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.

Two poems and some images including N.C. Wyeth

THE STONE BIRDS

—D.R. Wagner

The stone birds shattered
On the tiles just below the garden
Arch. Broken heads, bodies in
Pieces, more still than death is
Able to make us understand. There

Was no blood. It was not a great
Tragedy, just an unwinding, a slow
Unwinding of late morning
As we returned from the hill near
The edge of the sea, from watching the
Morning slide its fingers into the cove
Through the woods. You said the sun looked
As words might have looked had
There been sound beyond the soft
Ticking of the waves into the coolness.

No, it was just the fact they were
Broken. The end of a sentence or
The beginning of a lesson we hadn’t
Contracted to understand.

“Raccoons,” the gardener said, “They will
Do things like this occasionally. I think
they do it just to see what it looks like,
Just to see what will happen.”

_____________________

THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING

—D.R. Wagner

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 iridescense

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.

_____________________

Writing

I was wondering if I should begin writing things other than poems here. What do you think? I am reluctant to do so because I tend to talk about too many things. If I don't get responses within two weeks I'll just leave it as it is and delete this item.

well here we are with some poems I wrote and a couple of photos

WE HAD BEEN WALKING

We have been walking out here

For a very long time. The dark

Colored glass of this valley

Was making us sick. It might

Have been the smell that roiled

Through dressed like a five year

Yearning for blind angels to

Ministrate to us about the great

Mysteries.

God, she looked

So beautiful as the ornaments

Of sleep crept into her face.

We couldn’t stay here any longer

Let alone wait for the great

Wings to show us what was

Really meant by those circles

Beaten into the stones telling

Us to love all things. There was

Unrest in the weather.

We watched them cock their

Rifles and come down the rows.

WAKING UP WITH YOU BESIDE ME

I dreamed you beside me in the morning,
The winds of sleep still rolling through
Your muscles, fields of diamonds cascading
Your dreams, white water on the white of oblivion.
You did not see me as I lay beside you, watching
Dawn slip across your skin. You did not know
I kissed you then or that you were other than
Your present self. I know and only I can know for sure.

I was surprised in this dreaming, dreaming that
You dreamed about me. Who knows what highways
Sleep will let us travel? All our lovers in their cars,
Zipping through the chemicals that unlock door
Upon door and let us see these loved ones again,
Living or dead. I dreamed that we were loving,
Making love with all attendant skies and being touched
By angels as we were there together, again and again,
Falling in and out of sleep, first you there and then
Again you not. I spread my hands upon the whiteness
Of the sheets and they were flat and cool, not you at all
And of more substance than such dreams.

This morning you were gone. You were birdsong
On the electric wires, the net of energy that surrounds
Us in our cities. You were slow breezes off the delta,
A dancing in the leaves of the trees, the sound of the mind
As it clears all sleep from its fine sifting screens, a moment
When, before the water hit my face, when you were truly
Real and I did not know that such a thing as this were

dreaming.

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 downpour. 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.

THE STONE BIRDS

The stone birds shattered
On the tiles just below the garden
Arch. Broken heads, bodies in
Pieces, more still than death is
Able to make us understand. There

Was no blood. It was not a great
Tragedy, just an unwinding, a slow
Unwinding of late morning
As we returned from the hill near
The edge of the sea, from watching the
Morning slide its fingers into the cove
Through the woods. You said the sun looked
As words might have looked had
There been sound beyond the soft
Ticking of the waves into the coolness.

No, it was just the fact they were
Broken. The end of a sentence or
The beginning of a lesson we hadn’t
Contracted to understand.

“Raccoons,” the gardener said, “They will
Do things like this occasionally. I think
they do it just to see what it looks like,
Just to see what will happen.”