Gem of the Ocean
—Photo Enhancement by D.R. Wagner
STEPPING DOWN FROM THE
TRAIN
—D.R. Wagner, Elk Grove
Stepping down from the
train I was waiting
For the light to change,
arrange itself, explain
Why around the tracks such
a simple act could
Remain the most
significant. Could it open
Another plane, a door, a
hallway, a plaza?
There had been gunfire and
explosions all night.
The air was a concerto of
volleys and the stuttering
Voices that carried death
upon their breath.
We knew we had to move as
quickly as possible
Or nothing would matter
for much longer. We
Could hear children crying
inside of the buildings.
Some of them were
burning. The whole place
Was being eaten by shadows
and tracer bullets.
‘Through here then,’ a
voice spoke and a passage
Revealed itself. We gathered what we could and ran.
What was the smoke of powder
and of fires turned
To sky and went from red
to pink, tinged itself with blue
That seemed to form
afterimages around old buildings.
We could hear what the
birds were saying. There was
No sound of battle or of
pain anywhere near us. Far
Away we could hear the
train once again.
It was leaving the
station. We had brightly colored
Packages in our arms. People were leaning from
Balconies. They carried candles and were humming
Songs we knew from
childhood. All of this took an
Entire lifetime to happen. This brief telling of it must
Be a container placed in
time to hold a lantern.
_______________
MANHA DE CARNAVAL
—D.R. Wagner
I am unable to do anything
about it.
I stare for hours at the
ocean.
I have been taken. My thought
Listening to translations
from
A language made of magic
and swift gestures
Captured from dances
performed
By a hooded crowd who
insist
We know them but they do
not
Know time and we show the
tattoos
Of time all too clearly.
I am going to walk away
from this
For a moment. I am in danger of
Falling too far and
becoming water,
Totally water, once again.
I saw spirits moving as
clouds
Toward an infinite
tomorrow.
I am unable to recall if
we arrived
Here to do something
special like dying
Or if there was to be a
fiesta
That had another ending, a
sky filled
With fireworks. We have seen such
Things as we are not
allowed to
Even attempt in
explanations.
I sharpen my knives. There will
Come a time when a dagger
will
Hold all the language,
when we
Will garb ourselves for
inclement
Weather and find our
horses.
This might be a story but
it does
Have horses. So we might
want to
Leave before we know too
Much to begin insisting on
a dawn,
A special fire that really
gives
Nothing away at all.
And so I think I’m telling
you a story
But it seems all about a
carnival
That happens tomorrow in a
poem
Left in a book so very
long ago.
_______________
WHAT USED TO BE A ROOM
—D.R. Wagner
The walls peeled away
perfectly.
We were standing in a
contrived
Arpeggio of detail birthed
Of knowing too much of
what
Was going to be said as
soon
As time came to repay its
debt
To death. A sudden sucking
In of breath that resides
In familiar things, that
is heard
Infrequently, as when
loved ones
Disappear or when we
notice
Passageways in the
countenance
Of a sleeper. Perhaps one woke
Too soon and the fragments
of
Waking hadn’t all escaped
the
Gnawing at the edge of
sleep.
The face was still
incomplete,
Yet we knew who it was.
Hell, we were sleeping
with them.
I found I could lift the
Entire thing with the
blade of my dagger
And watch it stumble
toward
Some idea of what this
place
Had looked like
previously.
From what could
have been
A rooftop as easily
as it
Could have been a bed, one
Could see the cloisters,
the
Cities, the dungeons, even
the
Libraries full of their
disconcerting
Intersections.
This was supposed to be a
help in
Explaining a slight,
unusual
Occurrence involving
Touch and an unexpected
waking from
What could have been a
dream.
It has failed miserably.
Little Dresser with Lamp
—Photo by D.R. Wagner
A PLACE OF HORSES
—D.R. Wagner
The smallest of delirium
broke off and floated
Away like music.
In the dark of the moon I
took leave
Of my senses and left for
a primitive oblivion.
No one had ridden this far
into the
Barrancas for many
years. It was said
That the stars themselves
often became
Lost out here. Mysterious fires
Would flare up very
intensely, but briefly
Then unravel, at various
times of the year.
