Lines from a Gum Tree Grove
by
Rik Jorj
Copyright 2010 by Richard W. George
Where Were You When We Met?
I remember you at church
standing quiet in a pinafore;
I remember you on a porch
wearing lavender and white,
but I don't remember what you wore
or where you were the day we met.
Perhaps you wore a yellow frock,
or maybe a gown of midnight blue.
My cheesecloth memory I regret.
I know you stood quiet in back,
letting the talk wash over you.
I know we met in a public place,
and you watched the people come and go
with wary interest on your face.
First Date
You laughed at clowns shambling by.
We cheered the parading elephants
marching to drums and calliope.
Trapeze artists, twirling their capes,
suggested on earth their aerial grace.
A donkey passed pulling the rope
that dragged behind him a dozen clowns
I bought us burgers and lemonade.
You ate my pickle. I ate your chips.
Vendors came selling balloons
and pictures of the watching crowd.
I bought you a monkey on a stick.
Thank you, you said. I love a parade,
and kissed me lightly on my cheek.
We Found a Quiet Place
We found a quiet place to sit
away from the crowd of picnic tables
and talked of how to fly a kite
as though that were the end of life
and we the world's two wisest sibyls
who read in kites the world's relief
from evils. Give the people string,
I said. Provide them paper and glue,
and wood for frames, and let them laugh.
Instead of work, teach them to sing.
Give them nothing important to do,
and they'll forget all hate and fear.
You look at me; I look at you.
We giggle and I tickle your ear.
Two Conjoined
We are two worms in one cocoon
floating on the river slime
under a sky that had no moon.
We make wings in secret space
against the come of flying time,
dreaming of butterflies in a place
of sun and wind. It comes, the crack
of threads, the drying off of wings,
the lift of air to start the race
and overhead the shadowy hawk
is watchful of our wanderings
as if he wonders what we are.
We hear his scholar's mutterings
What feathers are so gossamer?
Provoke No Dragons
Provoke no dragons when the moon
floats fat above the redwood tree,
I tell you, or if you hear a loon
complaining to the stars of death
or taxes Congress levies on tea,
keep still. Polish no tiger teeth;
don't let the lions come indoors.
Don't tease the purple apes or play
with adders when you take your bath,
and don't feed stranger manticores
raw peanuts when I must be away.
I want you safe when I come home.
You nod compliantly. That same day
I leave, you buy a leopard to tame.
You the Queen
I watch your graceful come and go
and fantasy you made a queen
who fills her days with regal show
encastled in Tara's marble rooms
bidding her harpers hush the keen
of women whose men will no more come
grimed with battle thorough the gate
while you weep privately for your lord
graying to grimness under his doom
to send forth men he loves to fight
in wars he cannot win. Come, bards,
sing gladsome songs to banish care,
you bid the harpers, and murmur words
of comfort to ease the king's despair.
Watching You
You mutter in your sleep some phrase
I cannot catch. I am awake,
watching the moon's deliberate pass
across the night to cloak the sky
of customary stars and black
with silver sheets hung out to dry
after the rains have washed them clean.
I wonder what disturbs your rest,
what dream demands to have its way.
You turn your face toward the moon.
I see your smile, and think it best
I do not wake you. A distant dog
barks once. Westward, on the coast,
the winds gather the morning fog.
You Braid Your Hair
I watch your comb unsnarl your hair
and dream I am young Lancelot
adultering with Guenevere
fearing to hear King Arthur's tread
on the white stairways of Camelot.
I watch you plait and bind your braid.
Your patient fingers twist and weave
unaware of my dalliance
with the knight and queen who one time played
their false mate on the kind king's love.
You break my dreams of prurience
among the ancients when you smile
and say, Last night I dreamed we danced
with dolphins on the hump of a whale.
Morning Glories
My grandmother's morning glory vines
covered the porch of her tenement.
We played there, summer afternoons,
that girl and I, the play of house,
with pots and pans set on cement
the sun had fired. Once, tremulous,
she asked what color eyes I liked the most.
At six I was no Don Juan, and said,
Morning glory blue. Her eyes
were black and teary. This is past
except at times your eyes are sad
and blue like the morning glories were,
and I recall how she replied,
O, blue, and tried to hide her tears.
Housekeeping
We set up house with pots and pans
and castoff dime store dinnerware.
We have a kitchen, bed, and beans.
We'll sleep and eat and love, I said.
It's all we need, and nothing more.
We'll want more than beans and bread,
you told me, like onions, cheese, and ham.
I stopped your words with kisses and took
you in to initiate the bed,
and afterward you said, Our home
needs curtains, a table, rugs, a lock
for door and window to keep us safe.
I hushed your wise domestic talk
and said, Tomorrow. Today's for love.
Squeaking Snow
We walk on snow so cold it squeaks
under our feet. It sounds like mice,
you say, resent our using the walks.
I listen to the snow's tirade,
to hear it with your ears. The ice
is brown with leaves the wind inlaid,
I tell you; winter art is hard,
but won't survive the spring time sun.
You think a moment, then, looking sad,
you say, Time suffers no retard
of changes; lovely th
ings must end
to make the room for others, but I
am loath to see the last of one
though glad the next comes passing by.
Prairie Winds
The prairie winds unravel your calm.
You have no love for windy days.
You clench your fingers in your palm
or raise your fists to challenge the squall
of every gust that shakes the house.
You think me mad that I am thrilled
with the song of the wind's uncadenced blow.
I hold you to shield you from your terror.
I ask what childhood monsters still
linger in the wind for you.
You shudder. Do not ask. I fear
black things that have no names escaped
from some dark hole. I stroke your hair
and hold you until the wind has stopped.
Rhinestone Weeds
Ice coated the weeds with rhinestone skins
that threw back the morning at the sky
in gleaming bits. You spoke of rains
greening the hills at home. I knew
you saw white gulls above the spray
of ocean, or followed as they flew
unbound over unresting seas.
I pointed out how snow lay soft
on roofs of cars across the way
and fattened branches on the trees.
You nodded, and stopped to read a drift
inscribed with sparrows' cuneiform.
I asked what word the birds had left.
You said, A lament for dearth of worms.
Coyotes
I hear coyotes on the hill
baying the moon. You are asleep.
I wonder what your dreams would tell
if they spoke now. I touch your hair
tumbled on your pillow. The sweep
of moonlight touches your knees. The spare
harmony of the coyote songs
infiltrates your dreams. You turn,
restless. The moonlight takes the chair
beside the bed to shield you from wrongs
the night might perpetrate. I yearn
to wrap my arms around you. The moon
forbids me break your sleep. So warned,
I kiss your ear and quietly yawn.
Two Sparrows
Two sparrows huddled against the snow
through three white days of December storm.
You felt the cold for them, I know,
because you shivered every time
you looked at them, though our room was warm.
You made them toast and threw the crumbs
on a cleared place leeward of the drift
that blocked our walk. The fourth day broke;
frost gleamed in the morning calm.
The