Fern Gully, Bolinas
Photo by D.R. Wagner
Photo by D.R. Wagner
THE WHITE CAVES
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
The white caves are the imagination.
It is possible to eat your imagination,
To become the monster or the daily bread.
I am going to open my hand.
Children will be living there.
Listen carefully. They are singing.
A line of fire describes itself
Across the sky. It gives me information
About the nature of love but I am unable
To understand it. I plead with you for answers.
My life listens to God. It makes this noise
Because of that. This IS silence.
Oh there is a beautiful, tall crane standing in the rushes.
It has feathers of white and gray and of red.
Its beak spears fishes and fishes stained
With the colors of the world.
Ghosts swing their oil-filled lamps
Close to our feet and pretend to light the way.
We think we cannot go on like this.
Everyday brings messages on the air.
They are full of pain and terror.
Still, no one has spoken your name.
Surely there is a good in that, mountain
Air catching at our hearts, loving creation.
What would you give to hear sounds
Like this again and again?
I will give you this alone…
Nobody wants to kill anyone else, really.
___________________
Today's LittleNip:
NAME CALLING
—William Bronk
You are the Mike in which I speak but to
a beyondness: Procyon, Sirius, Altair
or where the farthest stars are. Love,
I think, is what I call—what it calls.
___________________
—Medusa
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
The white caves are the imagination.
It is possible to eat your imagination,
To become the monster or the daily bread.
I am going to open my hand.
Children will be living there.
Listen carefully. They are singing.
A line of fire describes itself
Across the sky. It gives me information
About the nature of love but I am unable
To understand it. I plead with you for answers.
My life listens to God. It makes this noise
Because of that. This IS silence.
Oh there is a beautiful, tall crane standing in the rushes.
It has feathers of white and gray and of red.
Its beak spears fishes and fishes stained
With the colors of the world.
Ghosts swing their oil-filled lamps
Close to our feet and pretend to light the way.
We think we cannot go on like this.
Everyday brings messages on the air.
They are full of pain and terror.
Still, no one has spoken your name.
Surely there is a good in that, mountain
Air catching at our hearts, loving creation.
What would you give to hear sounds
Like this again and again?
I will give you this alone…
Nobody wants to kill anyone else, really.
___________________
Today's LittleNip:
NAME CALLING
—William Bronk
You are the Mike in which I speak but to
a beyondness: Procyon, Sirius, Altair
or where the farthest stars are. Love,
I think, is what I call—what it calls.
___________________
—Medusa