A STILLNESS JUST BEFORE MORNING

 McClelland Barkeley

Atkinson Grimshaw 1836-1893

Here is a poem from my forthcoming book from Crisis Chronicles Press, Cleveland Ohio. The cover and interior artwork is by Gozion.  It should be out soon.  About  66 pages.

A STILLNESS JUST BEFORE MORNING

There is certain majesty

That lives still in the

Highest places where

There remain the palaces

And magic lands of story

Books.  Birds of light,

Even golden light and

Clouds of many colors

Piled up against each other.

The whole place seems a

Stage for fairy tales

And diadems. Oh single

Rose, oh song of the day

Is true and of fair

Maidens and spells and

The best of manners

These things grew.

*

We were sitting on the edge

Of the meadow just 

Where it begins to lift

Toward the high lakes and

The stoney outcroppings and

Small woods and copses.

A certain crystalline glaze of colors

Was left wandering across the

Best of evening.  I was

Going to chase it but found myself

Full of a sadness

That may have been of the season

But probably had thicker roots.

Something prompted by the color

Of the day? What the breeze had said?

(A flush of quail showing pure gold

And amethyst with silver beaks, ruby eyes.)

The sky a million doors

Opening and closing constantly.

All is revealed.  All is concealed.

Even the continents moved

Beneath our feet.

O trees, oh grace of

The dream revealed.

We walk among you as you

Do among us,  The brink

Shines upon us every minute.

The light moving.  Oh, its

Jagged lines across the

Edge of the horizon,

Just above the ground.

These trees move.  They are

Not stone.  I have seen

Them migrate through

The tongues of sailor songs

Touching the edges of the clouds

At night.

And when they thought,

They thought in trance

And could not be harmed,

For the grace of protection

Kept them safe from all danger.

In this state they could

Travel and rule without

Being seen to have moved.

Such was the gift of trancing.

It was rain, or it was fog.

It was lifting from the streets.

It was lifting from the fields.

I could stand here all night

And talk to you about

Which roads came down

From the mountains,

Which ones led to the cities

Or the sea, where we were

Required to be blind and

At what moment we must

Open both our eyes to sea.

And you shall be golden in the morning.

And the light will pour down on you.

And there will be millions 

Of drops of water in the air.

And they may or may not

Have come from tears.

Or they may or may not

Just have blown here 

By some wind.

Just as we may or may

Not have been where we

Woke this morning and

Saw the fog or the rain

Or the tears of an entire

Nation as we sat without moving. 

A BLUE TRANSPARENT LAKE THAT WAS OUR LIVES

A BLUE TRANSPARENT LAKE THAT WAS OUR LIVES

There, right where the clouds are

Coming apart, see, it’s blue, a perfect

Blue like drowning or almost drowning,

When the stillness comes upon one believing

You have made a wish, trying to convince

You that it really has something here,

Something you will want.  It will teach 

You to remember, so it says, so it says.

I trail my fingers in the river as the boat

Moves down the river.  See, just up ahead

The night is putting that cloud in our way

So we think that it is dressing.  You point

Out the stars and we do not notice that

The sky has turned completely black.

I start to weep but you tell me there will be more

Stars shortly and perhaps a moon.  Swarms

Of insects fly around the lantern you have lit.

“Don’t worry.”, you say, “They will not bite you.

They have only come to see the light.  Soon

They will fly to the stars.”  I don’t believe you,

Deciding that this is all a mirror and I am on

One side of it and you are on the other. 

Finally, nothing is reflected.  I believe I can

Hear you breathing and gaze hard at the glass.

It is like we have been cut in half and no one

Has noticed this, least of all ourselves.

I begin to sing you a song.  It is very beautiful

But we do not even speak the same language

And you are unable to know what is being said.

The moon is about to rise.  You hold my hand,

Point to the dark at the tops of the trees

Where it is just coming into view.  The clouds

Make it look red for awhile, then an intense yellow. 

Right then: We decide we both have been dreaming.

THE NIGHT PARADE

my living space 11-11-13

 THE NIGHT PARADE

There is a kindness in watching the fires

Coming down the street carried by so many

Men dressed in radiant plumage and terse

Straps wrapped around their body.

They carry the lights high above them

On long poles so they swing to and from

As they go through their series of routines

That mean nothing to us but seem to reflect

A solidarity among these men.

The people without clothing follow in the 

Shadowy darks punctuated only by flares from

Lighters used to fire cigarettes.  They show lips,

The form of a hairdo, the lurid makeup of evening,

A smear on the  mascara the night wears to 

Prove it is beautiful.  There is so much more.

