An Unsentimental Sentinel
For vigilance that no one can surpass,
No guarantee I make to you, alas,
Yet I can promise still, for what it’s worth,
No danger to one who has left this earth,
So if you want protection from some dread
Predation, fine! (As long as you are dead.)
For if you want this cat to feel at home
As guardian, put me in a cat-acomb.
Old Hands
Been out in weeds, in the way-back forty,
Tumbling along by the dry mesquite,
Rambling and ambling the afternoon by
With nary a stop to rest or eat
This is the way the daytime passes,
Angus at left, longhorns to the right,
A couple of dogs at our heels to steer them
Until we whistle them in at night
Some things change on the range with passing
Time and tide and the phase of moon,
With years and advances and techno-wonders,
But none of this here’s like to change so soon,
And why should it do? We still will mosey
And saunter our way through the rolling plain
As long as the longhorns and the Angus
And we need to too, we’ll all remain
Clouds have long inspired a lot of fantasy, and though I’ve enjoyed many a day of lying around imagining what I saw in the clouds–creatures and inventions of all sorts–I’m quite certain I’m far from alone in entertaining myself with this pastime. A frequent identification of clouds by a great many of us aficionados, too, is the spotting of sheep among them. Whitish, puffy and fluffy, sometimes seen in herd-like groups and sometimes seeming to wander aimlessly, clouds and sheep both inspire a bit of dreamy invention in me.
Contemplating the possible relationships between them is just as delightful to me as noticing their simple visual resemblance. My current dream is that once-upon-a-time, there was a gentle old wizard meditating in a meadow, and he found that despite his lovely surroundings and his peaceable and contemplative nature he couldn’t quite get to the point of having the restful nap he so desired. Couldn’t, that is, until he conjured some of the nearby sheep to float around him like sweet woolly zeppelins, whereupon he closed his eyes in quiet ecstasy and drifted off himself into ethereal sleep.
Silly, I know (and potentially having some logistical issues attached), but I find the image somewhat comfy myself. Since it’s nearing 3 a.m. as I write this, I do believe it’s a fine time to test whether simply savoring the image might not get me appropriately sleepy. I’ll get back to you on that. Eventually. Though I might be just a little woolly-headed on my return.
Animal Crossings
I know not what the relevance
Of tortoises and elephants
And tapirs, panthers, malamutes
And goats in my dreams constitutes—
I only know that when I sleep,
This is the zoo I tend to keep,
And if it lends to such pursuits,
It may include a thousand sheep.
On a cool dark Sunday at dusk, there is time to perambulate the park with a scarf pulled loosely up to cup her ears. The streetlights fizzing on with their dismal orange hum remind her of insects that’ve lived past the end of their season solely by having forgotten to die. The grass turns black as the light falls; its damp makes her stockings wet and makes her aware, as well, of the earthy smell of the grass, the leaves, the soil and even the smoke of someone’s fireplace quite nearby. The walk, though short and brisk and only comprising a modest loop around the park to curl back home, is best because it took her out, away and into something else, so that the return is all the sweeter, landing her at last on the entry rug of familiarity, spun in the soft cocoon of fumes that reach her from the soup kettle waiting, steaming on the stove across the hall.
Masked Olivia
The sleeping lady whose closed eyes
Conceal the wisdom of the wise
Contain the laughter children know
And barricade a world below
Keeps in closed eyelids cool release
And in her heart a realm of peace
People have always remarked on the elegance of my carriage . . .
Road Tripping
On Friday I will hit the road by after-office evening light,
Hit it so hard it’ll snap up and roll like it’s a window shade,
Because a Friday evening is the sort of thing a road is made
For best—what else can put me in a frame of mind so near to right?—
And Saturday will likely see me tearing up the countryside
At speed, pretending I’ve no brakes except to let coyotes dash
Across (or ease me through the turns so I continue not to crash,
But rather, feel that sideways pull, the curve that makes my world so wide)—
And Sunday I’m still flying fast, and though turned homeward, yet a streak,
Because I must keep breathless joy searing my lungs, tearing my eyes,
Crowning my windy hair as though I’d won the biggest ever prize,
Since all this traveling is what will pull me through another week
. . . but what I had in mind was always a hot set of wheels . . .
We two, when we were very small,
Walked hand in hand down avenues
Studded with poplars and long views
Of granite pavement, pale and tall
Sun-sprinkled shops, apartments set
Above them on whose balconies
Perched men like birds among the trees,
Eyeing our youth with vague regret—
How could we know, young as we were,
The brevity of these our strolls,
How every hour more swiftly tolls
Than the preceding? To be sure,
The marvel of our living lies
In sensing little of the thought
That what short summertime we’ve got
Measures in spans like butterflies’,
And realizing late in age
On balconies, as children pass,
Our tenure’s brief as leaves, as grass,
As words washed from the novel’s page
By tears dropped silently, this truth
Too hard to tell to little ones
Passing in hand-held joy, the sun’s
Brief rays alighting on their youth.
To my beloved youngest sister on her birthday:
Taking life from the real to the magical and from drabness to brilliance, luminosity is the agent of glorious change. Little Sister is such an agent in many lives as well, bringing beauty and joy to us solely by existing, let alone having the sweetness and humor and wisdom that fill her with the warm inner light I so treasure. Simply, my world would be far smaller and more limited to the dull version of reality if it weren’t for the presence of her gracious illumination!
With that in mind, here is a series of illustrations of that progression of luminosity to celebrate the gifts of sisterly love.
Parting Gift
No leaf is greener than the rising blade
Of grass over the grave where I am laid
I, who in life was fitted in this wise:
So full of $h!t as born to fertilize–
Useless in life, perhaps, but still of worth
In death, as food to feed a hungry earth;
Now blooms adorn my plot in dazzling wave,
Rejoicing in the cr@p that fills my grave–
Howe’er a rotter I, when breathing air,
At last as corpse I do my earthly share,
Delighting all the butterflies and birds
With brilliant lilies compost-fed by tu®d$–
Yea, e’en this sewage soul is heaven-sent:
Earth’s beauty’s nourished well by èxcrémênt.
I named the date
I stated my case
I sprinkled falsehoods
All over the place—
I tried to be honest
I tried to be true
But the actual facts
Never do, never do—
I told them whoppers
I gave them chase
But the truth is plain
As the nose on my face—
I just couldn’t help it
I let myself go
Let my epitaph read: Here
Lies Pinocchio
Art-Colored Glasses 