Brown Mouse and Mr. Ghost

i.
Brown Mouse has lost his tail.
At least I think he had a tail,
a long time ago.
He still has his striped shirt-
half green and yellow stripes,  half red and black -
Like a harlequin
or a gondolier.
On his left ear the little beret has
faded from green to dusty grey.

He almost lost his shirt once.
The back is sewn up with crazy
childish Frankenstein stitches.
The faded label on his bottom
says "MADE IN JAPAN",
When that was a thing.
His head tilts a little to the right but
his eyes still look up into yours.

When he spoke to me, which he did;
in a voice like I am speaking to you now,
it was always wise.  He would be
reasonable when the white rabbit-skin cat
only spoke of love.
He was the clever one;
The practical one;
"Let's get up and ask for a drink."
"Let's run to the edge of the yard
and back."

ii
Mr Ghost looked like the rustling of flags in a breeze.
He was tall, as everyone was in those days.
Mr. Ghost spoke to me of
wild things - things I did not understand.
He spoke of the body.
He spoke of fear and vulnerability.
He stood at my back when I peed
To protect me from the monsters.

Brown Mouse and Mr. Ghost ate
lunches of toasted cheese sandwiches
and tomato soup with me
at the little kitchen table
as hazy smokey sunlight
poured down across the floor.
They watched the news in black and white,
And cartoons on Saturday morning.
They rode in the back seat with me
watching the telephone poles go by.
Counting every pole.

III
Their voices,one by one,
Came inside and joined
The throng of priests and tyrants.
Or were lost therein.
When do the toys of youth
Lose the glamour of speech ?

Echos down an empty hall,
Whispers
then the sound of the candle snuffed.

The Christmas Box

I - Gift shop

Shot glasses, snow globes, tee shirts
All in bright disarray.
Celebrate Cape Breton with candles
Post cards, cup and saucer,
Driftwood sculpture and dolls.
Each bears the tiny label
"Made in China".

Further back, the local artist prints, 
Tartan blankets, dish towels, blown glass,
Pewter mussels, soap and shortbread tins.

A side door.  An office? No.
Dusty windows, faint smell of oil,
Port hole window frames 
lean against the walls
Piled with ship's wheels, sail cloth, buoys.

A wooden table down the middle is piled
With hardware pulled from boats like pirate trophies:
Hand tools, pulleys, signs, door knobs,
Cleats, rails, deck-plates, hooks and eyes.
Copper, steel and bronze.

Amid this seaman's hoard, a box 
the size of a pocket.
Brass like his brothers on the table.
Embossed with a delicate princess in profile
And the year- 1914.

II Little Mary

"I want you now to help me to send a Christmas present 
from the whole of the nation
to every sailor afloat and every soldier at the front. 
I am sure that we should all be happier to feel that we had helped to send 
our little token of love and sympathy on Christmas morning, 
something that would be useful and of permanent value, 
and the making of which  may be the means of providing employment
in trades adversely affected by the war. 
Could there be anything more likely to hearten them 
in their struggle than a present received 
straight from home on Christmas Day?"

Little Mary, blithe teenager, wanted to help.
Princess Royal, ready to spend her allowance
for the good of the nation.
How many now at the front? 

Tobacco, cigarettes, candy or spices.
Our friends – France, Russia, Belgium
Servia, Japan, Little Montenegro.
And, of course, Imperium Britannicum.
Christmas greetings from the King and Queen.
Portrait of Princess Mary. Dressed in white, she  looks over her shoulder.

III Empire and Commonwealth

Empire and Commonwealth.
How came this box to Cape Breton?

Soldier in the muddy trench hears 
Football in the no man's land on Christmas Day.
The Welch singing carols across lines.
Did he tuck it in his blouse to keep his tobacco dry?

Or sailor in the great iron heart
Plunging through the sea,
Did he think of breakers on the shores of Cape Breton 
and the lonely Highlands above the cliffs?

"This will be a good thing to remember by, 
when this war is forgotten.”
Puts it up in iron ribs 
above the tool bench - 
For safekeeping.

IV Current contents

One penny – 1918
Georgivs Dei Gra. Brit.Omn:Rex Fid.Def.Ind.Imp

It is said when Russia exiles came to England, they wept when they met His Majesty.
Such was the likeness of these cousins – George and Nicky.

Britannia holds her trident and shield, 
looks to the sea.
Her dominions at her feet.

20 Cents 1919
Regno Italia
War upon war.
The armistice bred revolution, civil war,
Blackshirts in the making.
El Duce considers socialism
but he is drawn to the drama of the right.
Seeds scattered in the trench mud.