No one knew their cause
and no burned earth
Was found. There was no singular, no plural.
It was impossible to have
a destination
Out here. This was a place
Where the ends of stories
went to
Escape. Where, it was said, tears could
generate
Flash floods. They rushed through
Arroyos like ghosts from
the mind of God,
Wandering waters with no
beginning
And no end.
I have seen the people who
lived here.
They are furtive and very
spiritual.
It has been said that when
they open their mouth
To speak at night, fires
come from
Deep within them and spark
the night.
They have never been seen
in the villages.
They are an imagined
history.
They are hidden springs
like those found
Deep within the soul.
If one can read the birds,
One can understand that
time has
No dominion here.
A blanket on the ground
Like pictures of saints on
old prayer cards.
The conversations of
coyotes about
The pronouncements of the
moon.
A crackling moves through
this place
As if lightning were
walking through.
Still we ride here. It is
A place of wild horses who
can be heard,
But are seldom seen. Perhaps they are the same
As the people, perhaps
they are a shared soul.
An overhearing of the special
conversations
Of the dead, a quick cord
Tied to a weighing of
souls, a collision
Sharpened by forgetting
what we thought
We knew, driven by this
reverberation
At a masque devised by
nightmare.
_______________
‘I COULD SMELL SOMETHING
IN HER HAIR
THAT MADE ME WANT TO
PRAY.’ ...K. PATCHEN
—D.R. Wagner
‘You’ve fallen pretty
far,’ she said.
'Don’t try to move
yet. You may
Have broken
something.’ Her smile
Had beautiful hallways
filled with
A cathedral of lights in
it.
'Have I been here long?' I
ventured.
‘We saw you coming for a
long time.
It was like watching a
song or
Like being awakened from a
wide
Sleep, a river carrying so
much it
Becomes difficult to
believe it
Was a river any longer.'
'What are you talking
about?' I
Asked, trying to rise but
unable
To do so. I began to see red
Streamers drape her body.
Her eyes rolled back in
her head.
She slumped forward. All I
Could think of came out
like a
Fairy Tale, kings, mean
sisters,
Mysterious treasures and
castles
That manifested themselves
in
The twinkling of an
eye. I could
No longer see her eyes.
I pulled myself up to a
standing
Position. A mouse army ran toward me
Me informing me they were at
my service.
And I began to wonder what
my service
Might be. And then, you came
So close to me, lifting my
words
As if they were melodies,
touching me
With your lips, realizing
all this was true
And I could feel myself
falling again.
_______________
PUSHED AROUND BY THE MUSE
—D.R. Wagner
Here are a couple of things
I’d like to put in this
poem.
The crocodiles were
swimming in a loose
Formation. They were golden and with
The sun glinting off their
backs they
Looked as if they had been
gods
For a very long time. Once they
All opened their mouths
together, then
Snapped them shut. A shower of
Sparks rose up just above
the surface
Of the river. It was one of the most
Beautiful things I had
ever seen.
That night there were
three moons.
At first I thought they
might just
Be reflections but no, one
was
Bright orange, one a
perfect green
And one made so much noise
we
Were forced to board a
train and
Race down the Eastern
seaboard.
Look, Mac, nobody saw you
come in here
And nobody knows you are
even here.
If you are having trouble
not telling
People about this we’re
going to have
To give you some dancing
lessons, no
Feet on the ground. Get my meaning?
I watched the women turn
into an alley
And walk quickly almost to
the end,
Where they disappeared
through
A battered yellow door
marked
‘Haymarket, no
enter.’ By the
Time I caught up with
them,
They had changed their
clothes
And were busy making a big
automobile.
The music was blaring from
its radio.
‘Gloomy Sunday’.
See, that wasn’t so
bad. I have to leave
Now. Thank you for the space.
Hope it makes the poem better.
_______________
Today's LittleNip:
My stories run up and bite me on the leg—I respond
by writing down everything that goes on during the bite. When I finish,
the idea lets go and runs off.
—Ray Bradbury
__________________
—Medusa
Sock
—Photo Enhancement by D.R. Wagner
