The Year of Miracles

Erik fired, but remained unaware-
his uncle called after the game, mostly to gloat,
then in the clearing the large antlers
swung around-
his and the buck’s black eyes met.
The beast chirped and then his sharp hide dissolved
into the mossy leaves wet
with blood and rain.

In Brussels one weekend
Coda ran into a distant cousin
who gave him documents connecting
Erik to the family trees
of Wither and Sprouting,
going even further back
than his father had researched.
Most likely an ancestor
lived in Antioch
and was buried near Utrecht.
Before the First Crusade the old one
polished stone for a mill
to thresh and shatter meal for bread,
then joined the advancing armies
before the leper kings sounded retreat-
and the ranks of men
no longer sturdy slouched
back to the cradle.

The paper goes on to say grandsons
carried on
to eventually build the buttresses
that made the naves of Chartres and
Amiens soar. These mason sons
and carpenters carved
their names in the pews
and foundation stones-
A sound strategy.

How is it then,that
chessmen go
for the corners of the board
and then struggle
to stay ahead a pawn?
Then they
upbraid themselves for
being unable to get along
with their opposing pieces
as the game unfolds
and the children watch.

Brown jars guard
emollient mixtures
of clean pigment colors-
lather, then repeat
with water - apply lotion,
the moisture evaporates-
water yields ground to Aridity,
who makes a fine, vintage,
dry sand.

Rowhouse windows heave,
the curtains blowing comfortably
in early spring,
accommodating all,
without all
the common rooms.

While vacationing Coda is eager
to see the hearthworks-
they arrive at the villa
above,the sails of the mill
spin, whirring
in their eternal round.
Farmers, boers
drink at the tavern.
Karl is behind the bar and is talking to Julie.
By late afternoon
the place is empty.
Julie goes to sketch and have coffee-
Karl asks why she is not drinking-
She asks –can I sketch your portrait.
He then asks if she is hungry-
She says- no, but I will try
Tante Maria’s mocha torte.

Frosted gooey cakes soften,
their sugary melt feeling
Winter’s fiery tirade.
Such stubbornness,
Think of it-
such a rigid season.
Frigid nights shrink;
a worn plate cups
nibbled petit fours-
soggy, broken
on a table beneath
the lamp with the torn shade.

The rot of rocks breathed
annoyingly into the tunnel-
commuters and perpetual students
endured the broiling subway platform.
Petra preferred the unknown faces
on the Orange Line. Occasionally
one or two stood out.
Beside her a portly,stout man
read business textbooks, balancing
on the briefcase that he held in his lap.
She secretly pictured him wearing women’s lingerie
under the scratchy slacks that showed his
hairy legs peeking through
the tops of itchy wool dress socks.
She rode always on the next to last car
since its door opened closest to the escalator
that led to street above.


Copyright 2008 Celosongs Ltd.