Saturday, February 06, 2016

Dreams Made of Silver

Window, St. Francis of Assisi, Sacramento
—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA


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 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


I caught your sister

Giving away pieces

Of the moon again.



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


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


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.



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


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.


                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:


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