An Afternoon at the House of Captain Faulk

The seance ends. The medium is slumped
upon the divan's sky-blue velvet, lost
and looking dazed. Worldly news has trumped
the attendees' attentions. Smoke of sauced
tobacco loiters round the room, from flaming
charcoal braziers (breathing out monoxide).
Fickle hearts—but there's no use in blaming
them for running off to wait at dockside:

their father, by acuity and stealth
slipped the blockade, defeating the embargo
bringing in a ton of precious cargo,
furs and amber to restore his wealth.
The outlook's sanguine for the Misses Faulk
who've lost all interest in spirit talk.

--words courtesy of Read Write Poem
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What I Hear

owl courtesy of Marja Flick-Buijs; fractal created in Apophysis
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Recipe for a Homunculus

A pinch of cornstarch, splash of lemon juice
as if for stubborn sauces that won't thicken:
stir and let ingredients reduce.
Hermetic subtle processes will quicken
base materiél to emanate
its soul, a substance held both rare and noble.
Dinner can go hang. You contemplate
the swirling simmer of the Primum Mobile--

oops! You've scorched the mixture. Scrub the pot.
Today you won't produce homunculi
so next time, take more care and keep an eye
on temperature control. And if this lot
has failed in yield, it's not a total loss:
it gives a little body to your sauce.

--for Read Write Poem

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Miscellaneous notes

Should probably mention that I sent off the manuscript of my novella, Killing Time, to F&SF yesterday. Expecting a response by mid-September or so.

Also over the holiday weekend, I put together a manuscript of poems and submitted it to Tupelo Press for their open reading period. I've gotten a number of free books (they only charged postage) from Tupelo over the last few months, and I think I got a pretty good idea of the kind of poetry they like to publish. So we'll see.

Recap of April's submissions: I got poems into Barefoot Muse, The Lyric, also Raintown Review and The Road Not Taken, both still forthcoming. Haven't heard from Eclectic Muse, Windfall or Tiferet. Got rejected from a whole slew of other journals, most of which were long shots. After I hear from Tupelo one way or the other, it'll be time to put together another stack of submissions.

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Crusades

3 Word Wednesday: Gloom. Kneel. Transparent.

crusader banners
shed gloom over kneeling ghosts
transparent victims

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After the Fourth

nation's eyes open
smoke-reddened and underslept
from watching fireworks

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October

is a flamethrower,
kindling leaves, then shriveling them to ash.
October is a woman straining
her spine to see if she can still reach her toes.
October ends in quiet rains.

Not a good month for beginnings:
fold for storage, pickle and jam,
count over blessings.

--for Poefusion

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Wolf's Tooth

O I have put my hand on the wolf's tooth
hidden among green parasols and whorled towers
of purple and white. O scorpion bedded upon agates,
stonefish at the gate of a jewelled coral castle.
Venom at the heart of the gaudiest blooms,
poppy blowing sleep into the sultry air.

Now the howls of the black dog pull the edge
of evening over the city like a velvet painting
of Elvis in a suit of lights. Now three-legged cats
with angular bodies stalk the top of the fence.
Gull and crow negotiate meticulous division
of a dead squirrel. A sacrifice is exacted.

The wolf licks my blood from his lips and grins.
I use his tongue to warn the cats away.
Spangled velvet shadows full of poison glide
before us and toss their heads like giant bulls
scenting the arena. Diamond scales glitter
at my bitten wrists, streetlamp bracelets.

Have you seen me?

Look again where the oak roots have lifted
the sidewalks away from the blind earth. Worms
flee the drought into deep soil. If there is
brightness there it may be the sun glinting on
the teeth of my companion.

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Undertaker (illo)

The following poem was left at Miss Rumphius' acrostic prompt by Jane Yolen. I've taken the liberty of illustrating it with a slightly macabre fractal.

Undertaker

Victim look up.
Under a low and
Lowering sky, the undertaker comes
To carry your particulars
Up to a bleak, black heaven.
Read the set of wings, cruel beak, hooded eyes. This is no
Easing into eternity but a short, sharp shock.



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Violinist

violin courtesy of LastClick; bow courtesy of Rainer Schmidt
figure produced with Apophysis
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Readings in July

I'm giving two readings this month:

July 15 at the Lloyd Center Barnes & Noble
7-8 PM, with two other readers

July 21 at the Rockwood branch of the Multnomah County Library, 17917 SE Stark
7-8 PM, with Dale of mole

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I've done a bad thing

I've started to play with Apophysis.


metal boxes

fish bones
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Geography of Memory

From the North Pole all directions
are south. From the tip of the gnomon
all directions are past and downward
so you step up, into empty air,
the halls of thunder, the glass floor of sky
paved with cirrostratus tiles.

There are no landmarks here. Navigate by
pigeon auspices. The compass spins on an axle
of childhood desires and fancied slights
pointing Dream by Dream-Need
across the geography of memory
and into the unexplorable future

where rivers you can't step into
flow over stones you can't refute.

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Azan

At first light the call comes:
Leave your beds and pray.
Lilting across the roofs
At first light, the call comes.
House windows light
Up as the faithful rise.

At first light the call comes.
Kneeling and prostrate
Hear how they murmur:
"Beloved, be with us
Allah, grant that we may
Remember you always."

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Bing!

3 Word Wednesday: Collapse. Sweet. Yearn.

yearning for cherries
sweet flesh collapsing into
purple-staining juice

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Wind Silver

Wherever the wind turns it finds silver:
on the corrugated surface of the lake
under the tossing leaves of alders
sliding along the stems of foxtail grass.

As if the world were made up of sofa cushions
and now and then God has to rummage for
spare change. He throws a handful of quarters
in the ocean, they turn into a school of anchovies.

I hold my hands up to the rushing sky
but the wind just riffles my hair.

