3 poems
Woodland Green
Curling, cloying smoke and incense
cooks off steaming husk and bone
a sign of ashy wood nearby
reads, in script of scribe on loan
“A warning to thee
those whom gods displease
be thee righteous, be thee meek
lest thee be struck with equal ease”
Crimes committed in hearts alone
no outward signs known or seen
merely a love and longing
to worship the mighty woodland green
None whatsoever conducted or whispered
of rituals among vine wrapped stones
yet roiling thunder rained from far above
like hail against leaves and homes
The sky is great, the sky is jealous
its gods quick to maim and kill
but know, sweet child, deep down,
in your heart, your roots and all you’ve sown
the earth and green will rein in heaven
as soon as you have grown.
Rigor nobis
Rigor mortis
Rigor mortis
Rigor green hued
Rigor nobis
The wooden men dance in the forest,
Through the leaves and bramble
Hardly anyone cares to notice,
Sets the rest ill at ease
Wood ought be silent, dead
Wood n’er kings can make
A crown, by God! of iron and stones
Sits only on flesh’d head
But over the pale rose hills,
Down the creek, round crooked valley
Down, at the world’s edge,
The wooden men still dance
Jigs, waltzes, most often promenades,
They love it, as their leaves love the sun,
They love it, those wooden gods
Creak of wood wanting for oil,
Round a bonefire, spare the tinder
A pillar of fire, smokeless
Hot enough for wood to last iceless
through wicked winter
What god, what bastard,
Set the wooden men to dance
With crowns, wretched crowns,
Of ivy, thyme, and flowers known to enchance
The devil tarries long-eternal
In the bog of souls past chance,
The older lords of heaven above
Have long fled over hill, no backwards glance
And hear them! Fear, and hear them,
As they prance to an earthen beat and chant:
“No gods, no masters,
No bastard sons of apish ants
We are the green eternal
We will dance and linger,
And cheer at your mischance”
“Stop the dancing, please!”
We cry, but it comes to no avail
The wooden men will dance,
Till our work-ed stone is old and frail
And what of us,
Our frailness, our age,
Our growing, gnawing pale?
Can we still dance,
While they leap and prance
Can our flesh believe itself hale?
Or are we doomed to crypts,
Mortuary ships with ragged sail
Can we still dance while ravens circle,
As the coffin acquires its first nail?
Could we, forsaking our listless flesh,
Know the rigor green and oaken?
Could we rend our forms asunder,
Become wood fiber shapes awoken
And go to dance with the wooden men,
Till the world knows it’s broken?
It’s snowing now, here and where they dance.
I know my life will end,
Below, beneath, without lasting glance
I know these things, and yet, I have one hope
That after the pale, the roses, and the sinking dawn:
That I might join the dancing wooden men,
A final, lasting, second chance.
The sound, electric
They build their pipe organs outta stone
down in the deep soil country
where the sun tends to hide
and sand is quick to glass
Soft stone, mostly
gives better sound, better warmth
old rector used to say
“Can’t have an organ
without the warmth”
Stormy place, the deep soil country
big sky, big clouds, big crack-a-doom lightning
sometimes, even, the sky falls down
in little crystal-clear stones
that pockmark the earth
in wounds that don’t soon heal
They join their organs to iron rods
halo branches wrought above the steeple
to catch the noise and glow
of the sky in energetic bloom
When they have their masses
big rousing affairs
while the incense drifts
and the congregation sings
the pipe organ joins, low and warm
The sky opens up
first rain, then stone
then light!
wide, across the sky
and a resounding crack
and a ring won’t soon die
down through the organ
as the air gets pushed up
pale, lively fire
meets the song in tune
dancing on the air
rattling the chorus
the sky joins its assembled kin
the sound, electric