Tag: dragonfly book

Though it’s getting late in the day,
 shall I skip over to the lake?
My years do not count
 like those of a child.
I go to the lake, overjoyed
 to see the sun has not set.
The sunlight dances completely
 from one side to the other;
 the entire breadth is shimmering:
 the glory of the dancing sunrays on the water.
That is what these fall days provide:
 an extended lifespan
 and, then, to finally see
 the naked tree
 revealed in the light.

I saw a beautiful floating thing
 rock–leaf–floaty, hovering
 just beneath the surface of the pond.
My heart gazed;
 my romance
 always on
 “It is perhaps a piece of trash;
  don’t be open.”
I gazed
 sunken rock, gold leaf, floating submerged
Then I saw it:
 a turtle’s head poking out of the water
 breathing with the whole pond,
 breathing my breath,
 so cute and innocent
 at once my love was explained.
One turtle in the whole pond
 breathing in air for the whole pond,
 poking its head out to connect
 the underneath with the forest.
Floating in earnest little grace
 and so picturesque
I grabbed and shook my phone.
  “You are going to miss him.
   He will go should you take
    his picture.”
I took it.
 He was not in it,
  just a pond and woods
   so picturesque if there would
    be a little turtle in the middle of it.
I gazed
 and saw the turtle unchanged
 and as I delighted
  he ducked his head down;
 a ring emanated over the pond
 and a little bloop where his head had been
 — gone.
I looked back at the picture.
 He was there; his head
 one little speck.
 The sublime floating gold
  unseen
 hidden by the pond’s reflection
  of the sky.

I talked with some people there;
 they had seen the turtle, too.

The best words
 hold aloft
  that glimpse of self
   shining through, unraveling
    ensnaring words.

I relished your boyish whimsy:
wanting, at one and the same time,
to do no evil and to index everything.

I snapped at a shrub to give to you,
 wondering if you would tell me
 whether it was shrouded
 in those same leaves of old
 that crown a good sauce.
You guffawed and tutored me
 to consider man–made products:
 I would do well to avoid flowers and puppies.

I lay in a patch of Quaker Ladies
 near the water
 as the Spring gusts
 garnished me with pollen.
I strolled barefoot home in the mud
 as the rain came.
You turned white when I asked
 the meaning of Stockton Gala Days;
you produced the most delicious drops
 of technicolor: something in the
 red, green, and blue pixels
 of your blank screen shinning through
  the ensnared dew
 still waiting to connect
 technology to nature.
I longed to turn you around
 to give you a picture of yourself,
 but then the moment would have been lost
 and somehow the algorithms that embed
 don’t capture it all.

Once upon a time,
 just blobs of cold.
We know better now
 our modern sensibilities understanding
each flake:
a little bit of dust
 through hot and cold
  from such great heights,
a natural growth of
 crystalline nature
 unique through its travels
 often imperfect
 its simple structure
  making it glaringly obvious,
melting on human contact.

I have been only projecting feelings
 upon the wall of my life.
  It is a strange movie.

I cut myself loose,
 turn myself wild.

These raw feelings,
 man need not witness.

These raw feelings,
 I need them for a real life,
  to tread them.
To tread the path;
 to be in the sunlight.

The gentle, arched wob-wob,
 she advances step-step
  up the lake.
There is no one here
 except the mini-Lochnesses
 momentarily periscoping up,
 facing the wind
 as it whips up waves.
Oh, another follows
 step for step in step.
I realize this is Spring.
Briefly, I wonder if the tension
 is only my speculating:
 she will yield without a fight
 or they are already friends
  as well as lovers.
It is Spring and each walk
 step-step up this long lake
 and it would take all day;
 no, never finish, they way
  they walk step-step.
He leans into flight,
 glides purposefully down the lake,
 over the hill, and is gone.
Perhaps she didn’t notice;
 perhaps she felt a mere ripple
  of a flap amid the wind;
 perhaps she was only looking
  one step ahead as she continues
 step-step.
She eventually settles in and
he returns, wings splayed,
cruising to the other end
like he has some business to attend to.

Oh, why slug
 through these miserable lessons
when I could tip–tap with joy? —
or, perhaps
 that’s the lesson.

And God did so heap upon his Gifts unto Adam
and Adam did become so burdened with Abundance,
he sought shade from the light
and did sink his teeth into nothing, of his own creation,
and loved himself as creator, like God,
and staked out a portion of Eden, calling himself exile,
and only gave unto himself of his own hand,
and wove a second skin to cover up, with shame,
that his first was a gift,
and when he thought of creator,
he confused himself with God,
and how did God love his own creation,
calling it good.

Those times, down in the mouth,
 moping around,
the sun,
 unabashed magnificence,
 glory-bound,
 bouquet spread over
  clouds
   and
  water-ways,
transfixes
and, but how,
 with all my shambles,
it shines on
 me.