Fünf und zehn pfennig, 1912 and 1914.
Worthless in a decade, but for now tobacco und ein bier.
The eagle spreads his wings , Deutches Reich
The crown floats overhead.
Als eine sind wir stark.

Dark round copper
2 Kopecks 1912
The double eagle screams and screams.
For Czar and country, they ran across the open fields.
Exultant, right up to the moment 
when the German machine guns opened up.
Felled like winter wheat.

And the last, the very last.
Metal disk, two holes: one for him 
and one for his country.

ORIN H. LOVELY  PVT.  U.S.A.
2785618.
The wide potato fields between the forest edges, 
of the Cascades hulking in the sky, 
which did he miss more?

The rusted helmet hung in the woodshed gloom.
High up on a nail.
When they left the farm, 
I gathered it up and took it home.
My own war trophy.

The dent in the front?
„He got that pulling a buddy back into a trench.“ the story went.

Maybe.
He survived, anyway.  
Came home.
Bought a farm. 
Got married. 
Raised a family.

Did he ever remember the white flares over no man's land?
Was his sleep disturbed by the chugging of machine gun 
or  thump of Thor's hammer as the artillery walked into their trenches?

V
Somewhere the wind blows across the lea and the flowers move.
The dark sea rises and falls upon itself, one wave and many.
The rain drips from the evergreens and the streams gurgle in the moss.

As it always has.

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

 

Dying Mantis

The bright green armor of the thorax
Is mottled now and autumnal,
The eyes, like pools of ink,
grow dim.
That quick inquisitive look about
is hardly present,
Your head dips and exhausted body splays.
Only the once strong front legs,
Lined with tibial spines like a gladiator’s,
Still grope tentatively and reach out to the branch.

Gone now are the days when you devoured your mates,
When you hunted the spider with impunity and
All lesser creatures cowered before your majesty.
Head cocked, eyes bright, your raptorial legs cocked in prayer,
Ready to snatch your prey and draw it to your waiting mandibles,
Unrelenting devourer of the still living.

The arc of life is short and painted in a season.
I look in your eyes and see my own demise,
See time take power and purpose from us both.
Gone now into the ground of the lost past,
Sweet dreams of passion at the edge of the field,
Surfeit of pleasures now dusty with memory,
Youth behind and the abyss before.

There is no tenderness in this season for either of us,
Little solace in the children we have borne, or
The food we have consumed or bonds we made.
The arc closes and dusk comes in
When the air clicks with the promise of frost
And the end of Summer days.

September 24, 2016

Image Source 

Nature, by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

As a fond mother, when the day is o’er,

Leads by the hand her little child to bed,

Half willing, half reluctant to be led,

And leave his broken playthings on the floor,

Still gazing at them through the open door,

Nor wholly reassured and comforted

By promises of others in their stead,

Which, though more splendid, may not please him more;

So nature deals with us, and takes away

Our playthings one by one, and by the hand

Leads us to rest so gently, that we go

Scarce knowing if we wish to go or stay,

Being too full of sleep to understand

How far the unknown transcends the what we know.

                               

Image Source

The Donkey’s Foot Is Sure Along the Path

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" 
No prayer - yet. 

There will be many days and nights to offer prayer.  

No, no prayer.  A shout of anger and frustration 

Barked up to an indifferent world.

Shame and fear, a calmer voice,

“Is there a chance they could have made a misdiagnosis?” 

None and now, 

Blood, 

Chaotic and lost, turns on itself 

And consumes the host.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Jesus Sweet Christ.  

Where is that muscular savior, 

That laughing God son?  

He has gone to the field with his disciples and 

I can see him at the crest of the hill, 

Boldly swinging his scythe.  

Bless this harvest.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  

Where is that rustling warmth?

Where are the delicate hands
Running through my hair, 

Drawing my throbbing head to rest

On the breasts that fed a child God?  

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  

There she sits in high crowned glory,

Robed in the sky, 

Her eyes glittering and indifferent.

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.  

So here we are 

Left with little Joseph.  

Patient as bees, 

Slowly he  draws the blade 

Along the beam edge 

To erase the last imperfection.  

He hears the crowd outside 

Swept along its way to Jerusalem and
He returns to his tools. 

Jesus, Mary and Joseph.

Joseph leads the donkey along the path, 

Unburdened now – no mother, no king.  

And I follow.

The donkey’s foot is sure along the path 

But so close to the cliff edge 

I can hear breezes lift

With the heat to move my hair.  

They whisper how easily the sparrows rise 

On their wings, how easy is the flight 

Across the river.  But if I gaze over the edge 

The rocky bed is very far below 

And the water is black with the dead. 

Image Source