—Photo by D.R. Wagner
AN ANCIENT BATTLE
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
The battle had long been
forgotten.
Someone found a coin
recently that had
An image of a sword and a
nearly
Obliterated date that
someone else
Said was a reference to a
particular
Battle. Everyone had died who could
Carry the name of the
conflict into
The present. There were layers upon
Layers of dreams that
could no
Longer be cut
through. Not even
The sound of cloth
tearing. No reasons
At all except maybe a hawk
announcing
A field to whomever might
be interested.
I fell to my knees and
prayed for those
Who had been this battle,
not even
Certain I could pronounce
the place
Correctly. The dream rustled and
Tried to weave my sleep
with its images
Of horses terrified and
the loud noises
The dying made. Within a week the
Coin had become lost
again.
The hawk long disappeared.
_______________
A PERFECT MAGIC
—D.R. Wagner
There was a certain throw
of rocks
That led out into the lake
where
We could stand on the
greatest of them
And proclaim wishes to the
evening.
We were ten years
old. We thought
That wishes were indeed
magic and because
Summer was upon us and
because
The light that held July
for as
Long as it did and glowed
on our
Shadowed forms, that this
was
Enough magic to allow
almost
Anything to happen.
What we did not know is
that
This perfect magic, while
ours
For this blessed moment
was really our
Gift to those who came
after
Us in time and found
themselves
In this same place. Our eyes tearing
Across decades to feel
their flesh
Again for a brief moment,
to sing
A song to them. But it was
Not a song they knew and
all our
Efforts were only bird
songs just
Before the sun abandoned
the place.
I realized this,
dismounted and
Walked carefully, step by
step,
Down to the sidewalks of a
neighborhood
I would truly never be
able
To walk again. The wind
Already quickening across
the trees,
Cutting through the
window, open
Against July and telling
me
To 'Go to sleep. Go to sleep.
We will take care of
everything.'
_______________
THE JOB
—D.R. Wagner
I leaned against the wall,
Slid into a squat and
stared at the fire.
The flames looked like
toys. They popped
And whistled, made
reference to many
Things, nearly forgotten,
made new even
As they disappeared into
warm ash
Carved on a breeze. Temples of smoke.
We had been working
hard. The floods
Were coming and the crests
of the waves
Would carry demons, naming
the heart
And all it provinces,
flooding its every
Room before a breath could
be taken,
Slamming the bodiless
ghosts together, thousands
Upon thousands of
them. We would pick
Up the bodies later, when
the lights
Finally returned to the
room.
A first star. The sweep of angel wings
Across an infinite
stillness.
From here I could look
down at all
That was below as from a
great height.
The fire. The great waves moving over
Everything. Light going out ahead of the waves.
Nothing ever
stopping. Breathing.
_______________
NOTHING VANISHES
—D.R. Wagner
These pools look as if the
season
Has forgotten them, left
them to struggling
As their dark tadpoles
struggle, barely able
To cover themselves with
what water remains,
Tiny, amphibian feet
pushing the mud aside.
They leave no track when
they dry. The cracked
Earth, the clicking of
cicadas upon the best of summer.
A puff of dust pulled up
from skeleton bird nests,
Finger bone left by a wind
that was not supposed
To have a skeleton. It was supposed to disappear
Into the woods, only dogs
would be able to track
It. But for the fires and the cold light of
the stars
We would not know of this
at all, thinking that
The season had fallen
exactly there and the
Change to Autumn would
feel like someone
Had only slipped a ring on
our finger and we
Would not notice it until
the temperatures dropped.
Until it was October all
around us once again,
A few rain storms causing
the pools to appear
Again. A willow tree
insisting it knew what desire
Was all about, urging us
on deeper and deeper,
Across the meadows, into
the darker woods.
‘This all looks so
familiar,’ we would think,
But we would have been
changed by everything
We had seen, sit on a
fallen tree trunk, listening
Carefully to the croaking
of the frogs.
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
A SENSITIVE
—D.R. Wagner
The women of the shoreline
villages
Called him ‘a sensitive’
for he could,
They said, place his hand
on the water
And know who was upon the
open sea.
‘Ulysses is very near a
whirlpool!’
He would say or ‘There is
a high masted
Ship becalmed in a
stagnant sea
With an albatross dead
upon its deck.’
He spoke of waterfalls as
songs.
‘The Father of Waters’, he
said of Niagara.
He knew when the ice gave
up its embrace
Opening the Arctic seas
for the great
White bear and her tiny
cubs.
‘The rain is on
Namaqualand now
As it is on the Saguaro
and the
Boojum trees.’ And they would think
He was speaking in
tongues.
His body would shiver with
the wild
Tides that engulfed
Fundy and the rushing
Of the Amazon revealed
rainstorms
Pelting the backs of black
and silver monkeys,
Surprised at their fig-eating by the
Boom of great
thunderstorms.
His voice was of the snows
over
The rocks of the highest
peaks
And he could hear the
million
Languages of the surf on
all the shorelines
In the world.
The women would watch his
pale form,
So supple and so fluid,
meander
Through the deep ravines
that led
To shoreline or though the
flat
Plains where rivers sighed
with the heat
Summer placed upon their
backs
As they idled below the
dragonflies,
Quick as thoughts above
them,
Red and green ghosts of
any summer.
Then, in the Fall one
year, just before
The changing of the
seasons, he was
Gone. He is remembered in the late
Season rains. His smile has become
Spring mists. His very breath still
Moves the trees, sensitive
even
To the call of seabirds
across the lagoon.
_______________
A FAILED MISSION
—D.R. Wagner
We were watching the tall
ships
On the far edges of the
harbor.
The storms were on the
ocean.
The sea was in an
extremely bad mood.
St. Elmo's fire lit up the
tops of the masts.
The ships began to look
like heavenly messengers.
We had come down from the
north.
So much had been broken.
We had little food but we
did have
Beautiful dogs who could
move sheep.
We will not come by this
way again.
These are dead eyes that
stare
Out at me. I know these
lions.
I know these shining
stones.
I know all the greens of
these forests.
I know the limits where
darkness
Can own any body and
occupy
Its vision with the stones
That suggest understanding
but
Are not. Thin songs, made
of skulls
And wind blowing through
hollow bones.
'Try this flute. It
was your lover's
Ulna, so beautiful the
butterflies
Will land in your hair
just to listen.'
We move out to the garden
if
Only to rest for a moment.
Time rushes past in a
flaming red chariot.
One barely notices until
we begin
To bleed and a strangeness
Composed by great age
begins
To invade our bodies,
carrying
On all night as if we were
Made of pure youth,
Our dogs pushing us closer
and
Closer together until we
are
Unable to move any
farther.
_______________
A HANDFUL OF BLUE STONES
—D.R. Wagner
I’ve seen that little bird
before.
It seemed wild but it
actually
Lived with the gypsies,
never
Quite a pet, always a tall
Tale. It could land on a
Saddle horn while one was
Riding and one would not
notice it.
When she opened her hand,
it
Was full of blue
stones. They
Looked like Opal, but
Seemed to have
memory. I would
Always be the other in the
dream
And have the ability to
speak
Ancient languages without
knowing
If they would be
understood. Other
Dreams careened into me.
They sounded like
nightingales
And contrived to find rest
for me.
Stop. Please stop,
I asked the sea.
_______________
Today's LittleNip:
I read and walked for miles at night along the beach,
writing bad blank verse and searching endlessly for someone wonderful
who would step out of the darkness and change my life. It never crossed
my mind that that person could be me.
