The Loom Time Makes

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

THE NIGHT TOUR



The circus intermittently illuminated


As if by the light that visits us


When the danger has passed but is still


Close enough to our blood that it


Chills and releases us, chills and releases.



The wagons clank by.  We want water,


Its sound, its taste, the feel of it


Upon our faces as it pours from


The sky, tears of the sightless who


Sit in the presence of the most high.



Some of the others had gathered by the waterfall.


As the sun was going down, they lit

Lanterns and began to move in the ways


The old dances described, lift to the sky, 


Step.  Bow to the earth.  Step.  Make the sound


That conversation has when most


Important things are being acclaimed.



There will be a way that is safe.  We


Continue our circus well into the night,


Until the children fall asleep one by one,


Until the rain slows,
Until it becomes too dark to see.

__________________

HOMECOMING



So I’m walking through the place


And I keep finding all these pieces


Of things that don’t seem to make


Much sense, a picnic in late July


At the lake, you were maybe six


Years old and were in love with red 


Shoes and a dress covered with sunflowers,


An old blanket, blue, that looked


Handmade and loved, a song that I 


Recall from just before going to sleep,


A quiet part of a walk along the edge


Of the park where we could usually see


Fireflies on those precious summer evenings,


A short ride up to the store for milk


And ice cream, the evening had already


Gathered its finest things and was


Preparing to leave so that night could


Set up the tents and shows, a glass


Of water brought to a bedside in the


Middle of that night because someone


Was coughing or had cried out for it.



This was most unusual.  I didn’t leave


Things like this lying around the house.


There were lots more.  I finally decided


They were landing lights. 


Everything was coming home. 

THE SAND



The sand has the name of the journey


For it has known the seas, can speak


Their names and tell the storms


The secret places where the wind hides


Its stormy jewels and sings its terrible


Songs.  Oh the night.  Oh the night.



And we hold the sand within our hands


And we let it go between our fingers


Making patterns with its soft body,


Its gleaming eyes, the mantle of


The waves.  Oh hear, we die in seas


So cold the ice itself grows teeth


And spells our ship till it


Commands and we, even climbing


High into the masts, can see no


Land and fall, oh yes we fall


For twenty leagues and call


One to another across the loom


Time makes with water and here


You came, and they, dear friend,


My dear, dear friend are made of sand


Are made of sand.



___________________

THRALL



I can always hold you in the thrall


Where your own dreams are the commander,


Where the drums lighting the frames of waking


Trip across your legs and your eyes and pull


You down closer to the earth, to smell the actual 



Dirt of the Renaissance of understanding


That comes with our waking in the morning:



“Look, look the beautiful red breast is making


The thrush song just above our bed where we


Are loving such as never has been seen before."

This will drain our blood, make us remark to


Our loved ones that words such as these are


Dark and without attempt to make them beat


Upon the doors of our daily lives and resonate


With the perfect clarity they might bring to any


Literary situation.  "Psst...take this gun, may it



Serve you well.”  But we do not adopt this kind


Of reason, instead we use our lips and loins to


Describe to one another the thrill as it moves


Into these very dreams.  It is here



I will disarm you finally, look across the gadget


That is time, past this pathetic renaissance


I will speak to you purely here.  Come here!


Here, hold me as I tell you to, believe


That we can actually communicate this way.



I will touch you where you most desire to be


Touched and you will do the same.  We will work 


Our mouths to elicit this intensity of contact.



We will grind together like the graphite against


Paper that made the drawings of Piranesi


Those very things within which we wished to be lost.  

COMING BACK TO THE RIVER



When will it stop?  The sun shakes


Itself through the water and makes


The river leap to see us once again.


We have been gone a long time.


Both the river and ourselves have known


No rest.  We looked everywhere,


Explored every place there was to look.



Now this was our joy in being with the river

Where it ran flat, these lands are blessed


With light and we consume it as if it were


The finest food, the perfect line, the


Breath of harmony held together


By rings of stars, and we may walk 


Along the river banks and it will be


Our lover and it will hold the power


To destroy and it will find our balance,


Filling us with the virtue that the weeds,


The flowers of the field possess.  We


Gather them to ourselves, take


Them home to show these gifts,


Keep them in vases filled with river water


For as long as life lasts in the petals.


May we never stray too far from these


Banks again.


___________________

Many thanks to D.R. Wagner, who managed to send us his post despite his recent health issues (see his Facebook page for info).

Road trip! Feel like going down to Cal-Ber-zerkly to hear Billie Collins? Sun. (4/24), 7pm: Cal Performances presents former US Poet Laureate Billy Collins and Grammy-nominated singer-songwriter Aimee Mann, together for a rare evening of poetry, acoustic music, and conversation about the creative process. 101 Zellerbach Hall, UC Berkeley, Berkeley. Tx start at $18: www.calperformances.org or 510-642-9988. 

___________________

Today’s LittleNip:


THE ONLY WAY TO DREAM

—D.R. Wagner

Getting out of the way so I could see


The children once again when they


Were babies.  Able to pick them up


Hold them, say things to them in


Secret language and fly them


Around the room as if they were dreams.



Hello kids.  Here we are again.


Shall we go for a walk and see


If we find any tigers or elephants


Tonight?  Don’t let the watermelons bite.

___________________

—Medusa

 April is National Poetry Month!

Celebrate today at Sat. (4/16), 4:30pm, as 

Sacramento Voices presents Taylor Graham 

and her new book, Uplift, from Cold River Press. 

Sac. Poetry Center, 25th & R Sts., Sac. 

Host: Phillip Larrea. 
Then hang around for the release of
Electroblacknetic: CODE BLUE
featuring Brother Hypnotic, 
Nancy Aidé González, theSource, Joy Elan, 
Captain Gimpy and the Chicanas. 
Sac. Poetry Center, 25th & R Sts., Sac. 
Host: Rhony Bhopla. Info: blacktastic.net

(Anonymous Photo)