A SURPRISE FROM THE WEATHER

A SURPRISE FROM THE WEATHER

Suppose this is nothing.

Suppose the clouds and the candy

Of birdsong, furred flutes of a pile

Of sleepy kittens, are nothing.

Curved flight of an eagle, smooth as flesh.

Pretty carts, yellow with children’s

Laughter, the preening carnivals of

Sleep, laced up with dreams, all pretty they are,

Full of the heart singing the names of God.

Oh the bears and the rivers and the

Blustery hills senseless with the stars,

They are so bright. Turtles, snowflakes

Quiet on the ice of their pond, the beauty of

Your thighs, the little noises that escape

Us when we are suddenly standing on high

Places, the phosphorus of the moment

Burst into flame, all this nothing.

Long ago, I walked here alarmed

That one day, as sure as shooting,

That angel would be walking out to

Meet the boatman, raise his hand to greet

Him and, beautiful rose of life, such a

Thought would rise up, hallelujah I

Find myself saying hallelujah to

The whole orchard, we are here together.

FINDING THE OLD LANGUAGE

 Wayne Thiebaud

FINDING THE OLD LANGUAGE

In a rage to know all things,

Or as many things as it is possible

To know when one is eleven years old.

The divine walking amongst

Our friends, choosing this one

And that one, taking them away.

Unlacing their memories,

Giving their recognition of others

To the winds, to the birds,

Both flying away in a flurry of noise.

Electrical storms across the brain

At any time; just sitting there,

Getting out of bed, walking from one

Room to another.

All that was familiar

Suddenly not at all

Understandable.

Time without borders.

Anything could happen

At any instant,

Or perhaps not happen at all.

Waking from a summer nap.

The light, enchanting, over everything,

Temperature and sound engaged

In a magnificence of waking.

The world, yes!

Rulers of the mind,

All chemicals and fires

In the neurons and synapses.

More and more information

Beyond explanation.

The half-remarkable question:

"What is it that we are part of,

And what is it that we are?"

*

The delight of the dance,

The endless business of water.

That which is love,

Beneath the stars,

Inside all of sleeping,

Surrounded by its

Insistence on forever

Waking once again in the same

Room. Still here upon the Earth.

Doing things that become familiar,

To us. No longer surprised

By every act, by each event.

Moving through the day,

Learning laughter and

Helping one another to

Understand how something

Works. Finding the old

Language, the color, the

Limited means of expression.

MAKING YOUR NAME

 Frank Richardson

MAKING YOUR NAME

The wind, in from the desert,

Ruined from running through

The litany of winter, barely able

To speak.  Still, now it attempts

To say your name.  Blows through

The vowel sounds, leaving them

In the trees.  chases birds across

Alfalfa.  Their bodies make letter forms,

Change into wheels.  Unable to land

They find shelter in the ditches,

Clutching weed stalks, rocking.

Walking past the cottonwoods,

I hear it clearly for an instant,

Your name.  Impossible in such

Late weather, but there, nevertheless

Or perhaps it is other, a scraping

Sound of branches against themselves,

Well above the ground.  Perhaps

This is not language, this time.

Perhaps I am wrong.

Wind inside my coat, through

The neck, forcing words from my mouth.

They make your name, as if I had

No choice, as if I were the desert,

Or, at best, a part of winter too,

full of hands, waving, waving.

BOOK SIGNING

EATING FAIRIES

This poem is included in my book BREAKING AND ENTERING published by Lummox Press, San Pedro, CA 1913. www.lummoxpress.com

EATING FAIRIES

What are you looking at?’ she said.

Zero. I said.

Just zero? she said.

I caught one of them in the garden

Tonight.  It was pretty.  It had four

Wings and made a musical tinkling

When I held it by the wings.

What did you do with it?, I asked.

I bit it in half to see what it

Tasted like., she replied.

It was better than a frog but I

Don’t think I’ll do it again.

They are too pretty.

Did you know your mouth has

A glow about it.  It looks like

There is light inside your mouth.

Your lips are a gold light.

Don’t eat the fairies, I said.

I’m sorry, she said.  I really am.

We don’t have them near our

Homes and I thought they were

Wild things

You have too much owl in you.

I said I was sorry.

You’ll begin to talk like them

Within a fortnight., I announced.

I can already see you look

Different., she replied.

It’s my wings., I said.  They have

Finally grown back but won’t

Be of any real use for a month or so

Are you one of them now?, she asked.

No love, you are.  Don’t touch

Your body except when you

Want to feel the fairy stuff.

No one will believe you anyway.

And it’s hard enough to go out

At night alone because you

Will begin to glow all the time.

No.  I won’t.

You are glowing now.  I replied.

Do you know any of their songs?

Yes, I do., I replied.

Sing me one.

They go like this.

NOTES FROM A JOURNA;L

All photographs: D.R. Wagner

NOTES FROM A JOURNAL

Trails led out of her eyes.

People were walking on them.

A few of the people we thought we 

Recognized.

The moon, crooked behind 

The trees.

One man handles fire 

With his bare hands.

He lifts it and puts it

Into baskets,

Sells it to ladies

Walking down the strand.

There was a blue cherub 

With purple wings

Who never quite made it 

Into a song,

We waited as he tried and gave

Him our guides, so we may as well

Take him along.

He can ride in the carts that carry

the hearts, that bundle the darts

For the trade.

He can spot where the bridges

Have all fallen down.  He will

Tell us of what they were made.

II.

We stopped for the night beside

A stream of water just as the last

Light was climbing up the trees

To make its jump into night.

As it grew darker, the stream grew

Brighter and brighter and we could

See almost as well as in daylight.

The stream seemed to enjoy our being there.

No one had ever come this far into

The forest.  In the morning the stream

Gave us fish, dappled like sunlight,

Sweet of flesh and eager to join

Us in making our bodies work.

III.

When we reached far Marlee

We released many of the birds

We had brought with us from Gothurg.

They flew ahead of us, forming

The shapes of many creatures

As they did so.  The people of Marlee

Could see us coming for miles,

As if a cathedral were walking

Toward them, singing the while,

Telling the tales of our journey

In stories that are still told today.

IV.

Two giants, squatting, eating flowers.

In the next moment they had become trees.

RAINING

 Angel

Wall with snow

After the Rain

all photos by D.R. Wagner

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.