The Laughing Sky

Grifas

II. Darkness Without Snakes

Acorns

At night she came,
danced near the window and beckoned,
closer still than she is in all
her silent cycles through darkness.
And I awoke not,
but I dreamed--
she disclosed my protector
and my final thought.

My ears like the wind turned in
upon eaves heard
the whisper of the singing hand
like shovels in the earth
digging holes to sow so
that I may reap the third harvest
after this:
One for each of her faces,
her moods,
her many-colored self
among the trees and groves,
standing old long before
the king had his day.

I must listen to the hands at night.
I must eat of the old stars.
I must wear my shoes in twos.
I must follow the acorns

anon.

Song of the City

All these buildings,
all this time
caught up in granite and steel
like wings caged before they can spread;
the quiet puff of daffodils unbloomed.
This real future of wet streets and endless lights
bent backwards
to touch each other where we hurt most.

When will the sadness end?
When will the cool dismay of desire
echo away in the past and leave us
to fend for ourselves?

After all the dreams have been built or trapped,
who will there be left to enjoy them?
What heartless wonder with no eyes will witness
the beauty of our time?
For the image of the world is this, my friend:
A great wheel turning endlessly
with no direction no center no form,
held tethered by the bodies of the faithful;
the empty words of leaders with fire
in their eyes, a dying ember of twice forgotten things
that know not how to pray or offer
obedience.

This is the image of the world, old man.
I give it now to you for it is
all we have left to hold us together.

Dogs' Teeth

We keep sharp thing around us
like dogs' teeth set in firm jaws
and minds of their own.

We keep prisoners in the silence
they have found as refuge from the world
and the sanity they betray.

We keep deep, dark lands no more,
fearing that over which we do not dominate.
So saying, we face grim death

with every slow, thoughtful breath
we take.

Sundogs

With a harsh moon giving way to the sun
the sundogs glowed like prismed fires above;
the feral ones charged and moved silently into buildings
that swallowed the sun from the clouds and the clouds
from the rain to the gutter to the sewers to the oceans,
it all runs downhill to the end and the end
is near the start where we all were submerged.

Amid this, I rose, felt hand on forehead,
gazed long hard high at the sky and wondered and moved,
silently whispered to ears I could not see.
I rose and followed--the sundogs between the buildings
hidden beneath sirens and wails and footsteps and horns.
I rose and was told:

"The hermit is dead in his cave.
It came upon the dark wing of night and roused him
with the glass sword.
Forget what the hermit told you in dreams:
You must see for yourself in cold remembrance.
Tell the lady in the tower I called for you--
she knows the snake handler has gone away
beneath the horizon.
She will let you in and show you her light."

The feral ones still charged,
clinging to their wallets as talismans
to ward off presumed evil
if evil cared about such things.

But I rose and retrieved my shoes,
watched a thick shadow pass
over the sundogs. The feral ones
assumed it was a cloud; a plane.

Song of the Street

My man, my man,
we've been down this road before.
Seen those stoplights swinging,
heard that creak of streetsigns in the wind.
We've seen all these ghosts
huddled at storefront windows
gazing at things they cannot afford.
We've watched the dead leaves
roll out of town, down by the river.

These tracks, they ain't nothing new--
we've seen them gleam in the sunlight,
laid pennies on that sheen and waited.
And how many times have we walked,
backs into the wind to keep the dust
from our eyes, planning some revenge
or simply talking talking, but never
making a point?

We ain't old yet, but we've done all
this before--my footprint's
still in that slab of sidewalk.
And how many people have said
they're gonna cross that river,
never to look back?

You and me, my man,
and we're still here.

Strange Plantation

When the crow circled back and cut
its beak on the wind it saw
the plain reflection of life in its cold iris.
I followed the eye out of town
beyond the pale meaningless streets and huddled buildings;
beyond the cold damp gutters and rushing sewers;
beyond the unspoken covered with litter.

Strange plantation by midnight,
voices running through the trees
mingling love loss labor rebirth
regurgitation.
All this agitation, where is it
getting us?
Angry lions of stone don't feed;
they don't bleed either.

