Adagio

Iris

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

ADAGIO: AUGUST AND THE MOON

When we saw how many fragments
The dream had shattered into
Over the night we thought that all
Had been lost.  It was impossible to tell
What it had been just the night before.

The moon came up as usual
But it was a color we did not recognize.
We had been told that this might
Happen, but we were not prepared
For how peculiar it appeared now.

It was like the moon was thinking.

 The Race

I AM NOT HERE TO TELL YOU
SOMETHING BEAUTIFUL

No one will let us pass.
I hate to tell you this, chaps,
But I don’t really have
Any idea what is going on.

The sky is looking around
For something to throw at us.

We have no weapons
That can help you now.

Our steps become quieter
And quieter until only the tiger
Can hear us walking through
This creation.
Listen to that breathing.

I’m not here to tell you
Something beautiful, but
I recall that, years ago,
Tiresias showed us a flaming bird.

Sit here for awhile again.
A flame.  Look!  A flame.

Some joy right under your chair,
I am beginning to feel all golden.

 Happy Feet

BROKEN HEART

My heart is broken now, so
I’ll take it in my hands,
Carry it outside and throw
It in the light brown garbage
Can, the one that goes to the landfill,

Not the recycle bin with its blue
Serenity and white logo, RECYCLE
ONLY, or the gray of the lawn waste bin,
A brilliant concept in itself
That I am never going to understand.

No, the brown one will do.
Tiende basura, por favor.
-*-

Among the coffee grounds, wrappers
From lunch and wadded paper
Towels, a good place for a heart
Like this, then go back into the house

Alone, consider the quality of light
In the kitchen, sweep the floor
So there isn’t anything to indicate
That anything is very different.

A broken heart, oh dear, says the clock.
Now just relax.  I have another
Minute here for you or an hour
Or a month, or the mystery
Of the noise made by some flying machine
High above the house.

I open the door again
To better hear it, it and
The music-moving that wind attempts.

I think of it as song.

 The Foot of the American Falls

THE FOG AT NIAGARA FALLS

So thick it spilled over


The gorge lip, filling


The streets with a dense white


Wall, stealing every sound


The night chanced to create.



A blank stillness
Devouring streets, buildings,
Houses, light itself.


There was nothing else

In the world, only fog.

Baxter and I stepped outside
His home just to see,

Just to hear this kind of voice.



Then we walked in opposite


Directions for a short time,


Turned and ran toward each other,


Arms outstretched, flying past


Each other like thick phantoms


Visible only for an instant.



We did this two or three times,
Each time a surprise,


An event, as we passed


Each other in this peculiar dark.



For years we carved this event
Separately.  Still it remained


The same in both our recollections.

Such is fog.



It holds moments


As singular things,


A permeable loud


Resting upon the ground
For a time gathering


Events and lives to itself.

Dispersing again without a trace.


Except these notes remembering.


Except the friendship recalled,


Our lives somehow linked


Because of it, arms outstretched,


Shearing through the night.

 Hole in a Wall

PRESSING THE MOMENT

I have no idea why they would let us
Remain on the boat.
It is very beautiful and we love it
But that is not a reason.

It could be because we are magic
Or that our hands can touch things
More gently then anyone else’s.

Or that we understand the dead
Pain of losing everything.  Some of us
Cannot see.  Others cannot hear.
We do understand profound silence
And yes, the late water still comes
Lapping.  And we can open up
The dreams like oranges and pass
Them around.  Press them to your
Lips.  They are sweet, sweet, sweet.

And just here, where we are,
The wind curves up and swirls
Upon the deck.  It knows
The journey.  I close my eyes.
I kiss your lips as you have always
Wanted someone to kiss your lips.

We feel the anchor being hauled up.
Those who could not hear, hear.
Those who could not see, see.
Those of us who can speak
Begin to talk of being survivors.

We link hands, wrapping them
With fine scarves.
The wind unwinds and moves
To fill the great sails.
The sails have become pure light.

We become the definition
Of every moment where longing
Changes the heart to find compassion.

No one has seen anything
Like this before.

 Big Dog

DETOX

I cannot wait any longer.
Too soon the morning will come
And the curl of your back
Will move away from our sleeping.
And the light will crack open
All the work we have made
Of ourselves this night.

I will watch my body dissolve
As a salt into the clearest liquid
And we will be as we never were before,
Plodding and stumbling down
The roadways toward some village,
Town or city, aware only of our
Traveling and the terrible
Ourselves, a cargo neither wanted
Or precious but necessary
For any kind of life at all.

_________________

Today’s LittleNip:

HO NE GORTHA—Dreamtalk

We are workers
In the star mines,
Tremors of delight
For the eyes and imagination.

These are songs pulled from
Our remembered dreaming
As used as a counterpane
With wild, clear lament.

_____________________

—Medusa, with thanks to D.R. Wagner for today’s poems and pix, all of which appeared on Medusa’s Kitchen in years past. D.R. is still on his August hiatus from the Kitchen, catching up on health and publishing issues. (Watch for his two new books to be released this Fall!)

 Celebrate Poetry!
D.R. Wagner reading at Shine, April, 2015

—Photo by Michelle Kunert, Sacramento, CA

Photos in this column can be enlarged by clicking on them once,
then click on the X in the top right corner to come back
to Medusa.