BIG thanks to WestWard Quarterly for publishing Wait for the Rain.
Tag: Nature
Downtown Santiago, Chile
polka-dotted white shirt collar
in the rain, little black bits of
sulphur dioxide and nitrogen
oxide, liquid smog clears the
Andean air, never knew the
mountains were there before
storms of winter, when all
is pure again, I wait for the
micro (bus), slicked hair under
umbrella, leather jacket like
a Russian made man to hustle
on these Spanish speaking streets
in transit to work for finance
power company, electricity and me
daydreaming of Neruda in dirty drips
of sky just asking, why? why?
Playing Left Field
Standing as if a sundial, my hand, a glove shadowing time.
Waiting for the ball I blink, wink, chew gum, itch my rear,
because nobody is watching me out in the wilderness where
gnats and sun, smell of cut grass envelop me, make me
a tall insect wearing stripes, socks hiked up high. I pace, shuffle
cleats, shout “Hey Batter, Batter,” as if my distant voice matters.
Take away white lines, the small crowd, he’s just a bushy haired
boy in a quiet meadow, looks like he might be talking to himself.
Or god knows who he is or what he is doing out there alone, a
quiet king with monarchs that flutter by. Until wooden bat breaks
daydreams, interrupts his nature, baseball soars over his head.
My Dad Makes A Walking Stick
Sometimes he will just stare
into layered forest, like a
surfer watching waves. Look
closely, poison ivy, ferns, dogwood
flowers. Walk with him, see
downed limbs, branches sprouting
green, but soon to die. Notice
these things, the fallen are
hiking companions. Fractured
Virginia wilderness, hickory, oak,
walnut, redbud, wood that he studies
to know. Even before death some are
stronger than others. Always has
a serrated folding saw, he holds it
steady, cuts five or six feet, bits of
tree dust drift with dragonflies. He
carries these pieces like shouldered
fishing rods. In the basement, whittling
knife separates outer bark from cambium,
sanded before brushed with lacquer to
dry, then shine, touch the earth again,
reflect the gleaming sun.
Seeing the Mountain Lion
please let me
tell the truth
that I saw
it, the mountain
lion, lithe, yes
springy, legs, twitching
tail, like at
the zoo but
free on golden
hillside, in California
I had just
eaten a banana
morning at camp
counselor for kids
with HIV, beautiful
sun peeking through
fog and me
and the young
lion, that I’d
wanted to see
for hundreds of
miles hiking, camping
hours of night
and nothing, but
longing for wild
but nothing, maybe
a rattlesnake or
coyote, but then
the moment passed
and it moved
down the hill
toward the road
the next day
saw it dead
on the asphalt
I wanted to
take some of
its teeth, save
something, after so
much time waiting
but I let
it rest, sad
it was gone
April Again?
first thought of Simon and
Garfunkel, angst, new love like
uncertainty, showers, flowers
and better months ahead
sun stays, longer days of
green grass, eggs, hidden
chocolate resurrection, rebirth
believers, earth day dreamers
ecology’s return to the beginning
before we lost our ozone layer
still unknown, how it ends
whether April begins again
Capri
Manicured ladies in stilettos navigate ancient smooth
stoned pathways, corridors assembled during Roman times.
Smooth curves of their exposed skin pattern the night,
wafts of perfume mingle with the smell of grilled
octopus and cigarettes.
Some cling to tan wrinkled arms
of sugar daddies, men with white chest hairs
attached to fortunes drenched in cologne.
I never visit the island for Gucci or Fendi,
air-conditioned square shops of consumer luxury.
The purring cicadas surrounded by sea
are my siren song, blue water darkening as it journeys
to Tunisia. Pulsating, my calves quiver up and down steps
to Villa Jovis where Tiberius reigned supreme, decadently
tossing the unwanted off cliffs into the watery
chasm of time.
The ruins sit unaffected by sun’s sweat dripping
from my elbows. I rest in pine tree shadows, imagine when
Neruda was here, arranging verse in his head. Away from the glitz,
everything is as it was, as it is, ants, jasmine, laughter
of the old women who were born in Capri,
born by the sea.
Noe Valley, San Francisco
Once the Irish, the Germans, the workers pressed together, clustered little Victorians, where they were born, lived, then died. Now babies in strollers, babies pressed against mom, against dad, toddlers wobbling, wide blocks of deconstructed, reconstructed, houses, pasted photos, smiling women and men, realtors, listing, listed, selling, sold. White buses, elevated people, wearing laptops like blankets, heading south to touch more technology. Hilly hills, wisps of fog, oceanic clouds, permanent winter like they say Twain said. Past and present commingle in gusts of wind, September summers, sometimes rain and rainbows.
Gray Hair
I actually want the time to show, let the world know that I’m that much closer to the abyss. Aged ringlets at the borders with brown, blonde before that, when hair was just hair. Above my ears a battleground, the grays sending sentinels, accumulating knowledge for the next attack. I stop and stare like Rembrandt with a ballpoint pen, pluck rogue whites from eyebrows where they grow as if I were a 19th century senator. Better than bald, some say, distinguished, the old compliment the old. Rejoice, rejoice, we have no choice, my favorite Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young line. Oh but we do, ointments to push back nature, like pioneers clearcutting ancient redwoods. I look in the mirror again, as if it matters, as if I will be here forever, in wonder over the me I see. This face, this head, these gray hairs, human dust clinging to a self making meaning out of molecules.
Summer Beard
Whiskers start in June
mostly black, some gray
pushing through skin
like sunflowers they emerge
carefree, unrestrained by razors
of other seasons
when they are scraped away
like speckled truth
man’s primitive nature hemmed.
Summertime, I let them grow for days
like a backpacker searching
for my lost youth.
Long hours of shadowy sun
my face like time
standing still.
Daniel W. Polk 