Saturday, July 18, 2015

Trombones of Loss

—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA


No one will know I am here.
I left the house in the early morning.
I have a small bouquet of flowers
I picked from a field in my dreams.

They will come looking for me
But by then the light
Will be just starting to rise
Above the oak trees.

I can see birds landing
On the roof of the house
Where I am dreaming.



Last night I dreamed
Of a tree and this morning roots are
Growing out of my feet.

I am standing at the edge
Of the road, offering
Perches to birds, watching my friends
Below me now.  Some of them
Want to climb into my branches.

 Nighttime in Locke, Kay's House


Woke up to gardens full of snow.
It was so beautiful I nearly
Forgot to wake up.

There were stars in the tips of my fingers.
Spiders spun their webs between them.

I reminded myself that this was July.
Washed my face, made fresh coffee,
Decided to go outside and build
A snowman only you could see.



I woke up terrified
That I had lost my cap gun
Somewhere in the fields
Beyond my home.

I am currently 71 years old
And still hear the trombones
Of such a distant loss.

 Ruined Water Tank


The hardest part is knowing
That you wander my dreams.
I put my forefinger on your lips.
The stars forget what it is they
Are doing and bind themselves
To the moon.

The traffic across the causeway
Is too heavy and the day is, too, so
I don’t think I am allowed to say
That there are spirits casting nets
Into our consciousness, but I can smell
The tops of mountains in your hair.

You are not there or anywhere
Except captured in these few words
Where I can never hold you.

It doesn’t mean this is a vision.
It doesn’t mean this is a fantasy.
It doesn’t mean I cannot walk
And touch you like this.

It doesn’t mean we cannot allow
Our clothing to fall away.
We’re dressed only for this
Kind of touching.



I can’t put these words in any
Other box without their meaning
Looking for a way to get out,
Appear as films or memes,
Or worse yet, excuses for things
We know damn well
Deserve so little freedom
They can be talked about.

This isn’t a thought any longer.
One cannot think about things
Like this.  They have their own
Dog carts and race around the edges
Of the world starting fires
No one can put out.

 Delta Landscape


This would have looked
A lot better if it had been
A landscape somewhere out here
In the delta with the trees
Far away on the horizon and the sky
So big one could drive all day
And not get any closer to anything,
Rather than just the thought
Nailed out here on a page like this.



The world stopped right
In the middle of John Coltrane’s
Saxophone solo on "So What"
On the Miles Davis "Kind of Blue" recording.

I went to the window hoping
There could be something
That could be truly real.

I’d settle for a bird.
There was blood splashed
All over the window.

Outside it was an incredibly
Beautiful day.

 Between the House and Garage, Locke


The only place the rain is falling
Is into a bucket at the end
Of the driveway.

A dog comes over to look
At what is happening.
It wants a drink but
It doesn’t like its head
To get wet and moves away.

Three wrens watch
It leave.  They drop down
To shower in the small rain.

It rained for hours.
The bucket never overflowed.
The entire planet seems
About as big as a basketball.



I wish she hadn’t come
And taken the poem out
Of my hands before it was

It wasn’t even to the part
Where the day was coming
To a close.

The birds were to occupy
The trees that were still in Galt
When she took it away.

I was hoping for a violin
Melody somewhere as well.
Fat chance of that.

She is using it to light the stove.
She says she will make us
A delicious dinner.


Today's LittleNip:


I keep trying
To forget something
But I can’t remember

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for this morning's Kitchen delights!