At the back of light, on the dusk of a new day,
I fell to my knees and softly prayed:

"The glass and bubbles;
the dust and the moonshine;
the cold hard walk of the damned--
Oh, God, there's nothing left,
nothing firm and mighty and strident
worth fighting for in the world.
All we are is all
we have been never
to repeat again.

"No more silent prayers for the dead;
no barrows hold my relatives' bones.
I have forgotten the sound of chants;
have realized no more ashes, no more dust,
no more stony, silent abbeys.

"Where has time gone?
Have we gone so far too late no return?
All I ask is a small amount of awe
of wonderment--
a pause in the wrinkle to measure
to recall to be proud.

"Many an illustrious history and mystery--
is our claim merely to watch, ignorant
of emotion as out history crumbles
to our feet over the steps
we climb?

Oh, God, there is nothing left."

An orchid bloomed
on the day we were wed.

Abandoned in Spirals

What soft music ceases now,
falls softly from petals of snow
like drifted wind?

Whence came all this noise,
all this clatter and bang to own
in a quiet still universe
spinning out further than we'll ever
see?

When the rainbow lost its fire
and the colors dribbled slowly
down the sky
so the raven could meet it and die,
where were you then,
when I needed you most?

Abandoned?
In my mind?
My eyes?
My lips that have
never known the soft remembrance
of your mouth on mine?

All this time--
these days stretched like pearls
on a necklace I made for you--
yet I have nothing to know for it.
No sparkling memories or charged dreams,
only this quiet,
this enduring sense of space
like the black spiral of the universe
that coils me
still further from you.

But I can taste the sunrise;
see music hanging in the air--
that must mean something.

If not a queen, then what?
What whispered sinister title
shall I give to you?
A pelican knows fish,
but I know you;
your moods:
You can only twist so far
before you will break.

And when the pieces shatter
and the old boots of humanity grind
them to dust,
who will come crawling from the woodwork
to find you and return
you to your glory?

Who will be there
to repaint the rainbow?

Answer me that and we shall go,
hand in hand, soft blossom to petal,
you and I through this sadness
we call life.

Until then I must see realism
from my pillow, for this future--
this colorless day called forever--
stretches on too far for my fingers
to snatch.

I'll beg you again tomorrow,
but you will come to me
in your own time.

For now,
the soft music and your smile.

Song of the Moon

That she bends Time to her will
is no disguise
for when she moves, Time stops cold.

I have seen eyes as deep as hers
only in dreams where lavender tucks the corners
of a soft mattress back for movement.

She is the purity and beauty of a starry sky
blessed with a wisdom that reaches
further back than ever
Mankind could hope to witness.

She came to me once,
drifting on a curtain of air;
to see her cheeks smile like that;
her smooth dark skin
and many-colored raiment of white.

The delicate way her fingers held me;
her substance moved; her soul
burdened the weight of all she cried for.

Something stirred.
Some delicate substance burdened she and she
moved, breathed her fire
on my neck and I can't remember
what it is.

Something stirred in the air.
Not her breath on my neck,
nor her kisses on my cheek.

Song of the Night

Cool dreams crisply
defining me, falling into sleep.

The soft fingers of air vanish
as they touch my face;
all ruminations cease.

What quiet ghost stirs now?
Billows curtains lazily,
allowing them to drift back and hang
alone.

I lie
surrounded by desire, feeling
my head throb at the sound around me--
I jump to my feet and salute.

Then the trumpets trill:
The loud voices of angels calling me.
I see white horses lined up,
smoking with heavy hooves--
loud noses that puff air;
billow curtains.
Quiet dirt clumped under foot.

I touch the majesty of night,
brilliant aglow with the fire
of God, wrapped up and baited,
hanging free.

Then troubled, I dream
no more, lie awake
long nights wondering wide-eyed,
seeing nothing, never moving
for fear of missing the din of the air
breathing voices
over all the æons to me.

III. Unknown North