Above East Locke, 3/3/16
—Poems and Photos by D.R. Wagner, Locke, CA
AN EVENT ABOUT THE MOON
She comes into the room
With the moon tucked
Under her arm.
Her fingers are dusted
With that blue yellow gold
Rubbed from the moon.
“You can’t keep that,” I said.
"Ahh, but I can,” she said.
“I will and shall dance upon it.”
Stars shot from her mouth.
I clamped my hands over my ears
So as not to hear.
I could feel the tides
Rushing through me,
Calling as they moved through me.
I begin forgetting myself.
I make a grab for the moon
Just as she is about to dance on it.
It wobbles across the room
And we are both chasing it
As it heads for an open window
With a serene imposing dignity
That one sees occasionally
In the unvanquished; a certain
Uncommon reordering of reality.
For a moment it looks to be
Made of marble. It quickly
Mounts the sky, cheered on
By the minions of the night.
It illuminates the spiderwebs
She used to trap the precious moon.
“Now look what you’ve done,”
She says, reaching into the night.
The seas rise in approval.
We are once again travelers
In service to its great mystery,
Its amorphous light, its myth,
Its epic wonder.
Garden
WILLOW
Do you remember me? I asked the tree
Which had grown in my absence.
So much water had rushed under the bridges
At Remagen, Corazon, Kyoto (cherry trees
In blossom in the Spring!) and it was only
A tactical decision to fail to mete out a memory
Of bridges near a hospital once visited repeatedly
On a day much like today, when nothing
Hung in the balance or asked anything of us
Beyond the most complete and humbled attention.
Do you remember me? Why should it?
I only watched as it was carried away, its veins
Leaking from the bag I had bundled them up in
When I dug them back out of the ground.
I gave the whole tree away to someone
Who promised to take care of it through winter
And flood. And someone must have heard
My thoughts as I stood there and begged it
To remember, because she came and stood with me,
And we looked at each other and admitted,
At least with our eyes, that this was more
Than could be asked of a tree. The briefest glance
And then I had the impression again I was standing
Alone and it was true. She had gone.
A wind came up through the leaves of the tree
Which had grown crooked because no one had bound it
When it was still young. Silver.
I should like to have
Such silver in reserve for border crossings to come.
Silver of the type it does no one good to hoard.
One only remembers it to give it away.
Through the Landing Window
UNDER THE DESK
Now while I wouldn’t be saying
This if it weren’t the truth,
The truth sometimes hides little
Gems in its blouse and only shows
Them when there is nothing left to lose.
The sparks reveal a tiny room
Under the desk. It has a beautiful
Look to it but one could never
Touch it without totally destroying
The illusion that the edge was
So close, so full of the dreams of others.
We forget quickly.
Others use our thoughts,
The capital of dreams,
The song of gifting becomes
Extreme, so full of what we imagine.
____________________
SIFTING
I was wondering
And the carnivals of the heart
Began manifesting through the screen
Door, inches from what was becoming
Spring.
I couldn’t remember much
About you any longer. I could see
You in that tiny kitchen making
Something for dinner. I was looking
Out the window of our third-floor
Apartment under the eaves and
Knowing there really wasn’t any room
Here for love to find much
To grow on. I knew how to eat fear.
I walked down all three flights
Of stairs with the garbage and everything
Was perfect, like I thought your
Eyes were, but I was wrong.
The garbage bags were more real
Than anything except, maybe, looking
Out the window into the rain,
Knowing the river was only a few blocks
Away, and at that moment I was still
King of a world, and that I still loved you.
The Apartment Before the Rain
CHILDREN OF SNOW
They glow blue and white,
Pianos of the sea enchanted.
As when we momentarily forget
What her name was or what his name was.
If it was before or after.
Who told us we were here in the first place?
I’ve never been able to dance like this,
Have you? It is like a souvenir of a fountain
We knew when we remembered loving something
Together on a particular
Day, in a particular afternoon, before we even knew
Each other’s names. And now look at this heap.
I have forgotten. A missed holiday? We were
Laughing about something we both enjoyed.
It may have been the air when you opened the window
In the living room, into the snow storm, for just a minute
Before everyone came in for dinner and, oh yes,
I was so captivated by your eyes, and that we both
Could speak about the season, and you were poetry
For a few hours. I recall reading to you. You told
Me not to stop. It has been decades now.
I have never stopped.
Where the Turtles Live
WHAT WE WANT
To hear the voice tell us stories.
The heart went questing with true
Love and its page, Ardent Desire.
To know this is true, as true
As clouds lifting against the
Horizon, building higher than ideas.
Oh please tell us the truth.
Tell us about Mister Death
And his lovely dances full of leaps,
Full of daring and challenges.
The color of the sky at twilight.
When we wait at night for the
Lights to quit and make soft
Cloaks around our thoughts
So we may sleep. Children,
Families, lovers and deer feeding
Beside streams full of moonlight.
Let us stand here together.
I will hold you to me and kiss
Your lips. I will tell you and you
Will tell me. We will be able to see
The silver of enchanted light through
The trees. We will agree that our lives
Shall always have this sheen about them.
Far to the North, just before the snows
Begin to own everything for months
At a time, we hear the voices again.
_____________________
Today’s LittleNip:
The only art form that's worth a damn is when a man tries to offer up something out of himself, out of his own head, his own emotions, his own dreams, his own heart, his own guts—the rest is vomit-smeared cardboard; one dimensional; a made-up fraud.
—Kenneth Patchen (courtesy of D.R. Wagner/Meg Pokrass)
_____________________
Many thanks to D.R. Wagner for providing us with such a fine repast this morning!
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