Lines from a Gum Tree Grove Read online

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