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Stone Rainbow

original image courtesy of Carole Nickerson
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Bottom Wakes

Bottom. I have had a dream, past the wit of man to
say what dream it was: man is but an ass, if he go
about to expound this dream.
--Midsummer Night's Dream, IV.i. Wm. Shakespeare

so here I sit:
under a tattered umbrella-- no,
it must be the sails of a windmill
which, as all men know, means madness.
Poor Bottom, first a fool, then mad,
preyed on, like spring lambs by eagles,
by visions no sane man would harbor.

But I would not trade this donkey head
for common wisdom, weights and measures,
the petty daily round of common life.
I'll eat grass like Nebuchadnezzar--
mad, but still a king. I'll go on all fours,
Bottom, but still a donkey. Into the arms
of spinning windmills, Sancho, ride me!

--image courtesy of oncle Jim via Read Write Poem

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The Old Toy Chest

We had us an old wooden chest
with a lock that had long lost its key.
The toys that we had were the best
that any kid's playthings could be.

Marbles and Lego blocks
A horsie on springs
Old keys with no locks
and puppets on strings.

The toys that delighted a kid
are worn out or broken or chipped.
The names that were carved in the lid
have faded to shadows of script.

A train with caboose
on a grey plastic track
A brown velvet moose
with a corduroy rack.

The chest we have given away
to younger kids making a start
in teaching themselves how to play--
but I kept the key in my heart.

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Neap Tide

Today the falling surf uncovered rocks
that rarely see the sun; encrusted with
goose-barnacles and kelp and softer things,
the fleshy blossoms of the sub-littoral.
If it's true Kharybdis was a goddess
of the tides, anemones should be
called kharybdimones, for they are stirred
by tide as land anemones by air.

Upslope the sand, untouched by water these
three days, was sculpted by the wind into
fantastic dunes.The flats between were carved
to spiny ridges, hoodooed shelves that begged
for tiny shadows of some caravan
to give them planet-scale. Next week, I know
these lands will lie forgotten under waves
and wind and sand will write their names in shale.

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Dragon Year

"So what's your sign?" My kinship is: with boats
that race to scarlet drums, their oars like legs
on water-centipedes; with kites afloat
above forbidden cities; pearls or eggs
encysting essence; rulers of the flood;
warden of temples and pavilions;
source of a pigment that resembles blood
which painters use, and call vermilion.

The zodiac's a bracelet hung with cryptic
charms called constellations, symbols worn
like ruts into the path of the ecliptic,
to which Western horoscopes adhere.
My heritage is elsewhere. I was born
in nineteen sixty-four: a dragon year.

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St. Johns Bridge

They call this Cathedral Park
bu there's no cathedral, just the bridge--
the one the architect says he liked better than the Golden Gate.
And who am I to argue? There's no stained glass
but it'll serve as our cathedral, with its pointed Gothic arches
and the deck, a leap of faith suspended
from cobweb cables. And narrow lanes. When you cross that bridge,
believe me, you are close to God.

The far shore rises up like a solid wall of forest green.
Somewhere there's a ramp that'll get you down to Highway 30
but you have to have faith
and take that corner slow.

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In the Groove

The wheels are spinning madly out of groove,
the horses thrash the chariot through the sky,
their tangled traces need to be cut loose.

Poor Phaeton, he wanted just to move,
to drive his daddy's big-wheel, make it fly
but couldn't keep his rhythm in the groove.

Hell of a way to go, but really, who's
in charge of their own end? Live fast and die
when Titan-hammered thunderbolts cut loose.

Falling rock star, kid with lots to prove,
he jumped the track too soon. To improvise
you have to learn the edges of the groove.

So play it straight a while, pay your dues
and keep in mind that "mastery" implies
you got it right before you cut it loose.

No, I won't listen to those boredom blues,
those "free expression", "do your own thing" lies.
I'll walk the straight and narrow, in the groove
before I try to play it fast and loose.

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Wind Love

3 Word Wednesday: Fickle. Sparkle. Wrinkle.

deep-wrinkled willow
shallow sun-sparkling water
fickle wind loves both

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A Few Short Lines

Are you there,
Beloved?

Cry of the
Desolate heart.
Eye in the wilderness,
Flesh telescope—
Gazing beyond
Heaven's ceiling
Into God's eye.

Join me.
Know what I know:
Love.

Made flesh, but
Not forever,
Only for a time
Pass through the world
Quietly.

Random movement
Strange encounters.
Truth is nothing you can
Use; but
Valuable nonetheless.

Why? Limbs sprawl
X-shaped against
Your headstone.
Zero hour.

Again,
Begin.

Come through the
Desert holding an
Egg from some
Fabulous bird
Given free like grace.

Hatch into wings
Iridescent silver.
Join me.
Know what I know:
Love.

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After Solstice

too soon yet to notice
the shortening days, but I feel
the light leaving. Waking

late this morning: gnomonic shadows
all along the street proclaiming
it's later than you think.

Three days of rain and overcast
at Midsummer (or summer's first day
depending on your calendar),

and the sun returns with no better
counsel than this? Keep it. Don't expect
me to build a sundial on my lawn--

I'll place a boulder with mossy flanks
pointing eternal North, winter or summer.

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Lines of Sight

Lines of sight connect new lovers
like high-tension wires from eye to eye—
you feel the sparks.

That's how a heart discovers
how to navigate an electric sky
like a rising lark

past the gyre where the falcon hovers
through thunder gathering heavy and high
into storming dark.

Lightning scatters below and above her.
Blinded, the lark gives a terrified cry
and God harks.

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Admit One

Original images: ticket courtesy of Kevin Abbott, cherries courtesy of S P Veres, calligraphy courtesy of Nevit Dilmen
Collection available! Knocking from Inside