NEWSPAPER

NEWSPAPER

I had torn two pictures from

Out of the newspaper.  They

Were a man and a woman 

From two different stories.

I made them talk to each

Other like paper dolls but

They didn’t get along very well

And their conversation became 

Chopped and abrupt.

I saw a picture in the second

Section of the newspaper.

It was a dog standing on his

Hind legs and balancing a ball

On his nose.  I love dogs the

Woman from the newspaper said.

So do I, said the torn out man.

They talked about dogs for a long

Time while I had a cup of coffee.

TALISMANS

 Lawson

Dorothy Lathrop

TALISMANS

I keep these lines by other poets

As talismans that protect these

Fragile words lost to an infinity of things.

They will provide me with an occasional glimpse

Into gardens I could not know otherwise.

Without them I could also not know angels.

Music with its magnificent rooms

Would elude me.  They allow metaphor

To cluster near my lips as if they were

A hive of bees, for they bring a sweetness

To me that makes even the moon

Become a magician and lifts my

Soul through its dreams and fashionings

To find a clarity on the page,

That track across the sea for my

Own odyssey, its changes and terrifying

Delights that push me through

The tapestry from my own room

To the hills of the shepherd

At night, gazing down at the lights

The city below offers as white candles.

BUILDING LABYRINTHS

BUILDING LABYRINTHS

The hotel seemed overly beautiful

In the Winter.  Driving into the place

The white rabbits in the white snow

Made it magical.  The sun was

So bright it was almost impossible

To tell when the road ended and 

The building began.

*

From the high cliffs the ocean hardly

Had a voice.  It was long and measured

With automobiles far below moving

Like notes on a score played by

The afternoon.  A hawk hung in the air

Searching as we were searching.  Something

Like this should never be lost.

The children had made a little parade

In the street.  They carried sticks and

Sang songs they made up from what

They saw as they paraded.  There were

Sounds that joined them from so far away

Only memories could come close to them.

They faded into the heat of the day

Almost as if they had never been there.

I had built a labyrinth that occupied

Most of the lands between the mountains

And the river Gill.  I had thought it would

Be an interesting task, but my life had

Become caught in it and I had

Put so many mirrors in the place

That the days got lost in it.

Now I can only recall fragments of my own

Dreams, but they are inexhaustible in

Their variety; full of animals of all kinds,

Full of ancient languages of which

Only shards of knowledge can 

Be obtained.

I find myself there as some other being,

A poet at times,  I had a nightingale 

I called Virgil.  I worked assiduously

To find things to do.  Dreams were created

Despite the greatness of the odds.

Finally everything came down to this.

I know its light perfectly.  I handled

It with the care Milton took with

His writing.  I became able to show

You parts of its precious hours. 

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.