Landfall

Landfall

I glassed you from the deck of a brig at

anchor, ashore, passing through trees, keen for

a new word for an old horizon line

broken, while I made for land, heedless, blue

beads in return for your eternal claim. 

poem

Don't I Know You?

If you resided in my memory at all you must

have been squatting in one of the abandoned

store fronts on the two lane running straight as

a nail past the defunct rail yard parceled into

lots never sold, survey flags paeons to dreams of

manufactured housing. I apologize for relegating

you to the outskirts of town, but property here is

dear, boundaries fixed, all the prime locations gone

to family and friends and enemies and Lacy Webb

from fourth grade and Jerry from my first job who

sprinkled pot into the wedding food we

made. That, and I've begun to notice whole

neighborhoods razed, scraped clean, returned

to meadow, only birdsong and shallow cellar craters

to the horizon. You sprang fully formed, swiveled

on your bar stool, sly trick of synaptic algorithms,

like the misfired launch of an ancient Sputnik

transmitting a Good n' Plenty jingle into my

brain, taut and sweating with the effort of reading

E.O. Wilson. You entertained me with an impromptu

before and after, the former hazy, the latter frightening

with your hunched back, eyes like odd and even dice and

your mouth slowly kneading words into doughy vowels.

Your town is populated by ghosts. We shook hands,

said goodbye and you returned to your haunted stool.

December 8, 2011

Poem

Finger Tips

The World At Your Finger Tips she promised,

a pretty young girl

in red, cooing something about Gs and

4s or was it 5s

in big blazing font in the Sunday Times.

A right fielder by

inclination, the world, I complained, that

wobbling, spinning sphere,

was more than I could handle, man my age.

Fearful of bobbling

earth, old girl gasping her ragged last breath,

I pled my case for

the pebbled skin of oranges, the bark of

old growth white pine trees,

Rings of Saturn grooves round a Band LP,

wrapped bike handlebars,

the cool, smooth shell of hand blown glass holding

Argentine malbec,

a sharp Dixon Ticonderoga on

fine, white sketching bond,

the still smooth hands of the woman I love,

my finger tips pledged

to touch lesser worlds I'll remember with

my ragged last breath.

December 6, 2011

poem

Six Days On the Road

Dave Dudley dogged it but your log book

was never behind

and if it was blame it on a West

Virginia three-way

split over mountain roads glazed with fear,

gears grabbing the grade

by the collar to choke and throttle,

steel teeth meshed, nerves frayed.

The load, Detroit V-Eight treasure, wheels

for all, two to a

garage, seven on the trailer with more

to come, swaying on

the curves, held down by chains torqued tight, wind

keening through the links,

black smoke settling into the hollars

like dark oaths sworn soft

in murmured prayer, gods petitioned for

the painful death of

Bob Patterson the dispatcher, bane

of your existance.

Six days on the road turned into years.

November 16, 2011

poem

Milestone Meditation

If it turns out, as some say, to be

a one way trip in

a straight line (admit it, sometimes yours

meanders off course

due to head winds and your enchanted

broken compass) the

half-way station looms into view, drinks

and light snacks on hand,

truck parking in rear. There are those (and

I might be one of

them) who think it could be circular,

a mad playground ride,

its diamond studded deck carpeted

with the fear-flattened,

though a few holy fools hold on tight,

heads thrown back, daring

gathered bully gods to throw them off.

If it turns out the

latter is true (unknowable, take

it on faith!) there is

no halfway point, apex, watershed,

bell buoy, Great Divide

sending you rushing headlong toward your

reward for sticking

(mostly) to the straight and narrow way.

You laugh now, head thrown

back while the gods and I watch, dizzy,

charmed, amazed (fools we

are) at each new orbit, you with your

daring, cheeky oaths.

November 17, 2011

poem

The Bear

We speculated on the

nature of the four

sturdy women camped

half mile out the

arc of beach, sifted

through the evidence, drew

our prurient conclusions,

logic bent to serve a

tasteless master. The bear,

on the other hand, drove

a shaft of certainty through

the heart of the night.

Stuck between his woods and

the Big Lake, we squatted

on a patch of sand waiting

for the northern lights or

the jack of diamonds or

another drink, or an off-shore

wind to blow the

mosquitoes back into the

trees, our ears pricked up

at the rasping chuff coming

from somewhere just

beyond the glow of our

lantern. Lulled and blinking

we huddled, shielded by

smoke from a thousand

cigars. “We’ve got to

challenge her before she

comes into camp”, he

said, then shouldered his

way into the darkness. Nothing

could coax me into the

black night full of trees

that spoke and ravens

who could tell the

future.

poem

Grand Island

If you were to ask

I might tell you about

the condition of the road

from the dock to the bay,

a flat ribbon twisted

into knots under

our tires, wound tight

enough to wring sweat

from half-buried

shoulders of limestone,

pent coils spun out into

sand beds that clamped and

held us like gnats in amber.

Maybe I could say something

about the clay we dug

from the seam in the

rock and smeared across the

bridge of our noses,

in green

and red bands down

our chests. I might

mention how easy it

looked from the beach

watching him clamber

up over smooth rock,

fingers reading the grain

for camber and bevel,

keeping quiet on the

matter of my own

jackknife lurch to the

top.

poem

Leaving

E.T. left Elliot to

return nevermore.

