Long Rafts Poems
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Long after first light
night yet clings to the slick highway.
Lungs steer the wheel;
breathe out and the wave-riding shocks
follows their beamed lights,
the road adjusts to unseen rapids,
curves around blacked-out river bends.
Breathe in, and eyes shutter out,
yet what was seen sails on.
I am scaffolding for water,
knowing this I have faith in
in the flow, the roads ability
to avoid Niagara or deluged rest stops,
the low flying raids of sky-drenched winds.
Mind rides its rafts, skims undercurrents
weaves in and out of dreaming sailors,
the drunk rocking of back axles
as they negotiate one Rubicon
after another.
Night parts its dim waves,
runs downhill into landscapes,
structures rebuilt only moments ago.
It might be raining, or it might be
spume and spindrift,
intermittent splashes of shorelines
just beyond the off-ramps.
And I remember the rain before it ever started—
the smell of asphalt humming like old vinyl static under my ribs.
You were talking about birds, maybe,
or death, or the last time your mother called, and
I wasn’t listening,
because I was thinking about a dream
where the walls kept pulsing like lungs
and my teeth floated away on tiny rafts
made of gum wrappers and apologies.
And I thought:
How did we get so tired
without ever running?
There’s a window I keep forgetting to close,
and a silence shaped exactly like your absence
folded into the corners of this room,
like the way a spider folds its legs in when it dies—
which is not a metaphor,
but maybe it is.
Everything becomes a metaphor eventually:
grief,
joy,
you.
And I keep writing you in lowercase,
because capitals feel too loud for something
I only whisper in the dark—
something like: stay,
something like: I was never good at doors,
or goodbyes,
or staying still long enough to hear the echo.
The clock has no hands tonight,
and time tastes like metal in my mouth.
The moon keeps peeking like a guilty lover,
and I say: I know.
And I say: It’s okay.
But I don’t know.
And it’s not.
I keep a notebook on the nightstand,
pencil at hand – life-rafts for thoughts.
A flock of dream-crows take off all at once,
the clatter of their wings
a whole symphony played in just one moment.
Grandmother would speak in her Highland tongue;
sounds lyrical and melodic. As a child
I just listened not deciphering or even thinking,
absorbing only the sounds of her rhythmic brogue,
her Celtic chimes.
Mozart leaps up from a nocturnal reverie
stumbles around lighting candles,
lays his sleepy forehead on a keyboard
endeavors to recall a certain harmonic
overheard as the trills of Pipistrelle bats.
When my head swings from the pillow
I cannot find the pencil.
Mind mutely watches a cappella words
wander away from their musical roots,
silence falls out of nowhere into nowhere.
A cruel Jack Frost blows icy floss
(in front of spring a’ burstin’)
while shiftin’ sheaves of withered leaves
near freezin’ streams a’ thirstin’.
A pack reviled runs roamin’ wild,
the alpha wolf wakes howlin’
then scents a lean and lonesome scene
while on the lurk a’ prowlin’.
A cloud revolts with spangled bolts,
and starry skies start closin’
as wild geese soar beyond death’s door
neath naked moon a’ posin’.
Electric shafts, like fractured rafts,
sail night’s cathedral caldrons –
their cracking curse makes herds disperse
in random splayed and sprawled runs.
A she-wolf sighs with hungry eyes;
the ancient wolf waits, bayin’ -
with weary back, he’s lost the track,
his bandied legs betrayin’.
The brood’s somewhere in shrouded lair
with mama left to mind ’em -
the wolf, a’ drag with empty swag,
is on his way to find ’em.
The pack rejoins with weary loins -
perhaps its days are numbered.
In evening’s night, he’s feeling tight,
with aches and pains encumbered.
As morning nears, with shaggy ears
(one droopin’ down, hung over)
he’ll set the course with renewed force,
for, yes, he’s still the rover.
When snow enshrines the timberlines
and skies are ripped asunder
though young, lupine, they’ll stifle whines,
as gullies fill with thunder;
mid echoes in the mouth o’ death,
they bid farewell the lair
while panting puffs o’ crystal breath
float, hanging in the air.
Their path is black (they can’t look back
for herds long gone a’ missin’)
as dusk profanes the snow-bound plains
the sinkin’ sun was kissin’.
Neath northern lights, with barks and bites,
he keeps ’em all in motion –
the speckled scars of fallin’ stars
display the night’s devotion.
The sky’s a’ blushin’ in the east,
and hollow wind’s are sighin’
while buzzards freeze in gallows trees,
a’ roostin’, rapt and eyein’.
These ghouls of prey, they’re spooked away,
like tumbleweeds a’ blowin’,
by tilted head, white fangs tipped red,
and warnin’ wail’s a’ growin’.
...... Continued in part 2 ......
We dwelt together,
one hand on a door handle.
Keeping rooms --- a semi-settled living,
parents still squatting in our heads,
rent due spaces,
red buses passing below or above,
according to what level we rose to.
Domestic wreckage evacuated,
a small venerable van stuffed to the gills,
and we with our books
bundled up in raffia rafts,
cats tucked under shawls or coats,
escaping loudly on red bumpy buses.
It is the little things that haunt:
a florescent green plastic handbag,
maroon stockings
draped over a lava lamp,
fluffy toy animals
scented with relationships.
Shades of lipstick on a cracked mirror
unwashed rugby shirts,
the soft tang of old spice aftershave,
vinyl albums revolving in our heads.
I recall it all ---- but no,
not wanting to dwell again with the young,
but to follow the routes of London buses
to past, departures and destinations,
to enter again
those rooms for penniless delinquents,
just to tidy up a little, and perhaps
close drawers and doors left open.
