERIOUS LOVE OF THINGS"

“THE MYSTERIOUS LOVE OF THINGS”

...Borges

We have for them and them for us.

How easy it is to unseat any color

Into something that is no longer aware of itself

Or of us as we hurry through the labyrinths

Time gives us for a chance to know

Error or to know truth.

We thank ourselves for the blue

Of the ocean and it is not us at all.

It is the conversations between memory

And things learned by the body,

Burns on the hands, inside the mouth.

Admonitions of ourselves unaware

Yet constantly striking poses that

We may learn to handle those impulses

Where we will have to dance

And be impeccably pristine about it all.

SLOW TRAIN COMING

 Duy Huynh

SLOW TRAIN COMING


There’s a kind of pain inside
Maybe I’ll take another ride,
Slide down a mountainside,
I forget those things, now I feel enabled.

Must be the power of the words
'Cause nothing else here has occurred
This whole thing feels absurd
I just put all of my cards on the table.

Won’t be going home tonight
I’m not sure I can stand the sight
Here, the furniture even fights
It gives new meaning to the word ‘fabled’.

Time to ride the rails away
Forget all the words I say
Just pick it up and play
Hang out at the Tower of Babel.

Put the lawn chairs in a row
Invite the pope, Curly, Larry, Moe
Make some bread, make some dough
We will talk about J Lo and Betty Grable.

This kind of foolishness has to end
We’ve got a store to tend
Run outside and make some friends
Get myself a new coat made of sable.

There’s a slow train coming down
Take everybody home in this old town
Even the jokers and the clowns
Chase religion out of town without a label.

LIVE: ACOUSTIC

 Jen Corace

LIVE: ACOUSTIC

I am caught in the darkness 

Near light but still unable to see

Where it is I am.  The blear of night

Stumbling close by my footsteps.

If I put my hand on the wall,  I know

I am near light but there is no light.

The illuminated globe of the world glows 

Just beyond the door, should there be a door

And, of course, we always hope for a door.

  *

I saw you standing at the back of the room.

We had just finished playing the song about

The dawn during the snowstorm and how 

The sun had moved through the falling snow.

Everything became a kind of gold that we did not

Know how to describe, so we made the music

Within it.  There was one bird, he had a damaged

Wing and flew in circles around us making a wonderful

Sound.  The lyrics were based on those circles.

I found my hands upon your shoulders.

I thought I was still in the music.  Golden

Lights flew along the edges of my vision

Inside my eyes, yet still high above it.

*

I walked all the way to the end of the road

Where the waterfall began.  It was nearly 

Twilight and the waterfall was a lilac and hyacinth,

The color of heartbreak or someone you love

Walking away and you knowing you will not 

Be seeing them again.  I suppose there is

A music there but it is stolen by cellos and keyboards.

Given to a corner where we notice the quality

Of the light, the people crossing the room,

The way their conversation had its own agenda

And there we were, together once again, waiting

As we are now. I lean close. Listening to your breathing.

A PLACE FOR THE MOON

 D.R. Wagner

A PLACE FOR THE MOON

This path leads along the shore

Line for about a mile then ducks

Beneath some wind-shaped pines

Into a cove where the moon may

Always be seen as it assembles

Its lines and hoists itself

To the night sky.

Years ago many people would gather

Here to watch these preparations,

But now this place is mostly forgotten.

Those who came here have mostly died

Or have gotten themselves, far, far away, no longer

Thinking of this place.

I came here with gifts for the moon,

But it will not receive me and prepares

His rigging, mixes his huge variety of lights

And sits down for a few minutes

Before it is time to lift above the tree line.

I watch it practice becoming huge then

Diminishing to the much smaller size

It uses to reign as lord over the night.

It flips though its phases, tucking itself

In here and there, using the shadows

To his greatest advantage to remain

As beautiful as possible.  It is

An amazing display and takes place

In that regal silence the moon demands.

After awhile, I am joined by a few

Others who know of this place.

They come for inspiration and to restart

A sense of wonder lost to themselves

In their commerce with the world.

For centuries this place has been

Such.  I have seen the winds here,

Flocks of owls and creatures who

Build the night.  Last to arrive

Are the dreamers in their gauzy 

Garments, truly stardust and breathing,

Smoothly and deeply.

The moon begins its ascent.

The night settles into itself perfectly.