The Quantumverse
Lest we forget
Plough Monday
is first
after Epiphany
and I’ll let that mean
whatever you want,
but now you come to me
a Mummer
a
Guiser,
Pace-egger, Souler,
Tipteerer, Wrenboy,
Galoshin
and
mumbling, murmuring, muttering
your lines, you play,
mouthing seeds
of revelation.
*Mummer’s plays were amateur skits in England, Scotland, Wales, Cornwall, Ireland etc. , and were sometimes staged on Plough Monday (also Christmas & Easter), often on the streets or in pubs.
In Colorado the license plates used to say “God’s Country”, back when that sort of thing didn’t raise eyebrows. Not because anybody was particularly religious, but because the mountains were so beautiful most days it almost hurt just to look outside. To be honest though, now when I get off the plane at DIA for maybe another funeral, I don’t feel a thing for the place. I could be anywhere. No rush of “Home!” in the chest.
After the most recent said funeral, my cousin and I decided for old time’s sake to go fly fishing. We went to the local sporting goods store to top up our gear, and I realized I’d need a fishing license. The kid behind the counter asked if that was for “Resident” or “Non-Resident”. Without thinking, I said “Resident”. He asked for my driver’s license.
I paused for a long moment. Then I replied carefully that a driver’s license wasn’t going to be necessary. I was born and raised here, that should cover it. The kid didn’t seem to catch on, and pressed me again. I am not a small man at 6’4″, and my cousin goes by “Stork”, at 6’6″. To my surprise as much as the clerk’s, I leaned over him and asked how long he’d been living in the state. 2-3 years, like most of the other ski bum, rock climbing, hippie arrivistes I’d dealt with growing up. Then in a slow drawl, my eyes locked on his, “Son, my family came here in covered wagons. Five generations are buried in the shadow of this mountain. I said, give me a resident license.”
Stork grabbed my arm. “Randy! Cut the shit! You don’t live here anymore. Give him the money.” I wouldn’t break my gaze with the clerk, and I said I wanted a resident license. Stork threw some money on the counter, got the license, put it in his pocket, and pulled me out of the store, still staring at the clerk.
Such are matters of blood and dust.
Grandfather trout waits
Mayflies hatch within the hour –
Time for catch and kill
Late Entry for dVerse’s Hometown Haibun
That unbeknownst to all,
slumber requires
a leap dream –
like a leap year –
an extra turn or toss
of night
to true up
the gaps in our days,
alms, for shadows
gone begging.
And explains, so, finally,
never feeling quite
caught up
to ourselves.
For dVerse Quadrille #47
1962. Virgil, our
bantamweight
Milkman
Threw bottles and
Cigarette smoke
Through the wall
Like punches.
Small for a boxer
But not for a poet –
His crunch and clench
Of bone, time, wives, milk, eggs –
tattoos and fists
Swinging fame
From Troy, NY
To Rome.
There is a hole
In the bucket of hope
And we laughed and sang
As our luck ran out
The night unable to hold
When the rain you heard
Was not the rain you know
Time’s last few drops
In the patter of dust
Cornered by names and dates
Birthstone is granite,
Without ornament,
A fastness
Emptied of time,
But filled with hollow.
By custom, kill a ram
And spill its life
Over the foundation
In celebration,
Measure the shadow
Of a stranger
And bury it underneath
Like a soul.
By such adornment
Mark us present.
Inspired by dVerse Poetics: Birthstone
The fly sees my hand
And knows it is death
It is only I who am confused
By poems
For dVerse Poets Pub: Meeting the Bar
“There is a human wildness held beneath the skin that finds all barriers brutishly unbearable”
– Jim Harrison (Day Four – 28 Days of Unreason)
She collects whispers from the menagerie,
Breathes the restless prowling
Back to me.
Who is this silkwife – spinning threads of touch
From the tangled desire
of moths?
My arms swing her up in their trawl –
She knows catch and release,
The leap of endolphins.
You can make your own holy water
At home.
I found the recipe online,
And there’s a good YouTube video
About it.
Basically, all you need is
Water, salt (if you want a hint of tears)
And a kitchen bowl.
There’s one really tricky bit
About Transubstantiation,
And I didn’t follow everything about
“Multiplying loaves and fishes”,
But I think it’s just a matter
Of practice.
Mix the salt and water
And speak over it
That which you find in your heart
For benediction.
Or you can skip
The water and salt and bowl.
Just look in your heart
And bless
Those around you
With your love.
At dawn after the Solstice, I shiver involuntarily in the heat and humidity. The sun will soon begin to dip below the horizon again on my early run. I’ve only just become used to its latest angle, know where I need to shade my eyes, how to manage the morning’s swelter. The temperature will continue to rise in the months ahead, but I will track the loss of daybreak. My daily touchstone in the world is first light. Morning has broken.
Every July 4th
Mischief in my Mother’s eyes –
“Christmas coming soon!”
qbit 