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.

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.”

Here are two poems and some images, two of the images I did.

SMOKING

Well something died or sounded like it

Did. There was a sharp crack, but not

Loud, a twig snapping or a glass

Marble checking into another.

The sound became constant.

Then the lurching. It probably was just

Me moving that way but I knew it

Wasn’t. I might see it all. The

Difference with which the minutes

Clicked past carrying foreboding

Like a small caliber pistol

Plus it was dark. I could hardly see

Anything but I knew it was all right,

All correct, all lined up ready to inspect.

Then the words started coming on their own.

They weren’t about to stop or claim

Inspiration. They belonged there with

Or without me at the reins.

I retired to the edge of the mesa where

I could look down on the whole thing

Not away from anything, not connected in any

Way, but so sure of myself I bought a pack

Of smokes and lit them one after

Another until they were gone

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.”

Edward Hopper painting +three other images+three of my poems

DEAD END

Whatever went wrong went

Terribly wrong. The road just

Ended. No signs at all, no rails,

Just stopped as if there was something

Much more important to do than

Be a road any longer. It was only

About a third of a mile long and

Had begun to attempt a passage

Through a small wooded area.

It looked as if it hasn’t mattered

Much, that no one had come that way.

There was no garbage, no dumping. Just

A stopping, a way of saying that this

Could happen anywhere just as unexpectedly.

A QUESTION OF VERACITY

Brave little moment repeating

Itself, waiting for the mind

With its fine tigers to parade

Through, earnest in their spectacles

Of calm madness hovering

Along the same roads we travel,

Waiting for the mind, for us

To find the crowded streets

Sweating like skin tattooed

With a symbol that will lead

Us through these same stone

Streets always expecting,

Always arranging them one

After another, as if they could

Mean something more than

The borders of our madness,

Our rush to see them sorted out

Hoping this means we really exist.

CEREMONY

So many voices. A chorus

Speaking together. There is

Grace in the way the words

Form here. We have no idea

What is being said. But there

It is, pure and outlandish

As late June with its

Dreams of water and Summer

Love caught in its loins.

We walk along the sidewalks

On the edges of the park.

The fireflies are just starting

To be seen so we sit and wait

For the dark to consume everything.

I am in love with you, you

The one reading this. I want to

Take you in my arms and touch

You intimately, make love with you

With great ceremony and unbridled lust,

To be a chorus within you, not

Singing at all, but speaking so we

May hear in our core, abandoning gender,

Fine and carnal, pleading another kind

Of Summer, another mouth upon yours

Where speech stops attending us

Where all becomes sensation,

Steam rising from the ocean surface

Even before dawn is aware of it.