Common Dreaming

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



FOLK TALE



When we lived along the edge


Of the sea we used to heat our homes


With a certain oil that burned


With a particular clear green flame.



As children, we thought this oil


Came from the fish that were


Our livelihood.  Alejandro said


That the green was caused by the 


Fact that a type of fish caught here


Shared a common dreaming.



They dreamed they did not live in the seas but


Instead swam through the oaks and 


Firs that surrounded our village, and


Because the entire fish was pressed


For this oil, their brains gave


Up the green that was the color


Of the dreamt leaves.  Maria Xavier said no,


It was only the food they fed upon


That graced the oil this way.



As we grew, we found out that


The oil did not come from fish


At all, but rather from a sacred


Well on the cliffs above the sea.



This well had a peculiar


Property to it.  It was impossible


To pump the oil out.  It had


To be withdrawn by placing one’s


Mouth to the ground of the well and sucking


The fluid from the


Earth.  We were the fish,


Our mouths pressed to the breast


Of the earth, our life breath


Drawing up this oil with fish


Mouths and exhaling emerald


Flames that warmed all the 


Winters of our youth.

SEEDS



I awoke, my hands


Covered with seeds


Of which I will never


Know the names.



Spangles of the unborn


Pecked upon by birds


So they might fly.



I will give you a baptism


Far beyond any fire


Knocked down from heaven


Into this crowded room.



I unwind all I know of silence


And it screams across a void.

______________________

THE CONGREGATION



The dark step leading


Toward the center of the flower.



They would be wings


But what would we know


Of it? 



I know ghosts


With more sense than


Any congregation of bones


And lips pronouncing forgiveness


For all those dizzying events


We would never, ever,


Have considered sins.

THE COLLECTOR OF SUNSETS



His room was stacked


Floor to ceiling with sunsets.


Each in is own separate box.



“I have them now,”


He said.



“A few were damaged


But many of them still


Have a lot of good


Quiet places.”



He usually left the door unlocked.


It was a smart thing to do.

______________________

A PRIVATE MOON



I was stung awake.


I made a moon.


It has a peculiar shape.


It could be applied anywhere.



I could see the old lady


In the building across the way watching


As if I had a dog


On the other end of a 


Lead in my right hand.



I can’t speak this language.


Clouds drift across my


Self-made moon.

______________________


TEN THOUSAND LEAVES



Thousands and more thousands of leaves


Against the base of the tree in November.



There has been no wind.


This county sleeps without


Fear for a few moments


Beneath stars burning so hot


There is no longer any idea


Of blood possible.



Here we have greenwood,


A host of sleep to console us.


STILLNESS



Still, in the morning 


Crows wake us, knowing


More than a shaft of sunlight


Through a window can


Ever tell of what


May remain of drifts


In roadways and fields


Crowded with silences


As they are owned by perfect snow.



We are delivered by the sound


Of great horses


Snorting in their stalls.

______________________


THREE COLTS



Peeling shadows off the wall.


The morning draining through the curtains.


The grass slippery with a cold dew.



You took me out to show me


The three new colts.


“Pretty enough to be in a poem,”


You said.


Indeed they were.



And just look up there.


Pointing


The clouds nodding agreement.

______________________

NOVEMBER



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.

A ROOM FILLED WITH RAVEL’S


G MAJOR PIANO CONCERTO, 
FROM 

THE SECOND MOVEMENT


WITH AN ENCORE: LA VALSE



The early December morning icy


Fog just lifting above the gardens.


The Summer has abandoned them


Completely.  Sun drizzles through 


With the oboe.  The breeze


Not really interested in anything


Except a few bamboo leaves 


High atop the timber bamboo.



The days will get colder and shorter


Despite what the flute is saying


Back to the piano who believes


Everything in its trills.



I don’t want to believe it has become


This late.  I will wait for the Presto


Where the horns have room to bounce


Above the staccato piano.  The last


Of the leaves off on their great journey.





Even the harp finds a place in the trees


For a moment, before a deer discovers


It has been seen and bounds through 


Broken cover of oaks through woodwinds


And bigger horns.  All that is left is a waltz.



The piano disappeared.  An encore.

______________________


Today’s LittleNip:

We cling to our own point of view, as though everything depended on it. Yet our opinions have no permanence; like autumn and winter, they gradually pass away.

—Zhuangzi

_____________________

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