Prologue: These Things

These things,

An asteroid belt  gracefully circling the sun.

These things each have their poles,

pulse magnetic,

Resonate in liquid nothingness.

These things,

lost along the riverbank.

Trunks and portmanteaus from shipwrecks

or abandoned,

Each painted and numbered

for identification.

These things,

Mothwinged.

Little household gods

that keen and ring always

when the light is quiet.

These things,

embrace the tremulous thought,

the eel that slips

between dark water.

These things,

shells in the surf,

clatter against the shore with every wave.

(The poet is a seashore dweller.)

Hold them.

Full of It

He lays back on the pillow

talking to the cracks in the ceiling,

"Ever wonder what the inside of your nose looks like?"

He rolls over and cranes her neck back for a look.

"Hey, stop it" she says playfully.

"Let me lick your eyeball."

"Oh, why?  Are you hungry?"

"Let me lick it."

She rolls her eyes and his tongue

flickers across her vision.

"What does it taste like?" she says, laughing.

"It tastes like butter."

She snuggles into his chest, 

"You are so full of it."

Full of what? he wonders.

July 26, 2018

image source

Stars

We lie nestled in the morning light
Knee to inner knee, our hands
Clasped over your hip.  You dream
And I study the freckles on your
Shoulder blades.
Galaxies in reverse, dark on light.
Is that the throne of Cassiopeia
Or Ursa Major?
The patterns dissolve
I only see a universe
For us to explore
Together.
I squeeze your sleeping hand.

Why a Crow

Why not her nobler relative, Raven? The all-knowing
Huginn and Muninn - Memory and Thought?
Odin's knowledge source soared now away into the blue.
Or maybe solemn Poe's prophet knocking at the door?
No, nor the Raven god worshipped where the forest drips
into the sea. Certainly not her clown kin, the Blue Jay!

My Mom heard them haggling in the garden,
not scared as they reproached the raggedy man
on sticks. She secretly loved their smart aleck nature,
smiled as she watched them wheel
across the open fields, foraging for treasure.

Crow.
A commoner Corvid,  still . . .
Dinosaur kin. The cleverest of birds.
Complex maker of tools, teacher of her
fledgling kids, creature of long memory.
Clear-eyed, ruthless, robber and collector.

She came to console Uncle Billy,
and with Brooks Hatlen
was set free.

The Gift by William Carlos Williams

As the wise men of old brought gifts
            guided by a star
                      to the humble birthplace

of the god of love,
             the devils
                        as an old print shows
retreated in confusion.

           What could a baby know
                     of gold ornaments
or frankincense and myrrh,
           of priestly robes
                      and devout genuflections?

But the imagination
          knows all stories
                      before they are told
and knows the truth of this one
          past all defection

The rich gifts
          so unsuitable for a child
                      though devoutly proffered,
stood for all that love can bring.

          The men were old
                  how could they know
of a mother's needs
           or a child's
           appetite?

But as they kneeled
           the child was fed.
                      They saw it
and
           gave praise!
   
                     A miracle
had taken place,
           hard gold to love,
a mother's milk!
           before
                      their wondering eyes

The ass brayed
          the cattle lowed.
                     It was their nature.

All men by their nature give praise.
           It is all
                     they can do.

The very devils
           by their flight give praise.
                      What is death,
beside this?

           Nothing.  The wise men
                      came with gifts
and bowed down
           to worship
           this perfection.

30-0-30

I wrote this poem for Emica's 30th birthday.  There are so many reference and mystical symbols (as all good poems should be), including the suites of the Tarot deck and references to one of my favorite poets - William Carlos Williams.  There is also a reference to my favorite Waterboy's song as well.  Friends will recognize the reference to 'stars are poured at your feet' -  go Phi Mu!  The poem is like Emica herself: complex, mysterious, joyful and magical.

Thirty, Oh Thirty, yes! Your apprenticeship

is over and you have your journeyman's card.

Grasp the cudgel and fill the cup, celebrate your

mad journey, study the tracks on the ground,

reflect on the sky until you are gobsmacked by it all,

and stars are poured at your feet.

Leave the Sea at last behind you.

(You can return to the water when Summer comes again.) 

Leave it swaying on its stalk and seek out the River. 

Look for the deer's path along the bank -

the deer and wolf's path as well.  Watch the

river follow its destiny,never more or less than

that way between the rock faces ordained .

The sword cuts and the coin buys,

never more than the subject requires. 

Angled in the rocks, the tiny plant survives,

Thrives in spite of every other ray of light and raindrop's course.

Seek out the headland's bluff - purple and in motion

toward the sky.  Your way now is proven

by the marigolds along the way and by

the sense of place you now possess. 

Range far and wide, but always with a compass

in your heart and good shoes on your feet.

Gather up the roses and press them into wine,

make haste down the rabbit hole, wander under the

tree-whispered moonlight, do all these things without

concern for the simple track, the bird or the salamander,

for the cat's breath on your cheek or the rabbit's claw.

You are full formed now: no tail remains, no gills. 

You are in your final state of change and metamorphosis

(as are all things that live). 

Let no ghosts haunt or ambling thoughts resist.

You are thirty now.

For Emica

03/05/2016