It was thought the young whale was pregnant
confused as she was and out of her depth.
They waded into the river to help,
floated rubber rafts to buoy her up.
Marine experts posited ways
to keep her breathing in shallow waters.
In dockyard pubs
hard men openly spoke of her plight,
voices low and humorless
as they test-drove new technical jargon.
When she died;
rolling in the pebbly shallows
we threw a tarpaulin over her
as if she were a human cadaver.
We had televised everything,
implemented elaborate plans,
recorded last moments with ripples of hope.
Later we watched the sluggish waves
wash away her long drowning.
~~~~~
https://www.ctvnews.ca/world/young-whale-trapped-in-london-s-river-thames-euthanized-1.5421060
As I walked over to my bed,
Completely drained and unable to do
Anything else other than dive
Into the pool of unconsciousness
I saw, coming towards me,
A man, seated upon a raft!
He rowed slowly and in a relaxed manner,
Coming towards me
As one well aware of where he is headed to!
As he neared, I noticed that his face could not
Be discerned, since he wore his hat low on his forehead
But I could see, near his feet, a singing bowl!
He came next to me and waved over to me
To direct me to get on his raft!
I did so, without thinking twice
And off we went into the sea of existence;
Him sure of where he is going to,
While I, in total confusion about my destination
But, so totally content,
In that man's company for, he radiated with
Pure and divine energy!
As he went along, he never spoke
But stopped the raft to play his singing bowl
Which sent vibes so powerful to me
That I felt myself lifted up in my mental cosmos
And could no more feel my body!
As I opened up my eyes to the dawn that
Offered itself to me,
I could not help but smile,
At this great gift called life, which some sort
Of unexplained power has deemed me worthy of
And I promised to myself to imbibe others with its awareness
So that they make the most of their gift
As they shall never be given another same one
To use as foundation ground to reach the stairs leading to where
Rafts can float in nothingness!
Give them clear mountain lakes,
And kid-friendly swimming holes,
Rafts, rowboats, and canoes;
Dads and sons with fishing poles.
Give them clear night skies,
Filled with just enough moonlight
To find shadowy paths--
Navigating by starlight.
Give them old patch jackets
To remind them of their tales:
Camporees, jamborees,
And famous historic trails
Give them some traditions
From American folklore;
Ashes saved from campfires,
To teach them who went before.
Give them Boy Scout handbooks,
Lengths of rope with knots to tie,
Multi-tool pocket knives,
And young Scouts wanting to try.
Give them trails to follow,
Maps and compasses to read.
Stories around a fire,
Patrols of Boy Scouts to lead.
All Scouts want is just a chance
To watch wildlife and touch native plants,
Go snipe hunting and backpacking,
And earn merit badges for everything.
All Scouts want is just somewhere
To swim and hike and breathe fresh air,
And to cook and laugh around a campfire.
There’s just not much more for a Scout to desire.
Smith’s Octopuses Party On Pontoons
Rumor Has It My Dear
Rumor has it my dear something spectacular is near
Bring your batik hats to our grand lavish scene
Wear flowing Kebeya robes
Let them flow in the air
We’re having our party upon the ocean
On pontoons made of bamboo notions
Flown in from Indonesia with crews
Planks will connect all the segments
Chris Christie will help with construction
Bridging rafts with bamboo shoots & roots
(We understand he understands bridges)
Yachts will punctuate the festivities
Covered in purple red flowers with care
Tied to the floating swaying affair
McCartney and Sting will be there
Octopuses Garden is the theme
And Paul will bring Ringo to sing
The Clinton's and Bushes are on the list
Paparazzi will see if they kiss or do tricks
And who can resist our guests of honor
Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt
The main menu is set like this;
Foie gras loco moco carne
Matusaka beef
Pheasant/Mallard breast roast
Beluga Sevruga, Osetra caviar
Goût de Diamants, Taste of Diamonds champagne
Haute chocolate ice cream
This all seems like a dream
We pray that the weather holds up
The only waves we wish to see is from us
In the form of greetings and pleasantries
The party has been planned for ages
If storms should gather
It won’t really matter
We’re thankful
The Royals, Mr.& Mrs. Smith are here
To weigh down pontoons and rafts
With billions in sacks of gold trinkets
Door prizes for sure, (sorry no doors), for those who attend
500 guests will arrive at the gala
A date with Mick Jagger and two jaguars
Assured for each person as gifts guaranteed
Compliments of King & Queen Smith
Whose parties should never be missed
A mystery guest, no surprise
A legend in his own mind
Mr. Trump and his hair might arrive
Since the pope is preoccupied
We’ll sway to the music with fine company
All are welcome to our heavenly scene
At the octopuses party on the sea
7/11/14 Rumor Has It contest
Winds bell-ring the tulips.
Racoons hang lazily from eaves
watching the watched.
Barns are bent into rafts of moss,
an age shedding green
gathered by crow-footed wanderers.
All is a montage of one single facet
of day-sprung now.
Meadowlarks slip through their own songs
I unlimber my gray sticks
and stride,
my piecemeal mind mended and alight
with a bright-eyed flowering.
Spring clambers over my bones
to chase the wagging tails of
barking dogs,
sunshine gallops along a paddock fence
casting a mirage of painted flickers.
Hard to be anything less
then my best idea this day.
I search for a notion, a reason, a why,
only to be scooped-up
by a flock of fleet sparrows,
their small brown wings going nowhere,
yet all of us flying inside a sky-lifting joy.