 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
 |
Walking Theory #57
What whispers blue on the Coast?
It’s been three weeks since I have seen them,
Heard them – stream upon stream, whispering
- some vertical, some collapsed –sails transparent
Woven blue, silver skin as thin as silk
Lifted by the wind over succulent, slightly shifting
Thick, wet ink blue, iridescent lips
Thousands upon thousands twisted
Thick woven rubbery strands
Undertow, tide, wind-crossed driven
Into flattened curved streams
Over the low cut dunes against the roiling sea
The afternoon sun burning the white caps
The blind green in wave cup after wave cup,
“Vellea, Vellea” these once “By the Sea Sailors”:
Once upon the ocean, undulant streams, transparent flesh
Catch at what & what may
Listen to the whisper
Listen to the dead
They never leave
They never leave
Portals to the other side, whispers in the heart.
Walking Theory #58
Under the hills, she who waits, emerges,
Dissolves: She who haunts on gray days
She who lays dormant, slant of light through fog:
She in the black gown & pink sash
Who on her shoulder carries the crimson bird
She who, she
Who neither walks nor talks
Tells me she’s my own:
Bread in a basket
Abalone neckpiece
Mute rainbow at her throat
Gold egg in each palm:
Who can decipher her ruffled face?
The ghost of “hello”, of no return
And while I am with you
Count the shifting letters in your palm:
Shake, stroke, flame
Sugar the sky
Stamp your feet
Pull out the empty book:
Mark upon mark
Word unto word
There one goes:
Flourish, flourish.
Walking Theory #59
A Conductor called Death
Picks them up and drops them off –
By trolley, by bus, by airplane, by balloon -
One does not even know or ask –
Each day, one by one, or more than one can count
Over the side each one goes
Solitary or communal one still
Neither asks or really knows-
But here we go, chatting amongst them
By shadow, apparition or voice
These presences – ultimate ancestors
Who charm, terrorize, amplify -
The way one looks at roses in the neighborhood
Or the fresh cones on the singular ponderosa
Or the pigeons who draw hay from the fallen grass
Each a various residence nested toward the sky:
One walks, makes clear, full witness:
Carriers, carriers.
Walking Theory #60
Or we find the ancient
And the present snail
Is the metaphor for vagina
Amongst the Yoruba
Or the wonderful firm
And slippery grace
To be variously within you
Was it already this morning?
Walking Theory #61
Who can extinguish the spiral in a rose?
Season to season, the inevitable rise and fall
The spiral tipped down, tipped up
Its relentless spin – sometimes so fast
Sometimes so slow
Into heaven or hell
Earth or sky
Each moment a petal
Then another: full or fallen
I wash my hands, I wash my face –
Yellow, red, apricot, white or peach –
In light or dark – to spin with grace.
Poems on this page © Stephen Vincent 2005-2006
You can see recent Online poems at Masthead #9, Big
Bridge, and Black Box. His blog is found
here.
