A SMALL TRINKET HELD TO THE SUN

 Albert  Sebille - 5th Centruy B.C. Greek Ship

 Evgeni Gordiets

Listening to the music of the wind - Matthais Haker

This poem is from my collection WHERE THE STARS ARE KEPT.  RATTLESNAKE PRESS - copyright 2007 - 

A SMALL TRINKET HELD TO THE SUN

There is a point where I

Brushed a picture of you across

My mind.  A landscape near the sea.

Unable to bring the islands

Into focus, I called upon the weather.

Moisture in the air, a discrepancy of temperature

Between the forms of water.  Captured

Here, a moment of the heart; alone,

Unaccustomed to such luxury it

Speaks aloud.  "I love you," it says.

We traveled from Paris to Barcelona,

Giving gray to blue, as easily as kisses

Between friends.  The sunlight on

Your face, a certain music in your voice.

In the sky tram above the harbor,

We saw Columbus pointing up Las Ramblas.

"I'll make up a story about our being here,"

I promised.  What would happen?

Now November closes door after door, trying

To end the year as graciously as possible.

I hold you in my arms before you go

To sleep tonight.  The Leonoid meteor

Shower blasts through us; little holes

In every fabric, all unnoticed.

Another song begins, despite the hour.

I listen to it carefully.  We rain into each other.

High above this place, we flash signal after signal.

A SLIGHT BREATHING

 William Blake - Satan before the fall.

A SLIGHT BREATHING

Hovering over the words,

Herding them, moving them

Into small groups. Full of meaning.

Here, the description of the heavens

Staggers forward, dragging

Its collection of constellations

Behind it; fully aware

That these pictures are but part

Of light seen from a single

Place, struggling to maintain

Themselves as the heavens

Reel around them.

These, are the words of lovers.

There is no end to them.

They slide and describe,

Word after word, the varieties of touch;

Definite descriptions, of flesh

Meeting flesh, in all temperatures and climates.

Gratefully, we follow these things,

Charmed that language

Allows us such rooms,

Such variety of discourse.

From the dark hills comes

The coughing of lions,

Calls of birds. William

Blake, moving room to room

Searching for the right phrase.

RAINING

RAINING

It is raining and I am memory,

I am listening to the moments,

Wearing boots and walking just

To hear the sound of splashes

As it wounds the puddles

With the ashes of warm rooms.

It is raining and I am memory,

Sheets of rooster tails turned

Up by automobiles as they tear

The evening apart with headlights,

The hissing of tires in the rain.

It is raining and I am memory

And you are there beyond all this,

Diamonds on your eyelashes,

Sparkles on your lips, a welter

Of words whispered into my ears.

It is raining and I am memory

Washing the edges of the street in sheets

Of weather, smashing into your

Face, naked as water is naked,

All sound and wind fury,

All language reduced to splatters

On the window glass, all rain all memory

Washing like a heart upon the past.

BIG HOTEL

BIG HOTEL

Down the Delta, below Courtland.
Before Walnut Grove, there used to be
A large hotel; "Came right up to
The road.", said Fred, trying to recall
Its name.  Burned down, nothing left
To mark it at all.  No one there able
to recall that name.  The river has
Its own intentions, remembers and
forgets at will, rises and falls,
Carries everything downstream,
Trees, boats, bodies, the procession
Of days, to the Bay, then to the ocean.
It too cannot recall the names.  Its
Past is all the land, its character,
Any particular spot along its course
Recalled at random, collectively agreed
Upon as having some things in common
With the flow of conversation.

SOMEHOW THIS DIDN’T SEEM LIKE THE CITY WE LOVED ANYMORE

SOMEHOW THIS DIDN’T SEEM LIKE THE CITY WE LOVED ANYMORE

The night unwound. A brilliant flashing

From the mouth, a moon in the crook

Of its arm. We walk the streets looking

For a warm place. There are lovely rooms

Just beyond the glass. From the street we can

See people smiling and are able to admire

The beauty of their garments. They seem to

Glow in the reflections from the silver and

Crystal. They show each other their bright

Weapons and slide the slim bullets into the chambers.

From here we cannot hear their laughter.

There are dreams sweeter than this one.

At least here I can hold you for a moment, never

Mind the wind. At least here I can trace the shape

Of your mouth with my finger and gaze into your

Face. It is as warm as the den of a fox. I push my nose

Into the hollow at the base of your neck and smell

The summer of you, honey in the wheat fields.

When the police got here we were leaning

On the window sill still looking at the ruckus

On the street. Nowadays no one wonders what

They are up to. Surely someone has done some

Wrong and deserves this kind of treatment. I

Watch shadows push shadows into cars full of circling

Red and blue lights. Someone says “Oh God” and then

Asks God’s mother for help. There are sounds I wouldn’t

Want to repeat in a poem. The street is awash with red

Weeping. The party lights shine on. I hold you

In my arms for the longer moment. We agree

Never to learn the words to these kinds of songs.

CLOUDS

 Albert Bierstadt - Niagara Falls

Doorway ornament - D.R. Wagner

CLOUDS

In this valley the clouds seem confused.

And not knowing which way to turn

Finally give up their burden and disperse.

They don't do this without consideration.

They know, as any god-fearing cloud would

What is required of them and rain

Is not always the answer, although more often

Than not it seems to be.

The small streams gorge themselves

On these recent clouds and soon the roads

Are flooded.  The carefully cultivated

Fields are gutted of their patterns

And sent awry in a weltering of gray rain,

On gray days, in gray landscapes

Until all feel the decision of the clouds

Not to hold their position in the  air,

Not to spell out the weather but rather

Be it in eddying puddles surrounded

By squalls of European starlings making

Their crazy suggestions to the atmosphere

One could do worse than be a cloud,

Voice of thunder, voice of rain,

Often challenged. but never blamed

For their roil of wet which came

As a surprise to us tonight, watching the

Clouds in flight.  The hills caress

Their last remains and set them free

To form again.

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.