A Handful Of Poems The Slanting Tree In the long shadows of late afternoon A new slant on the horizon catches my eye. A small tree bearing green apples Grows out of flat, level ground At a severe angle. Such hopeful signs of life: Growing trees, green leaves. But the way this tree slanted---and why--- Caught my thoughts in a net of questions: Did the harsh lake winds bend The slender, green-leafed pole? Or was it the burden of early fruit Where gravity took its toll? Does a sense of humility lock it in a perpetual bow To the tall pine forest across the road? Or perhaps this tree has sprung from a slanted seed And grows thus from the blight of original sin. Nearby companions stand in thin verticals Like Giacometti's walking men With upraised arms aflame in green. But the slanted tree shows no signs of jealousy. In its diagonal stance it remains existential. Watching this tree, I stood for some time. We too are bent walkers in this world. The winds of time push us all. We stand with our feet in the dust At our own odd angles Rooted in the mortal clay of earth But longing for the sky. An Island Just Off Shore Slow pace across the studio loft I peer out the window at my soul: A sliver of land floating just off shore Shrouded in a grey fog coat. A free patch of earth cropped with gaunt birches Casually dropping October’s leaves At the slightest breeze or windburst from The sudden flight of a nearby flock of geese. Each falling color pulls my eye Pulls my thoughts to a reverie Of my own self-imposed solitude The pondering of my own islandhood. Fog shifts. My musing drifts To the sand bar growing from the tip Of the island, toward the rocky edge of land Weaving in the shallows beneath the weathered pier. This dream pierced by the soft Tinkling of my son’s distant laughter Mingling with the vision of his Play-without-agenda in the back yard Dusty red wagon sleeps In the garage beneath cobwebs Black plastic recorder shapes My daughter’s breath into Hesitant vibrations of Ode to Joy Memories upon memories accumulate Like the ligature of sediment A sand bridge of hope to familial shores. Still I continue--- Continue to empty this ocean Pail by pail. How many years will it take? I turn from the fogged pane Wipe a bit of pthalo blue From the tip of the brush in my hand And return to the canvas. Funambulist a poem for Kierkegaard Taking altitude for theology he finds himself once again walking the wire. As regular as morning prayer He steps out. Bare feet on twisted hemp and steel Stretched between origin and destiny Across the deep gorge. No circus is in town No audience around except For the green grasses A thousand feet below Glazed with morning dew like palm sweat. A group of odd-sized stones huddle Silently. Inching his way across the narrow path--- Nothing but edge--- He does not question why Or try to explain his motivation to hang So precariously between earth and sky. He knows equilibrium is his breath Nuance the blood of life Complacency the grave. He knows if he is not found Broken on the stones below He will be here once again tomorrow. He knows that here he is closer to heaven Closer to the voice of God Heard plainly in the shifting wind. To Be Read While Viewing Kandinsky’s Composition VIII Geometry of Joy Juxtaposition Of line, shape, color Conceals precision wearing mask of chaos: Color chords’ cacophonous clanging. Explosion in a candy factory Visual confections To delight Sweet-toothed eyes With dazzling light dangling. Linear gyrations Pierce light blue angulations. Colored grids, half-circles, arcs Mark music for the eye. Pieces of a child’s construction toy Spilled out on pale yellow page Speaking of life, the hectic pace Of infamous information age. Wild abstractions Frozen dance Within this rectangular section Of Kandinsky’s mind Speaking Nothing less than an epiphany. The Wagon Red wagon rusts empty of all but these memories shards of a childhood pieces of the past. I clutch the symbol to my breast. As a child I pulled this wagon Precious payload: Old boards, bent nails, dirty glass bottles, Frayed rope, rusted hammer, A bag of sugared donuts. In search of the site of my next tree house I trekked the woods with my wagon--- stopping on occasion to collect a stone or a pine cone or to sing a song to a small pine tree. Pulled across miles of time my wagon remains---but the contents? All memories. Cold comfort for my condition. Now it bears burdens of a different kind: the weight of absence gravity of truth the heft of memories unmade. For I still hear the voice at the door (but no mother's smile). Past years resound with percussion of unspoken words echoes of letters unwritten sadness of wrapped gifts ungiven. So I cleave to my heart this empty wagon in search of belonging I bear the load: a bundle of roots, wrapped in burlap and rope looking for a planting place. There will be no fresh coats of paint. The rust will remain. Some memories are best kept under time and dust. Coffee Glorious black brew! Elixir of intention! Having power to raise a day from the level landscape of night. Coffee: Fluke finding of a goatherd now floods every crevice of society. Throughout disparate company golden umber thread weaving stitches and stories. In the café ubiquitous black circles tilt toward lips. Oil of think-drink lubricating anfractuous conversations of silver-haired philosophers spilling caffeinated Kierkegaard over the checkered tablecloth. A table away thin pink fingers of a socialite punctuate gossip with the plunk of two white cubes into treacly blackness. Sweetness. Bitterness. At the corporate hive bees share black nectar. Haggard workers huddle around the magic urn, fingers crooked in anticipation of a cup to christen the day. Down the hallway Java junkie spiders spinning the world wired web. Between the cup and the cathode rays lie half-crumpled papers bearing sepia stains like badges, medals of honor shining out hard work done. In the evening's domestic comfort morning French roast aroma still hangs in the kitchen. Family's fed, day's review said, kids off to bed--- But still I am awake! A mug of black bitterness and thick Russian classics keep me company in the wee hours. Sumatra's acrid tang dark in the cup--- dark as Dostoevsky after midnight. I must sleep I must sleep, but heavy thoughts and bold concoctions make short nights and thin dreams. The Sleight of Hand Man We’ve heard it said before: Distance lends Enchantment. But see here--- The sleight of hand man disposes of that old adage like an old yellowed newspaper. We think we’ll discover. Get close to the stage the mystery will vanish as surely and swiftly as the tiger in the cage; not so with this fellow. Close up is his game--- his wiles invite inspection. You’ll find him at the round table covered with green felt cloth. He wields a pack of playing cards and a smile. With a deft fan, fancy flourish of fifty two pasteboards, every eye is drawn at once as if a magnet were tossed into a room full of compasses. Before long the air crackles with cackles and applause. The graceful conjuror works the crowd like the coins between his fingers; silver discs tumbling between nimble digits all vanish in a shower of glittering bits. Skeptics on the fringe of the crowd move closer for a better view only to deepen the mystery--- the closer they get the less they see. Show after show crowds laugh and applaud trivial impossibilities: endless milk poured, cut rope restored, silver rings link together in one accord. Puzzling, indeed, these feats of mortal magic. But when the crowd disappears, ask the magician if these are mere puzzles. The sadness on his face will tell you the answer. Everyone asks how he does it but no one asks why. Weigh the subtle tragedy of the sleight of hand man, whose moves and methods that defy Logic, exist to show a deeper truth which sheds off the backs of those who only see skill, ruse, and fakery with bits of colored cardboard: Our eyes, minds, hearts at odds; our illusions, self delusions--- thin tin foil facades so easily pricked by thorns of truth in the pointy guise of a conjuror’s trick. Gregory W. Eanes © 1999