In Staggers Light
A Summary Collection
A Handful
› Published in The Chaffey Review
The garden of hills
The tumbling brook of oceans
The aviary of skies rolling to crescendo . . .
The cacophony of silent days
The seething hum of mute trim thoughts
The spell enchanting, the fires dancing: break it open, crack open the clenched fist to reveal . . .
A handful of fuel called peace ~
Shade Trees
› Published in The Chaffey Review
We have lived, we have died a thousand deaths . . .
We have held the bell up to our ears, heard its five-alarm-clang rattle our nerves, our resolve,
our systemic courage: latent, under-appreciated, but there all along . . .
We have felt the sinking stars explode in a rush, the impact vaporizing arrhythmic hearts . . .
We have draped our dripping coffins in the red, white and blue . . .
We have slept under a bad sign, wrapped in spangled bunting as we prayed to the oaken-heart,
the marble bust, the idol of our fever dreams . . .
We have dreamed those dreams in roaring color, watched it bled to ash by the black and the white . . .
We had forgotten all about the grey; and then—in a head-struck fit—remembered it: all of it . . .
We remembered what it takes, resting beneath the shade-of-trees, calling out to serenity
from beneath the swing cool shade-of-trees . . .
It was there where we were reborn . . .
It was on that very spot where we awoke to a new birth of freedom, where we—once again—
took our very first breath, took deep the on-rush of tranquility . . .
. . . and dropped dead, content ~
If Only
En masse, the bees sing
and the sunflowers roar
In chorus, the wild rose
and the virile vines hit notes that soar
Pitch perfect: the sky-wheeling predator
dives on its unsuspecting prey . . .
We have see this brand of perfection
before . . .
At the moment of creation;
which, of course, is right now
Which, of course, is all of
the days and all of the nights . . .
The ringing thistle
and the ecstatic cry of clover
It all dovetails—succinctly—
with the contents of bothered prayers
Those praying for that which
already lives-and-breathes, and always has . . .
If only they could hear the sunlight sing
and the moonlight roar ~
Fly By
– punctures the holy void
Breath it in deep,
– take it deep
into your lungs
That smell of the spell broken
– the myth dashed
These tumbling hurtling rocks
– blasting away fates
Cruel-dasher of the legendary faiths
– reduced to rubble, dust, silence
A hurtling careening star
– a creative destruction all its own
Soaring across the dim sky
– passing by — gone — finis ~
The Mantlepiece
The quest will find us
rooting around in the dark leaves,
burrowing subterranean channels beneath dirt fountains
in a desperate search for an aimless cluster
of dusted inky globes,
marbled spheres
containing mass
and, perhaps, an iota of wisdom . . .
and we are talking now of that surreptitious subconscious brand,
the kind we could (theoretically) extract, ball up and display on our mantels
alongside the hurricane lamp, the pine bough, the bottled bliss;
its lambent gleam, phosphorescent, would reflect home truths,
would have us—years from now—beaming with pride, a wisp of nostalgia,
as we call up those firm robust days
of rooting and burrowing and searching,
a memory (be we so bold to predict) that would harden our claim
without a hint of doubt, vacillation, or sarcasm,
that those, those were the good days ~
Sea Bottom Blues
Is progress inevitable?
. . . the query hangs in the air as a faint
trace of this present passing before
starstruck eyes, concussed lobes
having zeroed-in on the mallet-brained
tendency to rise up when beaten
down, to get-up-and-go at the starter’s
pistol firing true, indifferent,
frank in its intent, this here a hard
logic demanding that demands be
known: up atop one’s soapbox to take a
stab, to prevail upon wry skeptics (if not the
very validity of a soapbox stance), having
to endure their ruse, their subterfuge,
a cunning sleight-of-hand that has one
feeling out-of-pocket—that tick-twinge
of angst that will rattle an unsteady mind . . .
. . . swaying in the undertow’s surge-and-
suck, the tumult of disquieting queries:
a concussive jumble that settles atop the
churning sand as smooth-rolled rocks
tossed at the waves, seaside ~
Untethered
They all turned out on this day
All of the citizens queuing up along the parade route to cheer
There were ceremonial hurrahs, the lectern pride and flung hats
There was the sparkling spider-light of a fireworks display yet to come
Satisfaction swelled as the sunset bunting fired patriot hearts
The crimped blazing clouds unfurling color-guard hues
It was the passing-of-an-era then fading in the dusk
It was the proudest moment anyone could recall
For all were here to witness, extol upon and revel in a once unimaginable event
To see to the task, the heart-in-throat responsibility they had taken upon themselves
They were here to awaken the sleeping giant: that keeper of hard truths
A feared revered entity they had worked hard to keep under wraps all these years
And here, now, having gathered as one to cut it free from tightly-tended moorings
Untethering the bound cordage by which they had kept it down all these years
And it was done; and it was free to stand of its own accord, to roam per instinct’s whim
All of the citizens, satisfied, self-gratified, stepping back to admire their work
For this had been billed as one of the proudest moments anyone would recall . . .
The firework tentacles and trace hurrahs, all of that faded in the crackle of anticipation
Displaced by nervous grins and a hint of unease then rippling through the throngs
For the giant—flexing a taut uncensored freedom—had begun to talk
And it was unlike what they had heard in the past
It was, in fact, what they had feared: face-to-face with facts long-closeted as a source of dread
Arm-swung tankards were dropped in disbelief to the hard cobbled-stones one-by-one-by-one
The lilt of intoxicated song, the bluster of a joyous din, all of that dissolving like balloon flatulence
For here was the truth escaping, the earth-quaking footfall of tightly-tended myths being obliterated
Here was the reason for the max-tensile-strength cordage, their resolute round-the-clock watch
In their sober haste to face up to the facts, they were left to ask: what have we done?
The once tethered giant now free to go forth and tell it like it is ~
