Spark - Five Poems

Forest floor is damp; the leaves and mold and
forgotten summer growth too wet and old
to make alarming note of would-be silent tread.

Rosary counts silently at dusk's cardinal light
shades stretch out, crawling down each
trunk or branch or worming root--

Nighted trees shudder with winds unfelt
Ragged cards scatter with hands undealt

Listen, Oh, Listen, no psalms are these
Sung in the dark above coal-black trees.

Run to the Abbey and seek Benediction,
The night falls all around you
and the wind is at your door.

Share a bite of licorice
spread a blanket on the couch
Bring out the crystal glasses
and drink the sweet wine you made yourselves.

Be an hour late for lunch
and tip the waiter twice--
Tie a ribbon in the hair
of the longest summer morning.

An old man died at the Point Of The Mountain
(the Utah State Penitentiary)
back in the '70s.

No one knew his name for sure
he was in for some felony of long-standing
at least.

An elderly woman came forth
her hair streaming like spider-frost
and told the newsmen who he was

"He was my brother," she said.
"He was the Sundance Kid."
and nobody much believed her.

The Hole-In-The-Wall Gang;
Butch Cassidy;
the trains, the train robberies

Bolivia, hell.
Sundance died
in Draper, Utah.

It's funny, he's a hero after the movie
Redford named his ski resort after him
But Sundance died at the Point
and no one knew who he was.

Deep desert: the sky pales
old shack's strength denied
swiftglide wind
creeps out for evening.

Grain by grain, as
broiling, reeking clouds flush
earth, sands spill unnoticed
whispering.

Cautiously, the way
simmering water turns to
tumultuous boil, breezes
become wailing gales, and sand
is spinning stones-hail
in the night.

I talked for a spell with the Godhead
talked with him of trains
exchanged spirits
one for one.

Godhead is Seattle-bound, looking for a new heaven
a new haven, and tiny voices
call him to fly back, back, back
to where he came.

Do good, look good, a woman told me once,
and so I do, trying to be a man
multiplying my transgressions
with my Good Works.

The Godhead is emptyhanded
and bears ill-will
bears my voice, listens to the panting
of my jackal's heart entwined with Olympus

And here the tale sits
like a bucket half-full
nailing itself beyond crosses or nails
or crowns of thorns

And myself (always my best subject) has a
surprise for me, as a result of Godhead
and his Angelic Blues Band
that is standing just offstage:

We're getting stronger by the minute.