Women Smoking
—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke
THE SKY IS CROWDED WITH CLOUDS
Tarantulas and dragons of them.
Glaciers of bubbly cumulus
Reflect the river until it
Can hold no more.
White and gray-white riots
Of clouds both above and below.
I pull some clouds around my shoulders
As I go across the meadow
To collect the morning once again.
Today, it too is playing with the clouds,
Showing them its blue cornflowers
And yellow buttercups, its
Symphony of bees and butterflies.
The grasses wave the breeze
Or the breeze waves the grasses.
I am never sure of much
In such a splendid cathedral,
Flabbergasted by its own moments.
________________________
THE SPIDER'S BITCH
I wore a suit of spider silk.
A spider dwelt within it
And opened hems and tailored it
Even as I wore it.
She would sing to me the spider’s song
Of fangs that sought a broken wing,
The lame of foot, the blind
That flew across the night unheeding.
And I became the spider’s bitch
With silken gloves and silken shoes;
I wrapped my arms around the prey
And the spider did the rest.
And every night I’d make her bed,
An orb web wound around
And dangle from a silken thread
Mere inches off the ground
Perfectly still, without a sound.
A hat of dried-up insect wings
I wore upon my head
And sang songs to the spider
About the lovely dead.
Tarantulas and dragons of them.
Glaciers of bubbly cumulus
Reflect the river until it
Can hold no more.
White and gray-white riots
Of clouds both above and below.
I pull some clouds around my shoulders
As I go across the meadow
To collect the morning once again.
Today, it too is playing with the clouds,
Showing them its blue cornflowers
And yellow buttercups, its
Symphony of bees and butterflies.
The grasses wave the breeze
Or the breeze waves the grasses.
I am never sure of much
In such a splendid cathedral,
Flabbergasted by its own moments.
________________________
THE SPIDER'S BITCH
I wore a suit of spider silk.
A spider dwelt within it
And opened hems and tailored it
Even as I wore it.
She would sing to me the spider’s song
Of fangs that sought a broken wing,
The lame of foot, the blind
That flew across the night unheeding.
And I became the spider’s bitch
With silken gloves and silken shoes;
I wrapped my arms around the prey
And the spider did the rest.
And every night I’d make her bed,
An orb web wound around
And dangle from a silken thread
Mere inches off the ground
Perfectly still, without a sound.
A hat of dried-up insect wings
I wore upon my head
And sang songs to the spider
About the lovely dead.
Oak Thicket
AN ABILITY TO NOT REMEMBER
In the time of Tragus there lived three foxes who had spent most of their lives learning to speak like human beings. They were more or less successful. They could speak most simple commands and the youngest of them had held a discussion of ideas with a thrush one Spring—not that it amounted to much, thrushes are not all that good at language either. The upshot was that the youngest could explain some of Plato to his fellows, but it wasn’t the good bits that stuck and his comments became very thrush-like and wound up using a lot of whistling, which was of no use whatsoever except that it attracted dogs who hunted foxes, and that was of no use to any one of them.
Having noticed that the days of Summer were the most favorable of days, the three foxes decided to attempt to find someone to speak to and get all days to be like the best of days in the Summer.
_______________________
THERE ARE BIRDS UNDER MY FEET
There are birds under my feet.
They are alive and have committed
To being part of a bonfire.
They are still breathing. I can feel
Their bodies pulsating beneath
The soles of my feet.
All the children play
In the neighborhood
Near the Cathedral.
They hear the ringing of the bells
Bouncing off the stained glass windows.
Michael has again defeated the dragon.
The Gates of Eden have been closed.
We can no longer speak with the animals.
The birds begin to rise up, seemingly
Uninjured. They preen their wings,
Stare at one another, then rise as one
Body and head for the bonfire.
They are prelapsarian entities.
There has never been a tripping,
Let alone a fall. The fruits still
Cling to the trees. We may eat them.
My own feet sprout feathers.
I am not walking upon birds.
I am their breath, their huge
Vision. I am a rocket ship
Pasted upon a shirt.
I travel to these places
With such ease I am able
To tell you about them
Without guile or pretense.
I join the children to play
In the neighborhood
Near the Cathedral.
We watch the bonfire.
Mike Walking
REFORMED
I have been sent by our father
Which art in heaven. What heaven
Is the art and are you my brother
That I may speak to you this way?
For I am a hallow that the edges
Near the kingdom of night
Come to us and these feelings pierce
My skin until I bleed in the most obvious
Places, into the rivers, through your veins,
Into your warm drinks, salty with your own
Tears and still you do not recognize me.
You are the kingdom I have come for.
Yours is the will that binds the fasci together
With its rude sticks as we seek our daily bread,
As we breed the days through our bodies
As each stick trespasses through this star-filled
Whirl, begging us to follow, to move away
From temptations we may never find the words
To describe and yet they languish as sorry legends
In the memories of our children as a deliverance
From an evil not capable of having a body,
But eager to use our precious skin to proclaim
Some wondrous light that was never ours
In the first place.
In the first place. There you are my brother.
As we stand in the open air proclaiming
Our flesh as the most fluent of poetry.
Sheep Grazing
THE BEAUTIFUL SWORD
I was in the garden
When the singing started.
I could see the angel turning
All ways before the gate
In front of me.
And there was breathing in the air.
And there was a deep sighing
That may have been the wind.
Now, I think it is myself
Who sighs. The comets flash
Across the sky with tails of ice.
The visible part of all icebergs
Is always smaller than
A gunshot wound, no matter
How big the pain becomes.
Evening is here collecting
Her colors and taking them
To the west. They follow
Her like trusting pets.
No harm will come to them.
They do not have this song
To flow to. They will not see
The angel I told you of
Still turning, still with his
Beautiful sword.
I shake myself to keep
From sleeping. I want to see
The light fade into the dark of night.
I want to watch the lights
Begin to rise from the campfires
Of the guardians of the night.
I will hold your hand in mine.
We can walk toward the angel.
It will seem like the
Rising of the moon.
The Locke Ranch
ROSY-FINGERED DAWN:
A MESSAGE
There were roses gathered
To celebrate the joining.
At last the night and the day
Had found each other across
All of space and time.
We waited on the islands
For the celebration. It began
Almost at once. This one time
We saw dawn dance with twilight,
The alpenglow shiver through great
Banks of clouds. The rising and the
Setting of the sun were performed
Again and again, without pause.
We stood spellbound before this
Display. It illuminated lakes and rivers,
Filtered through vast woodlands,
Echoed across tundra and veldt.
We find so many who still anticipate
This marvel. Perhaps it will happen again.
Tell your friends. Go out of doors
Together to watch for it as often as possible.
There is nothing else quite like this anywhere.
_______________________
Today's LittleNip:
NEVER, NEVER HEART
Never, never heart.
Never go away.
Never, never heart.
The littlest lanterns.
History is the undertaker.
It buries everything.
We were still talking about sleep
And beds. Waiting for the darkness
To take us back into the world.
Never, never heart.
Never go away.
Never, never heart.
Their hair intertwined
Like a Chinese umbrella
Opening.
The chain
Unfurled.
Never, never heart.
Never go away.
Never, never heart.
________________________
—Medusa
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