Window, St. Francis of Assisi, Sacramento
—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
THE DAUGHTERS OF LONGING
This belongs to the night.
It has those lights about it.
It has that shape we love
That curls into our own body
As we lie abed, not sleeping
But remembering how sleep
Was and what kinds of gifts
It brought to us.
We are unable to speak,
Think ourselves still asleep,
Covered in the cream of darkness
That pulls on our legs, urges us
To dance if only for a moment.
We stand upon the water.
This must be the part of dreaming.
But we find we are water; we
Move through one another,
Scooped into an iridescence
That we can barely remember,
“Mommy, I was glowing. Am
I still glowing? I think I am."
There is Saturday everywhere.
The morning leaks through the blinds,
Slides across the room and finds
Our eyes. “Yes, you are still
Glowing.” Right now, it’s the sun
On your skin; the soft, tiny hairs
On the body capture light for
Their moment and fill the morning
With smiles that will stay with us.
They are the daughters of longing.
Winter, 2016
THAT THE MOON
That the moon doesn't care for Spring.
That it doesn't fill itself out as an announcement
That a season is coming. It has its own games,
Water, the blood moving through mammals,
Huge hatches of insects making another music.
Still it shines brighter than all else in the night
Sky. It opens the earth itself in rain or clear
Light and gives names to the waking of the ground.
No matter where we go, if the night is open,
Clear and the course of this spinning planet
Is open and not just showing off the stars,
There she is, her royal majesty, directing everything
From the top of the night, not caring who or what
Sees her light, the llama races or mischief
In the eyes of old magicians somewhere in Mexico.
Slipping through the fog above the Great Lakes,
Holding court before the Northern Lights,
It is still the moon, careless and reclining
On the whole of our sky with us always loving it.
That the moon doesn't care for Spring.
That it doesn't fill itself out as an announcement
That a season is coming. It has its own games,
Water, the blood moving through mammals,
Huge hatches of insects making another music.
Still it shines brighter than all else in the night
Sky. It opens the earth itself in rain or clear
Light and gives names to the waking of the ground.
No matter where we go, if the night is open,
Clear and the course of this spinning planet
Is open and not just showing off the stars,
There she is, her royal majesty, directing everything
From the top of the night, not caring who or what
Sees her light, the llama races or mischief
In the eyes of old magicians somewhere in Mexico.
Slipping through the fog above the Great Lakes,
Holding court before the Northern Lights,
It is still the moon, careless and reclining
On the whole of our sky with us always loving it.
Sunset From My Kitchen Window, Locke
YOUR SISTER AND THE MOON
I caught your sister
Giving away pieces
Of the moon again.
___________________
___________________
THE BARLEY DANCING
There are things the heart knows
And never tells one. The song
Of the ship, whispers made cutting
Through the waves with the bow,
Signaling with a wake of many colors.
The moon, a transparent wilderness.
We had always supposed
These charms were gathered in
Just at evenglow by folk
Who lived where heavenly objects
Were reflected in the waters.
They were often seen plucking starlight
From the water’s edge, raking the moon
Light away from small ponds, pools in alpine
Meadows.
Some of these sites could be located
By the particular kinds of plants
That grew in the area where
The charms had been previously found.
The seasons come from a high family
But I thought to take one of them
To my own heart and make it my home.
But they have no home
And they put my foot to wandering.
Now, while the barley is dancing,
I must ask you to hold my heart
To your heart and do not let it go.
I’ve lost it more than once and know
,
To lose it to a season, all that is charmed
Must also flow away from those secret
Things the heart will never tell, but knows.
Angel, St. Francis of Assisi, Sacramento
THE AVENGING ANGELS
We had just made our way past the barricades
When we noticed the edge of the pavement,
From the century-old cut-marble curbs to almost
A third of the way into the traffic lanes, were filled
With blood. “That’s blood,” said Ramon.
“They must just have opened fire on the people
Involved with the march for human dignity that the villages
Had organized. Prepare yourselves,” he said as we moved
Toward the city center. “We are the ones who have been
Sent to redeem these people.” I hoped we would never
Have to do this. We are once again the avenging angels.
Our wings seemed metallic in the sweep of klieg lights
That began to sweep the park. We donned darkness
Through our skin and began to rise into the air in total silence.
________________________
________________________
BECOMING A SONG
I will open my hand.
I will make the gesture
I learned in the lowlands.
It makes the world
Look like morning.
We can see the thin waist
Of last night’s fire find a
Way to the top of the
Oak grove. It has
Rooms among the clouds.
You can come with me.
We know the names
And the saints of the air.
They call you goddess
For you were found asleep
In the forest, your hands pointed
Toward awakening.
You were listened to by
Peacocks who rustled
Their feathers for you;
That soft smoothing, the
Gentlest of branches.
I remember wanting to kiss you
Or wanting to return to the river.
The boat carried a reverie that
Understood how these
Branches worked.
I dreamed I was home.
It was a blaze
I had never seen before.
A thousand tundra swans
Rising above the morning fog
Attempting the same sky
Over and over as in
A dream made of silver
When there had once been
A home.
Fairy Tangles, Locke
SWEPT AWAY
We never would have believed they had weapons
As powerful as the ones we encountered,
Rational thought removed from incredible
Distances, the idea that history was a voice of reason,
A kind of clarity and certainty that we need go no further.
Passion offers us a seat claiming it is turning
Us loose, that we have forgotten the easiest
Part. The pastel-colored clouds are ordered
Into position. They wait in line near the horizon.
We discuss if it is visions we are having, elevated,
Degraded, mansions we were never supposed
To occupy, let alone live in. Every age has its own
Idea of the genuine. We avoid it at all costs.
These figures keep returning. They hold out
Their hands to us. They offer us gifts that
We are unable to accept. They seem depraved,
Do not serve the good of the many. Absent love.
_______________________
THE RUNIC ALPHABETS
for Viola Weinberg-Spencer
I knew the runic alphabets and tossed
Them into the fire during Winter to keep us warm.
This was a wrong thing to do. It was something
We thought might work but none of it was true.
Now when I speak, there is only rain
And the roads get slippery as we walk.
We used to have steps but now it’s just bets
If we will make it home before
Christ can remember his name.
_______________________
Today’s LittleNip:
HEART BREAK
I split
this love
poem right
down the
middle just
to see
what was
really inside
of one
of these
things and
all I
got was
was a
broken heart
_______________________
—Medusa, with many thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s fine poems and pix!
Kayak, Locke
