Saturday, October 10, 2015

Wind Chime for a Tongue

The Rapids of the Lower Niagara River
—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA


The room had no ceiling.
Someone had recently taken
The stars out for their evening walk
And they remained excited by the

Tears were suspended in the air.
We could walk between some of
Them and hear their voices full
To the brim with the joy and sorrows
They contained.

I cannot name the beasts who dwelt
There.  They had faces like people
We all knew.  So few of them had

They were the vermin of politics,
Blind to most all of whom walked
These beautiful plains.

I have been asked not to speak
Of the rivers of blood but to dwell
Upon the bliss possible at the edge
Night collects about itself before
All turns to darkness.

I should mention a kiss
And not speak of the mangled,
Distraught and mad who walk beside
Us everyday.  Why would you care
About such things when the stars
Are as eager as puppies to please
Your imagination.

I have been told I must end this way
Of talking and leave such journeys
To those unable to dream.

Look, even now they come to stop…



There are a number of dreams
Waiting in a room just inside
The station near the baggage room.
They are like whores.

He had a wind chime for a tongue.
His voice was dry.
Very dry, as if insects
Had been chewing
At his words before
He spoke them.

 Sightseers at the Foot of the American Falls, Niagara


The most terrifying water.
It slides out of a tailrace
About five feet tall and seven
Feet wide.  It has huge volume
And forms a perfect arc.

The water looks black
Even in bright sunlight.
It is perfectly smooth as
It moves to join the river.

There is very little indication
It is joining the river.
A thin line of foam.
The water has almost no sound.

It has come from hell
To look like this.  There
Is no turning back.


If one enters the water
One’s legs would simply disappear.

A couple of hundred yards
Downstream the huge curve
Of the Horseshoe Falls
Tumbles into a great and
Perfect mist, green water,
White water, an unnerving throw.

The air cut by gulls.
Such a huge roar but
It is possible to speak
In a normal tone of voice standing
Right next to it.


The way death sounds when
It knows you belong to it
And any time is going to be
The time it chooses.



I feel like noise in your life
Right now.  There isn’t much stepping
Around the park going on, that is.

The clouds are holding the stairs up.
As Patchen says: “It would appear that blowing
Up the dog is how you would go about
Freeing him of pests.”

And with that being said, I will continue
To be in the world but not a prisoner of it.
There must be a better way to say this than
To stand guard over it like we have
Just found a picture of God and
Are looking at it.  It’s not like a sin,
For heaven’s sake,
More like a policeman patrolling the floor
Above hell.  I’m going around pulling
The shades down and hoping no one
Has a heavy object.

Oh hell.  There is everything that doesn’t
Hurt, to believe in.  I’m going to build
Something very beautiful.
I’ll put it in the yard in front
Of the house.  It will look more darling there,
Sparkling like a blind person finally seeing everything.


Today’s LittleNip:


And she says, “What’s that supposed
To be?”  And I tell her it’s my
Life and that it looks like this
Because I’ve been living for
A long time and there has been
Some damage to some part of it.
“You can say that again,” she says.

So I do.


—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for today's fine poems and pix!

Oakes Garden, Niagara Falls, Canada