"Glasses"
and Other Poems
by Daniel Hargrove
Copyright 2014 Daniel Hargrove
Cover art copyright 2014 Daniel Hargrove
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Table of Contents
1) Glasses
2) Tar
3) Tap
4) Stick-Man
5) Death of a Bluejay
6) Winning
7) Opening
8) In Traveling Late
9) In Shade of Late Hours
10) In Words So Blind
11) No Longer Quiet
12) The Spell, Aground
13) Evening
14) Number
15) Amber
16) Phone
17) Escalator
18) Banner
19) Malice of Forethought (w. Sophi Zimmerman)
20) From Where, Passion?
21) Fern
22) Nuthouse
23) Sewing Kit
24) The Hot Black Night
25) Away
26) As the Sun Has Died
27) Of All the Pots of Roses
28) A Bed, Unmade
29) Egress
30) At a Distance
Glasses
I had seen far too much
through that fine glass and wire rim
fashioned by the hand of the optician
They fit me very well
and I can see clearly through them
as I wheel like a hawk
in the bright blue of sky
Wearing them every day
day in and day out
I pretend I am an owl
She had told me once
when I was a young man
that they made me look bookish...
cover me with those words
The sun peeks through them
till I must close my eyes
reflected and profane
You, sand, have fused my thoughts
into a quiet realm of focus
I must answer to your slipping
and I must slip through your fingers
I threw my glasses down
and ground them underfoot...
lenses broken and wire bent as branches
Tar
See the dinosaur juggle lemons
till they drop to the floor and roll away...
see him pick up an ax
and chop down young oaks
See him blindfolded and dancing the waltz
with a blinded gray poodle on a leash.
See him list every tinker toy in the toy box
and motormouth about what they'll build
See him handcuffed in the prison cell
with a furry kitten and a tar-baby...
See him waste his last match
trying to catch the tar-baby on fire
Feel the pull of La Brea...
watch as one leg sinks deep in...
feel his ferocious but futile struggle
as he denies it to himself over and over
Tap
Slow burn, fire cotton ambulance
Tar sugar, mold ashen kitten
Square all corners, danger
Tap
Picture cottage owl, tracker
Word of barter chanced
Coal I pardon, murder
Tap
Cane all crafty, bitter
Storm breaking, cover
Stay at working, never
Tap
Barking dog deliver
Pitch are crusted, stolen
Seal at carts, riven
Tap
Stick-Man
The stick-man was already drawn
when I picked up the pencil
Can a stick-man hold a pencil?
Maybe he drew himself
Stick-men go three places
In the hearth
in the coal mine
and in the gutter
Stick-men work for the enemy
Stick-men have plenty of friends
not all of whom are both
of those, or at them, of it
Stick-men ask me all the time
what I've got, that they don't have
so I ask them. What does a stick-man want?
and I'll ask you
One time a stick-man told me
that a friend of his had said
a stick-man is a lie
Some friend
Death of a Bluejay
In a brief foray with destiny
I found a jay's end,
all flap and flutter lashed
to the grind of that wheel
That blue flash of feathers
had been found wheeling skyward
on a high and fine wind
that would take him to nowhere
'Twas the dust of that gray storm
that had tricked the white static
into naming on the stone
the far fetch of talons
I know not the whole story
nor where the meager remains
but I bear the brunt of its telling
as I am mostly scarecrow
Winning
We are given a track;
A race and a gun;
Stripes, competitors;
And a pair of shoes.
One trick, you know
is when the gun fires
run like hell
until you reach the ribbon
Hours of training,
A coach
with years of experience,
gives you his advice.
If you win the race,
he says,
don't get a big head.
You think about that
and you wonder.
If I won the race
would I get a big head?
If you lose the race,
he says,
there's always another one.
Now, you think about that,
and you say to yourself,
He's right.
But I'm going to win.
Opening
Grand opening!
Sale!
Half off!
Marked down!
Right now!
Hurry while it lasts!
Don't wait!
Save!
Best prices!
Low low low!
Come see us!
We're insane!
Great deals!
Don't miss it!
Once in a lifetime!
Today only!
In Traveling Late
The streetlamps end
and down that way
there's not enough moonlight to see very well...
I don't want to venture there at all
but there is where my destination lies,
through the shadows down the road.
They'll swallow me up
in an age of darkness
and I won't have a tune to whistle...
I've no one to keep me company there
and the journey continues for many more miles
in the shadows down the road.
