Saturday, November 28, 2015

A Small Place in Heaven

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


This morning the trees

Were all growing upside down.

I thought it was my 


But it was the trees.

They got it sorted out

By 5:30 AM so hardly

Anyone noticed.


The sun keeps messing about

With the leaves of the oaks

Around the garden.  The trees

Flutter their leaves, birds preening.

I have left some of the sunflowers standing

In the garden to entertain the birds,

The field mice.  To let the winds tickle

The faces of the nodding flower heads.

Something simple, I tell myself.

The way rain keeps changing its name.

The sun becomes preoccupied

With some clouds and starts making

Promises that the day will get better,

Warmer.  The last marigold flowers using

Everything they have to keep from 

Becoming memories.  The shortened days

Competing to end the season.


It looks like a lock

But it is a dance.

Chimes undone

By color.

Moons of them

Sliding down a

Greasy slope.

The gates tremble.

One can hear the sea

But it is too dark

To see the water,
The complaining waves.

A red lion suddenly
Lost near our door.


We go down to the rooms

Where the seasons wait,

Combing their trees

And plague moons.

Our trousers damp

To the knees.  Blood

Once again.  None of

This clothing will

Ever fit us after this.

We gather on the top

Of the hill.  We will stay 

Here until we have

Learned to howl.

We will find a small

Place in heaven.


No longer just a couple

Of stone gnomes

Posed with stone dreams.

There are households

In the late part of Autumn.

We walk toward the sunset.

The car is waiting

Just after a copse of old trees.

No one lives here any longer.

No one wants magic

Like this any longer.

On many evenings

The windows glowed with

Golden light and the most

Beautiful of music rose

From the old house.

There were now only hooded

Men, ‘Genii Cucullati’.

They wore short cloaks

With hoods.  So they

Were invisible.

Standing on the stone bridge

Over the creek, the water

Did sound like voices

Telling tales of something…

Earth spirits, brownies.

We have all the stories.

You never should have come here. 


A trance of buildings 

Suckled in stone, made mostly

In fog and the detritus of yet another

Year spread across this field of mud,

Then pulled toward the end of the year,

Sometimes nearly blind, sometimes

So full of the smallest of details.

One could be left on the edge of a small

Village, standing just inside an open door

Looking out at the rain, believing it is the self.

For a moment, we own the shadows,

A pine tree across hard granite, a leaf

Shadow reflected upon a puddle of bright 

Water.  A lightning flash in a momentary

Quiet.  A crow sitting on a fence post

Surrounded by the last of the morning glories.

The year begs to come to a close.  

Its trees are leafless.  I can hear a breathing

Beneath this November moon, such a cold

Sphere, it could be perfect beauty.

I realize it is my own breath.

And whose world is this, friend?

We have been here before?

Long, long ago?


Today’s LittleNip:


And now that I am 72

I’ll try to find out

What to do.


—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner, who celebrated his birthday last week.