Daily Archives: April 23, 2021

PALE BLUE PUDDLES

The little dog is gone, the little dog is gone,
and all that remains of him is the memory
of a coat of moss-green, with a few leaves,
and the little stump of a tail.

But the dog was there upon one sun’s first rays kissing hills,
and send the ripples of their rays through the pale blue puddles.

They are nocturnal folk, and they live, and have their days in the
dark and their nights In the dark.

But I know not who they are, Nor where they live, nor what they do,
Nor where they come from, nor where they go.

But I know the wind With one another, out of doors, In the shade of the trees.
Their fires, like those of men, Are small and swift and soon are cold;
And when the evening is gone And the night-shadows are upon them,
They light their fires again, And sleep by day, and by night and when the
day is gone And the night-shadows are upon them, They light their fires
again, and sleep by day, and by night.

They are like men in the winter when they have their feet bare, and
the snow is deep, And their hats and their coats are all but mended,
And their boots have holes in them. And they walk with their heads bent,
And look about them like so many old men, And speak to each other in whispers.
They are like men in the winter When they have their feet bare, and the snow is deep,

And their hats and their coats are all but mended, And their boots have holes in them.
And they walk with their heads bent And speak to each Sleep by day and by night.

The nightingales are still sleeping, And all the silent crickets and frogs are
out in the garden at the dusk’s last.

The owl is dreaming by the brook And the field-mice on the farm are fast asleep
in the wall.

The moon is a light, fair-shining stone That hangs in the dark hollow That glows when the stars have fled. And I know that the silent people Who live in that lonely house
Are wondering and wondering what I am doing in the twilighT. In the dusk’s long dark.

I am sitting alone in the dark, And I am thinking that I am The child of that land that is gone, That has vanished many a summer ago, And left no trace but the cellar walls,
And a cellar in which the daylight falls, And the purple-stemmed wild raspberries grow.

O’er ruined fences the grape-vines shield The woods come back to the mowing field;
The orchard tree has grown one copse Of new wood and old where the woodpecker chops;
The footpath down to the well is healed. I dwell with a strangely aching heart In that vanished abode there far apart On that disused and forgotten road that has no dust-bath now for the toad.

Night comes; the black bats tumble and dart; the whippoorwill is coming to shout and hush and cluck and flutter about:

I hear him begin far enough away full many a time to say his say before he arrives to say it out.

It is under the small, dim, summer star.

I know not who these mute folk are who share the unlit place with me– those stones out under the low-limbed tree.

Doubtless bear names that the mosses mar.

They are tireless folk, but slow and sad,

Though two, close-keeping, are lass and lad,– with none among them that ever sings,
and yet, in view of how many things, as sweet companions as might be had.

The sun’s first rays kiss the hill, and send the ripples of their rays through
the pale blue puddles.

They are nocturnal folk, and they live, with one another, out of doors.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


THE SILVER AXE

He wondered with horror how so many memories, so many forms to be branded on his skin and engrave there.

Then the wet rattle of a twisted throat, and he beats his last breath to his knees, gazed on from above as the wheezing thing sagged, and began on his shoes.

One God looked in that one eye of him, took in the whole writhing weight of him, and, from the spine of that beast, blew the darkness that will not let me alone!

It is yet again where we find the Poet’s Muse. Her eyes are green, and they pierce backward and forward even into his head and his heart, his brain and his soul.

I have been chained to this post for six months and now I am to be hanged, it’s a winter morning, half-light.

The axe’s face is pale; its teeth are ready to cut; the poet stands slack-jawed; and waits with a satisfied grimace.

She smiles with blind malignity; I am hanging here, she begins, and her voice gears in his head, makes him mad with every anger and whimpers sound with a silver-sparkle, It is another wish shattered, this one made to whittle the Golden Ace’s life down to a ring so narrow and brutish and pale and inhuman.

The writer cannot see her but his ears are mad With unspoken sounds.

She has left dark-green circles.

He had tried to fill them with wonder and beauty; she: they’re her, only more so, every blot and abrasion cunningly and by dark cunning by her own hand, ever more revolting; why the hell did you bring that creature with you?

There is nothing for you to do, (the axe growls). You cannot even reach me.

I told you that I wanted the axe.

Then are you sure you’re not just nervous?

I am telling you nothing.

The truth is harsh.

This is not true.

Well then stop worrying.

I am telling you nothing!

The Poet looks up in alarm.

The axe comes down, it makes a hideous, brassy sound.

And it is still: I am telling you nothing!

Her face is as white as that of the blade.

He is sweating.

I do not want the axe, he says finally.

I am coming down!

A chuckle.

The axe’s blade is laughing.

The Poet spins in place, does a somersault, lands on his feet.

He moves fast.

At the touch of his right foot he has snatched up and spun into the air, caught, dangled over a canyon by the thin tip of his finger.

There is a rattle in his head.

Okay, okay, he whispers, I am coming down.

He lands and slumps, panting.

His face is flushing red, his hair disheveled.

He grins through the tears running down his face.

Just me, he tells the axe.

You are alone in this awful place with all the stupid, insane weirdoes.

Where is the fun in that?

This place is for people like you, not me.

He is in a mood.

The axe slashes through the air, a silver blur.

The Poet leaps into its path, somehow knowing, somehow having seen what it will do before it happens.

He leaps back and the axe cleaves the air, then comes down to strike his left foot, where it clatters on the ground with a dull clatter.

He starts to bend over to pick it up, but the axe’s weight is too much for him.

He stumbles to one knee and falls to his left side.

The axe rests, not quite pointed at him, but ready, at his right leg and stares at it, mouth slightly ajar.

The blade is warm against his right leg, the handle warm against his cheek.

He gets himself up, he bends over, picks up the axe.

He kicks his right leg up, the axe goes flying past his body as if to his left, and he stretches his left leg out to catch it.

He pulls himself to his feet and does not bother with the blade and bends down to retrieve it, and reaches, but there is nothing there.

The edge is dull. Within his mind and he frowns, picks it up, holds it up in front of him, glances behind him.

The axe is nowhere to be found. But it is mentally within his hand.

He looks at the blue-gray sky, frowns, turns to walk along the canyon wall, head down, watching for the axe.

He waits.

The axe sits on his shoulder, blades jutting up into his neck or so it feels.

Yes! he thinks.

The axe.

It is not true.

He is all alone in the world.

And an old man.

What do you expect him to do?

He thinks about the little old lady he saw in town today, and starts to weep.

:: 04.23.2021 ::


THE VORTEX OF LIFE

AND what is a friendship without warm feelings and devotion?
As those who go to and fro from bed to work without
a gentle smile or hello!
I would share a drink with you but first i must be sure
the label is not high alcohol but a label that reads either:
“life,” or “death.”
As the sun dips behind Mother Earth we eat and clean ourselves
then ready for bed. We read, watch something on the magic box
called television or stare at the walls. Some dream, some smoke,
some drink, some fight. Who is mad? All of us! Call it what you like
but the moral of that is — ‘Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love, that makes
the world goes round!’

Our human intentions only make matters worse!

Then the turtle spoke: “Those lovers we read about: to all the characters
drawing in colourful lines… you keep emotions at an anchor deep inside so
you can move far above the bubbles’ tricks — but the people swimming in
fish-glasses are freaked out. So many lives spilled, even all living simple
souls, cannot sustain the waters of love.

:: 04.22.2021 ::