A barking dog
echoes through the trees
and I can't see to find my way...
it always seems to turn out this way
and why do my travels always end
'neath the shadows down the road?
The night always comes
at the end of the day
and forever finds me unp
repared...
how to make light without a match,
no torch to carry along with me
under shadows down the road
The hair raises up
on the back of my neck
but there's no turning back from the darkness, there...
I suppose it shows my weakness, but
whosoever can be so brave
masked in shadows down the road?
In Shade of Late Hours
Bringing stars,
my lover the beautiful night
floods the gates of dawn
with moons and crickets' calls,
chasing the sun
around the watery world.
I swim with the starfish
under your silvery spray,
and I will walk up your staircase
into the embrace of
morning's warm smile.
Night, you are still my friend
after the angry words
of novas bright
and the slanders
of the heat of June and July.
Yours is the wheel of the heavens,
and every angel
must walk your winds
and sing your songs.
I am glad of you
as long as I have a pillow
and as long as you tempt me
sweetly and softly to dreams.
In Words So Blind
You can blame the pen
that wrote the lines
that tore a lover's heart...
that seized my lady
from my arms,
that caught me naked,
wasting breath,
trying to account for why
I did not see
a sunrise in her eyes...
you can blame the black and white
of letters strewn
in reckless lines
that tried to piece together
skies full of stars
that never shined
on wishes that the both of us
wished awhile when we were young...
you can blame the dictionary
that kept to itself every word
that could have mended
broken poems and broken promises
some of which
I know that she believed...
and every word
that drops away
having little to do
or little to say
is another gray hair
in a head full of gray...
I wish I could've shown her
how words don't matter
at all.
No Longer Quiet
All in a day,
and the day was long...
I was left
alone and waiting.
The pictures on the wall
were not art,
and what came out
of the tap
was not water.
Tired old men
still remember
when spring
held its promise,
now wintry snow.
Birdsong falls to earth
like rain, and still
I am not melodic.
Bells ring out
every day at noon,
but worlds will never know
what for or why,
or how long the story.
The Spell, Aground
Now once again I close the book,
a flame still flutters in my eyes...
and all my strength, the telling, took,
the wish, the wish, like fireflies.
Her soul, my words will never touch,
a key, I'm missing, to her heart...
a deep devotion means so much,
in tears, I thought we'd never part.
When stirred, my spirit's rustling winds
bear a message for her ear...
too faint, the whisper that it sends,
she'll never know the truth, I fear.
In empty eyes she's made her home
and shines the moon upon her age...
a hollow seashell for a comb,
a fist of pills for hourly wage.
The wish, the wish, its fire burns,
I've tried to bring her wish to life...
upon the ice, the skater turns,
our wishes all asea in strife.
Evening
Spoon up a cold stew
in my sly kitchen
Feed the dog some
Fill my wooden bowl
Tired from hard work
hungry as a March bear
Walk the dog back home
smitten with the young night
Plow for old man Hodges
Little joy in turning dirt
like digging from dawn to dusk
Not much copper in this mine
I'll sit on slow Sunday
while the preacher goes on
about the long, hard climb
on up to heaven's gate
Leave my old walking stick
stuck upright in the dirt
and I'll come back tomorrow
to see if it's still standing
When I was a boy
never knew a man could
do so much work
Wish I were still a boy
Number
I had walked to that place
where that bright feathered bird had lay dying in the snow
and found one blue feather
which I put in my pocket
to take home to my lover
She was not at all impressed...
there are so many feathers to be found, she said
so I asked her for one.
She held up empty hands, and said
I just haven't happened to pick one up...yet
Her eyes widened and she pointed behind me.
Look at that snake! It has lost all its feathers!
obviously confused about their origin.
It is exactly what I have come to expect from her
and I gave up counting long ago
There was still the question of who had killed that bird.
I had seen a snowman lurking through the woods
with his broom clutched close to his body.
My lover had made the snowman yesterday
for the birds to land on
True, it was just one bird
but I think it might have been the last one.
Though I have shown her the feather
my lover says the bird never existed
and she had heard the cry yesterday
Amber
The heart
is the most vital
of vital organs,
and when
it is laid open
under the surgeon's knife
it is because of
dire necessity.
Have you ever held
a beating heart
cupped in your hands?
Nothing is as true
as the arrow
of an archer
intent on making
a perfect shot
straight to the heart
of his worst enemy
when his life depends on it.
Do you remember
your first taste
of dry champagne?
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