The dead move through these ranks and files,

Streaming through the air, dangling their shrouds

Behind them, sweeping and looping over our heads,

Silent in their endless forward press to escape dawn.

From the top of the buildings we watch this night

Parade, thinking is must have some profound 

Meaning connected to it and discover nothing

Of the kind, just shape shifting and the sound

Of heavy garments against the ground, a dim

But profound gathering that mounts the back of night

To declare its property before all light ceases and

Before the moon can shake free of clouds and rise

With book after book of sweet tales and fears,

Tides and trysts, longing and fulfillment

Learned only in her pale reflected light.

NEW MATHMATICS

NEW MATHEMATICS

They are busing everyone

With new ideas to a single

Room.  It is huge.  They are

Assigned a single letter of the 

Alphabet and are told to 

Explain themselves.

I don’t go.  I am able only

To speak in numbers.

Some of them are significant.

I recall there used to be

Noises coming from the sun.

I thought it was music.

A single wave breaks in

The collective imagination.

The room of ideas is opened.

It is filled with the sea.

Language floats upon it

Like garbage.

I am asked to explain this in numbers.

These are visual calculations.

They are made with language.

I, FOR ONE CHOOSE RAIN

I, FOR ONE, CHOOSE RAIN

The bones were all disordered and covered

With a fine layer of dust.  We were as 

Surprised as morning that we had found

Anything at all.

We heard a voice crying out.

It sounded like it knew

Our names but we could not 

Be sure.  We could not be sure

Of anything.  A green belt around

A pool of water, both deep and 

Clear with a black bottom

That made the surface dance.

And it was exclaiming something

Very important.

The entire scene was an accident

Of the tide.  A blind wind and a blind

Water forced up to make a statement

That could never find words

But which would stand as firm

As God’s promise to a blind man

That he would see again.  But no one

Ever saw.  It became a clipped 

Presence, never offering comfort.

I, for one, choose rain

As a veil.  I will only see

What it allows; the edge

Of an alley, a man hurrying by

Bearing a large vessel that smells

Like coffee.  He has long

Mustaches and wears a turban.

I had a fever and forget how the thing

Ended.  She asked if there was real

Fire in my heart and I showed her

the pile of sticks I had gathered

To feed it.  She looked deep

Into my eyes.  I could see

Door after door closing, until there

Was only me and her once again.

Bones scattered all over the floor.

A HALLOWEEN

HALLOWEEN

She filled her hands

With winter light and October's

Crows, a calcophany of wings

Against the blue of early evening.

Children used to come here.

There were hills and copses and woods

Challenging the imagination with shadows

Caught alive in stories of the Fall.

The road ended at her mouth,

Full of weeds and drifting terrors

Searching for a body to accompany

During the dark evenings of the waning year.

Shaken, she reaches for the twilight

As if it were a vessel of some kind,

Easy on any sea, unmoved and with sails

Painted in the colors of forgetting.

To dream was to vanish into memory,

The twinkle of an eye,

The brush of a hand across a shoulder,

No place for sharing stories, whispering.

This time of year is full of stuff

Like this, fine of hand and bathed

In a crystal construct made of wood,

Made of fire, made of singing.

She was not given to understand

More of this than her hands covered

With the cool and brilliant light.

She wishes us luck as we continue

Toward the shoreline, the same light

Glinting  off the water, infecting

Our minds, making everything in life

A challenge and the turning of the days

Borne on the backs of black birds

Exploding time with cackling and shrieking.

FALLING INTO THE FIELD OF TIME

 Fairy

William Ricketts Sanctuary 

Pink Cloud, Locke, Ca  - D.R. Wagner

FALLING INTO THE FIELD OF TIME

From the edge of the boat 

We could see the stars

Reflected in the water.  We knew the

Many names of the moon and sang

To the fishes there below, the ones

Who swallowed stars and dreamed

The night sky beneath the sea.

The fish believe we are their rapture

As we sing.  We believe the fish

To be gems of priceless value,

Wandering through the mind,

Bearing the names of the seas.

That night we slept on deck

Listening to the wind and waves

Tell stories of fire on

Islands so far away that one

Can but learn their names,

To visit these places is simply

Not possible in a single lifetime.

When dawn came we could no longer 

Tell if we were male or female.

Deer gather at our feet.  We

Feed them from bowls.  We see

Death with its flocks of birds

Wheel and circle overhead.

We decide to make music forever.

We dance and sail on.