Poems new and old
I gave praise
to steel you confidence.
You gave welcome
to feel me love.
Rooster sang crow
to share us morning.
Eugene broke fast
so we'd build house.
Water washed clean
so we felt ourselves.
Earth sprang mountain
to keepsafe sun.
Wood took flame
so we'd have fire.
Wind gave owl wing
and we had night.
There is a lone goose on a vanishing dock. The lakewater is up. The floating dock’s platform is gone from sight but a railing moored to the dock is still above the surface, barely. Like the railing, the goose appears to be standing on water. As the dock dips further the goose has three options: sink, swim, or fly.
Rattle across the water, washboard blues and white streak through the air. Look out minnows! It’s the kingfisher, flying from weeping willow to vanishing dock. It finds purchase on the railing, stuck there like a feathered magnet.
Saturday morning, more rain overnight, the dock is further submerged but inches below the surface the platform still remains. The heron knew it was there, trust in its water landing. In the fog, the heron keeps watch o’er the lake.
The beginning of the end of
The last history. This side
Of a black hole, a big bang, the
Epicenter, the mother lode, the lode star.
A star that leads, especially the
Polestar, the North Star of the Universe,
What is always in the center, 'lode' meaning
'The way,' the journey, the journey star.
From here to there, back from
Where we used to exist, via intergalactic canal,
Rowing upstream, rowing home,
Going back in time, into the place we
Go when we dream, time there
Suspended, fact there garbled and twisted.
It is all very real but also
Very far away, as if
It never even happened.
Mine was a young silence
Hers was an old knock on the door
We had a neon floor
The roof was made of islands
An old stink bug lay on the mantle
Innocuous as risotto,
A thank you note
Time-stamped in the mail
With three green birds
She welcomed me back
To where we were going
Next song, seven flowers
Best seat, eight whales
Why did I even care
About the risotto,
The order of things,
Whether the rice was al dente?
I'd love to get that angst back
I'd love to begin again in an empty dish
As if I could blow into my hand
To remove the nothing
That was already there
Shoehorn, suspenders, aftershave
Wedding in a warehouse
Down Ashland in hermano's Honda
Bumping past taquerías,
Body shops and hair salons
None of which
Dad fails to point out.
The candles yet unlit
While the hail outside
Sounds like the clink
Of clean glasses
At the levee bar. Early
To a wedding, it's
Never been done before.
A pair of headphones
In the street
In the rain
But in the bridal suite
DJ Flowerz is blooming
Like green ivy
Finding
Foothold on the height
Of an unknown building.
Both
Of our parents
Walk her down the aisle.
They do,
Making it official.
She's walking away.
He's dancing after her. No,
Wait—she's still dancing. Soft,
Sly steps. That's
Her move.
The macarena: fadded
Hated
Brought back
Tonight
Hey, it's underrated
Hey, macarena
Take a cab, take a Lyft, take the bus.
You've taken the world
And arranged the perfect salsa.
The late-nite
Snack table
Is now open. Congratulations.
Thank you for everything.
I'm-a let
The slickness
Of the dance floor
Show me which way
Home.
Awake again at an off hour, at
an odd hour, now for several days
on end. Times like 3:13, 3:23, 3:34.
Some combination of threes
after bad dreams.
I'm not going to journal the dreams,
it's stupid stuff, scare tactics
drummed up by me, designed
to rattle me the most. Strangers yelling
through the window. Me fleeing
to the attic above my attic.
My nerves seem to have risen
with the humidity, with the
overnight lows. They are rising
with the river itself.
When it gets like this, the
river cannot drain. It cannot
get downstream fast enough.
So it camps out in the yard or
suns itself in the kitchen sink.
To settle myself
I go to make a drink
but when I reach into the freezer
I find the river lurking there—
vital cubes
of dirty ice.
And then this
A spring, the water
feeding on air
I thought,
Let the world be replenished
But, no, the world
replenishes itself
Loud current, green leaf
The fallen log
be runneth over
until rock:
Nature smoothes its future,
becomes hard as a fossil
in the tumbling flow
We are warned.
A funnel, an umbrella
The reverse of an umbrella
The force washes me now
downriver, everything
important
left behind
and I cannot
go back
to get it
A crowd scared
a racehorse
away from the rail
and into other horses.
In the slop.
The horse still won
but then it lost
on maximum review.
We awoke secure
in a country house
sprawled out
on a bed
of second roses.
I know it knows we are here.
As we talk about the wind it quiets off.
It collects itself in the far corner of the field,
takes a running start, launches at us again.
It seems to want something. I wonder
if it takes as much pleasure in sending a tent
flying as we take in seeing a tent on the move.
It translates a gunshot, it stokes the fire.
It pries metal from the shed,
it pulls the hat from your head.
It opens one door, slams another.
It absconds with the coffee filters.
It leaves dirt on the doorstep,
it tries to speak in the trees.
It takes popcorn from the plate
but doesn’t eat it.
It takes twenty dollars from the ledge
but doesn’t spend them.
It loosens your hair in the air
but it does not love you.
The wind is how hay stretches
It is how rock changes color
It is where the smoke goes
But at dusk
the wind follows the light
over the wide horizon.
We unpack our things
and lay them about
like feathers.
As a fire burns
we listen to
a whip-poor-will
sing into the still air
of the night
as it winnows
its lonesome away.
I realized there was more to Missouri
that summer, working in the middle of the state.
On Fridays I'd take Highway 50 from
Jeff City to Union, through antique towns,
past fields of hip-high grass that hushed
wispy and soft, green-gold in
June and July's late-setting light.
The spell would break hard when
I hit the interstate, leaving only a fleeting
afterimage as I braced for the
reality of lane changes and going
home, to my parents.
One August evening, somewhere west of Rosebud
I drove past a field whose grass was freshly
cut, left to hay in shaggy rolls, two dozen
of them spread out like a herd of bison grazing
quiet in a pasture holding nothing else
but a single sun-soaked tree.
At its far end the field ran up against a treeline,
giving rise to one of Missouri's unsung hills.
Above the hill a hawk tracked higher on
a thermal while cumulus and contrail
slowly absorbed the colors of the sunset.
I was late getting home that night.
When my parents asked me where I'd been I
said nothing, only handed them
this photograph.
JBR.com 