THE 25th HOUR
There is an hour of the day,
Or is it night? I can’t be sure,
When twilight and dawn meet
And the Earth holds its breath.
I can’t say exactly what signals its arrival.
Perhaps it’s the darkness that envelops the sky so completely.
Maybe, it’s that particular silence that makes me feel entirely too loud.
The blinking of my eyelids, the soft inhale and exhale of air,
The constant drumming in my chest, far too discernible.
As I pull open the door and step onto soft earth,
I shed myself, and I am the night.
On cool air, I glide, and
My eyes find your thin silhouette,
Your summer brown face cloaked in shadows.
Together, we walk, somewhere in between
Truly alive and a waking dream.
When we stop, we sink,
Running the grass through our fingers
As if to make sure that it’s real.
I lie with you, wordless.
Our bodies hug the Earth’s contours like memories
As we revel in the anonymity of this night.
We enjoy our smallness,
We matter, but only a little.
Your hand finds mine,
A lifeline of flesh and bone.
Both of us knowing, that
Loneliness is better shared.
PHILOSOPHY PROOF POEM
so they look
i like to sit with you
on mom’s red rug
between my toes
we don't talk much
you sip coffee
i microwaved fresh
wishing my own tongue
could bare the taste
our fingers turn pages
in a one-sided race
your four eyes strain
to read fine print
as i struggle to keep pace
with wrinkled hands
we stay like that
you sipping, reading
me watching, racing
till dim light calls
the chiming of the clock
tonight i walk to bed
we’d stay warm all winter
on mom’s red rug
—Taylor Graham, Placerville
It starts with a pair of footprints
stirring dust, abrading the crust of earth
with vibram, as if man
were weather's tool, the hand of rain
and river—the hand of wind.
His lungs full of wind that's always been
his song. Its lift and sting
brings him to the edges for a view—
and tattered so the seams show through
as buzzards sail the spiral thermals.
Gneiss, granite, basalt.
Man's foot-tread, stitch of leather.
Wind skywrites his syllables, an echo
rising, repeating, falling.
Temples of limestone and light.
Rock spires point to each star in turn,
telling its name in more tongues
than a man could pronounce or decipher.
A star's story, history, legend, place
in the net of stars.
In time, another human comes
calling the name of lost-ones into wind,
following a dog who fills its lungs
with the wind's scent-song, becomes
the wind's scribe and messenger.
There are duties that come with position
and ailments that stun the physician
tradition and protocol frame one's life
there is no simple exit
Maybe if we sneak across the channel
find a place hidden like one square in flannel
we can shed inhibitions, gather rays
and just be ourselves for a moment
We must have chosen burning Hell
where infernal paparazzi dwell
where all the world's a stage
and all the players have cameras
Into private space they barge
with telephoto lenses large
take an everyday scene in France
and paint it with sinful connotations
I hope they find Medusa next
and lose their cameras to hair that's hexed
publish burnt images of a lady they say
whose tale cannot be repeated
Also this Monday morning, Caschwa (Carl Bernard Schwartz) has given us a riff on the current problems of the royals in England, plus Taylor Graham has taken off on D.R. Wagner's "Wind's Tale" from last Saturday's post. TG also sends us a monorhyme (see the LittleNip below). So we've made the monorhyme our Form to Fiddle With this week. Have at it. (Details on the green board at the right of this.)
Congratulations to Jeff Knorr, who was officially named the new Sac. Poet Laureate today. See the Sacramento Bee article at sacbee.com/2012/09/17/4826132/qa-jeff-knorr-sacramentos-new.html
No words. The saxophone sings true.
Stars over smoke-tree. A dust sweeps through,
lamenting distances. One shoe
without its mate; a note without a clue.
This bag of shadows. Summer's yew
reciting names of winds that blew
each page away—promises due,
their dates in disappearing ink. A few
clipped ends of yesterdays. Rue
is for remembrance lost. The dew
each morning perishably new
as skeins of wild geese rose, and flew.
Horizons always heartbreak-blue…
They're gone. The saxophone sang true.