Bok and a couple of Bluebook covers of sailing ships which Iove dearly

TALKING TO FISH

They do not know what water is.

They think the world is dancing

Constantly. Songs are ecstasy as they

Enter their bodies completely. They do

Not need ears to hear them.

o

We seldom see them in trees,

But there they are, thousands of them,

Decorations of the Amazon jungle

In flood. Leaves are the souls

Of fish, sculptures of fish

Never previously seen. Here

In the high jungle they become gems,

Tales of the elders. fish.

o

We used to walk along the edges of the smaller lakes in the summer. The crappie and small perch would rise in the evening and jump at flies or gulp bugs that fell into the water. They would make concentric circles on the surface of the water, soft splashes in the twilight. It was a language. We had no idea what the fish were saying but they were saying. Maybe it was about the heat or the rain coming the next day or what they had seen beneath the surface. All those years later without a word yet so much of blood and its salt, reeds and thin lines trolled through the water, the quiet that came from eyes that never close, from pressure on lateral lines, from talking on and on to fish.

o

NIGHTINGALES

Summer breaks its face on my arm.

I can’t remember how your mouth

Felt on mine. How your hand was

When I put my lips on your fingertips.

My heart dances on my spine, fooling

Me into believing that love has a name

That sounds like yours but ends before

I can reach pit and touch your hips,

Your lips, it, as they said, trips me

Past the dream house built of pale

Moonlight and forever and a day.

Up among the concordance of moon,

Sun and our loving, bop style in mouth

Jazz explaining to each other from song

To song how wild this thing is, wind,

The keys ripping past; candles made of

Fireflies and mission bells, tearing

Sheets of song into tiny pieces, Oh yes how

And howl, spurl myself dingingly, plutridly

Fornicoulated, intensely exploding in charcoal

Mouth bar-b-que laughing. There is

No further town we can be found in.

Every stop on your skin unveils the

Brisk night, irresponsible, tales told

By the blind about how the hands

Know the name, the name of all the rains,

Their particular voice, their night thoughts,

On sidewalks, opened at last, no streetlights,

No mouth of sing following. I touch

Your crazy traffic and burn acetylene yellow,

Pure green. Aircraft land in the middle of summer.

My skin stretches, explodes and contains all

The mysterious rainbows from which we reconstruct

The language of all the endless nights of our youth.

Nobody has ever asked me to write anything in this blog so I guess I'll wait for awhile. Been thinking of it however.

I would say that it a good place to listen some excellent reporting is by checking out Daniel Alercon on the publishing business in Peru. UCD had him speak at Berkeley recently. Very good stuff.

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.