Enchanted by Mirrors

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

DURING THE FIRESTORM



I was waiting at the top of the ladder.



How about yellow moths?


My brother called up to me,


Really big yellow moths?



No, I said.  I’ll wait.



There is a family of four people

Floating over the basin.


Should I see if the wind


Is blowing them this way?



No, I said.  I’ll wait.



This place is going to go up


In flames soon.  There’s a war


Going on, you know.



No, I said.  I’ll wait.



I sifted through the ashes


With a long stick from


The top of the ladder.

 

______________________

WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 16, LOCKE, CA



Starting somewhere near the beginning


I am able to hear the clank of armor


Rattling up.  The ancient armies coming


Through time with a “What just happened?”


Caught on their heads and across their feet.



The light of the fires from burning cities


Shows the entire trail complete with rivers


Filled with blood right up to mushroom-shaped


Clouds fighting for space just outside our windows.



We are still here.  We move without judgement,


A profound ignorance.  We know we are made 


From the same dust as the entire universe.


It is quite a realization but not one that need


Cause us to constantly kill one another over


And over again.  The eyes have it.  Music has it.


It is possible to dance, to make memorable objects


That are not based on that clank of armor.



Let us go outside at this beautiful golden moment 


Right at the very end of Autumn, just before the sun


Quits.  An announcement of gold across the gardens,


Into the oaks that surround the sloughs.  All golden


For maybe fifteen minutes.  A handful of breaths.

FAIRY TALE



The dreams have bones.


They have towers.


They require us to be among them.



They will take our cloaks.


We will not know how to return.



Wolves who walk upon two legs


Will smell our blood.


Fish will entertain us.



We will be enchanted by mirrors.


Whatever shall we believe?


We are trees, at best.



The trees tell us we can never escape.


Still, I remember that I am the forest.


The sun works a terrible magic.


It is a pure magic.


No fire can touch us.



In the North the crows 


Eat our very bones.


Even the ice opens for us.



Everyone is a traitor to magic.


And still they fall.


No one has dominion.

_______________________


THE DARK STORY



The dark story


Broken only by the noises


With which the crows carry on 


As they perch in oak tops.



In five days the Winter


Itself comes traipsing 


Up from the sloughs


Dragging itself across


The allotments of the garden.



Shadows are everywhere.


Were there a market, prices


Would be low for morning,


Evening and even noon.



They have issues with the sun.


They attach themselves


To the feet of everyone in town,


Shrinking their steps


For most of the day.



The mourning doves at noon.


Five pairs of them


So smokey gray, on the 


Power lines just above


The garden gate.



We shall have rain someone


Has said, but the horizon


Was purple with angry reds


In the last of the clouds.



At the top of Vespers


And just before Compline


A ruddy dark moves across


The river, over the levees.



Yes, you shall have rain


Says the moon, waxing late


Climbing the trees.



“Yes, you shall have rain


And before Christmas


If your bones have any


Sense left in them,”


The day says, ending itself


In the smallest of voices.

AWAKENING IN THE NIGHT



A trance of buildings 


Suckled in stone, made mostly


In fog and the detritus of yet another


Year spread across this field of mud.



Then pulled toward the end of the year,


Sometimes nearly blind, sometimes


So full of the smallest of details.


One could be left on the edge of a small


Village, standing just inside an open door


Looking out at the rain, believing it is the self.



For a moment, we own the shadows,


A pine tree’s across hard granite, a leaf


Shadow reflected upon a puddle of bright 


Water.  A lightning flash in a momentary


Quiet.  A crow sitting on a fence post


Surrounded by the last of the morning glories.



The year begs to come to a close.  


Its trees are leafless.  I can hear a breathing


Beneath this November moon, such a cold


Sphere, it could be perfect beauty.



I realize it is my own breath.


And who’s world is this, friend?

We have been here before?


Long, long ago?

_________________________


SKY WITHOUT A NAME
                

                   ...a vision



Say this then, that I have known


You better than waves know the shingle


On the shore of the sea that speaks to


It, at telling of its presence, its golden


Robes, shadows deeper than the memory


China dresses up and presents as a tiger.



Crossing the sky without a name,


Claiming that it is beautiful, while a bird,


A most beautiful bird, a white one


With the head of a wolf, pounces


Upon us full of those damned flowers


That keep us all from committing suicide


In the light of such a setting sun


Too incredible to be believed.



Pleasure in a warm young bird.


The sky drifting high above us,


Feeling this on our skin like leaves


That fall on our graves with every hour we linger,


With every star we dare to name.



MOMENT: NEW MOON



There is barely enough room


For the moon to hold the dreamers


But the moon does its job well.



It hangs a few stars across all space,


Sits at the corner of my bedroom window,


Has just the correct amount of syllables



To know the click of my boots against stone,


The tiny cloud of breath suddenly exhaled


Into the night air, the touch of my hand


Against the glass, all separating and still


One thing in the curiousness of time.

________________________


SUGAR BOWL AND CREAMER



One night my mother


Captured the full moon


And put it in the sugar bowl.



The covered one with 


The silhouettes of the two


Men with long pipes


Talking to one another.


The one with the platinum


Decoration that never tarnishes.



Why did you do this, Mother?


I thought it looked 


So well in a proper bowl.



But now the creamer


Will have no friend.



Oh, she said,


Opening the cupboard


And grabbing the creamer.



Look, she said,


The sun.



BUDDHA WISH



An old rowboat lies


Just below the water


Of the slough; a gray


Shadow beneath a tear


Of Autumn light across


The surface of the place.



This trail leads directly


To the edge of this water.


For a moment I know and then


I don’t know what I am.



Part of the season,


Wanting to show the Buddha


Just how perfect all of this is.

_______________________

BUDDHA POEM



There’s a poem


Smack in the middle


Of this one



Just sitting there

Looking back at us.



See.



A poem.



It doesn’t want 


To talk for some


Reason and I’m


Not going to bust 


Its serenity.



It could be
 

The Buddha.



“IN THE MORNING


WHEN THE STARS ARE STILL MOTHS”
                                      

                               —Peter Wild



We are not abandoned.


There are waterfalls between the planets.


I invoke them as my dwelling place.

Realizing that we stand at the entrance.


Luminescence lives within us like


Cello music.  It makes grace of my bones.



I am the river in the moment, the seclusion

Of the beyond.  All that remains,


May it always be light without abandonment.

_____________________


Today’s LittleNip:

VISTA POINT



From here you can 



Look



At how the poem



Is ending.


_____________________

In all the holiday brouhaha, Medusa missed noting the Sac. Voices reading that will take place this afternoon, 4:30pm, featuring Marie Reynolds and Linda Collins and hosted by Phillip Larrea. That’s 25th & R Sts., Sac. Be there!

—Medusa

     Richard Hansen's Poems-for-All Series has published

The Small Book by Annalesa Wagner, written when she was 8.

(D.R.'s daughter)