Goodbye to Reese’s Pieces and

pre-rehab Drew Barrymore.

Dorothy said goodbye to Oz,

good thing she kept the shoes.

Farewell to Lion, Scarecrow, Tin Man

and that old green witches blues.

“See you later alligator”,

Calvin, grown, said to Hobbes.

“One last pounce for old time sake”,

the tiger roared through awful sobs.

Abercrombie waved goodbye to Fitch,

“I’ll miss you, this I know”.

Your battered pants that cost a mint,

And modals with no clothes.

Snow White shared a cottage

with seven little men.

Gooseberry pie and mending

‘til poison did her in.

They sealed her tight in Tupperware

the better for to keep,

Till she awoke with a princes’ kiss,

and left Bashful home to weep.

.

Adios you picture books,

bedtime in a lap,

What Do You Do With A Kangaroo?

and the monkeys and the caps.

“Read me more Shel Silverstein”,

his poems were always plumbs,

again and again and again and again

the one ‘bout sucking thumbs.

Someone’s always leaving,

On planes or trains or tugs,

But it breaks our hearts when they drive

away in bright orange ragtop Bugs.

Time to say goodbye to high school,

childhood, us! for goodness sake.

Just remember: no dating football players

when you get to Michigan State.

.

poem

Santas' Pants On Fire

Donder has a bloody nose

Vixens scared of heights

Comets bathroom pipes are froze

Blitzen can’t tell left from right

Dasher will be somewhat delayed

his coat is in the drier

but worst of all on Christmas eve

Santas' pants have caught on fire

Marvin the Elf dislikes the cold

his cousin has the flu

Dooley Elf has grown mold

his hair a brilliant blue

elves short and fat are talking strike

they sit, smoke, grump and conspire

but worst of all on Christmas eve

Santas' pants have caught on fire

The sleigh is in for a yearly check-up

the runners loose and wobbly

if it isn’t fixed there’ll be a wreak-up

before they reach Punjabalee

the lights are dim and the radios dead

a mouse ate through a wire

but worst of all on Christmas eve

Santas' pants have caught on fire

The parts were late for making kites

the Barbies have no heads

The Robo Dogs don’t work-they bites

and piddle under beds

The BB guns just disappoint

the darn things sing when fired

but worst of all on Christmas eve

Santas' pants have caught on fire

No train for Bill

No doll for Sally

No game for Phil

Forget it, pally

No toys for tots no socks for Dad

It all looks very dire

because worst of all on Christmas eve

Santas' pants have caught on fire.

poem

Corner Bookstore

Is it the sound of my exhaled breath releasing

me from my leather chair, dry thumb

plinking tines on a plastic comb or

the pattern of steps I take looking for

my shoes, dance of a drone

bee giving up coordinates to apple blossoms,

that alerts the dog to a walk before

I can lift the chain from the nail, dead

giveaway sound of beads poured

into a metal bowl calling you

into the kitchen, drawing you outside

behind me, collar turned up against

light rain, jacket flapping open to thin

wind rushing April along when she would

rather wait for us by the side

door, a quick break from the march to

May. Outbound leg a true course

down the south side of the street past the

gravity of the park tugging the dog to fetch

ball free of the leash. Chance for honest

work, to hone her craft, lost now to the

uncertainties of left or right, stop or go,

here or there, fast or slow and silence in the

vacuum between us. Ears pricked to scratchy

short-wave maydays only she can hear

spiraling overhead, gift and burden of

a beast who can sense impending

earthquake while the rest of us laugh and head

for the second floor. Past the old fire alarm

relay station, slate and stone and

wavy glass anchored, enduring

time passing over, a torrent of spring melt

boiling against scoured banks, leaving behind

sluggish pools, echoes of fast, rising water

carrying some, drowning others.

Up the easy slope into town the way hurtling

bowling balls return, slow, emerging

from darkness with a muffled knock against

Main Streets’ acceleration, looped and seamless.

We hedge against the prevailing

pace with the rhythm of Budwigs’

brushes under Guarldi’s piano.

The bookstore floats above Sixth and

Main, stern of a Cunard liner at midnight

anchor, plate riveted to rib, bleeding

light, ready to sail. We stand dwarfed on

the dock, faces lit winter moons,

wondering whether to wave bon voyage

or board to lean on the rail, fingers

spliced, uncertain seas ahead.

David Hardin

January, 2002

poem

The Well

Years ago I stopped by a well

on my way to a place forgotten

as easily as a poem read in eighth grade.

.

A perfect circle of stones one

laid on top of the other, opposing

contours in snug agreement on

the matter of forgetting which

came first or last. Peering

over the edge amazed at

the depth, the sound of

my breath swallowed up,

leaving me gasping

for cool air rising

from the silver coin

of light at the bottom.

The still pool of my reflection,

wavering image gone still,

floating on water

welled up from vault rock.

A perfect resting place, a

lifetime of good water receding

now before my eyes, exposing

stones wet with the memory

of breath and reflection,

carried away to the place

where water flows and waits

to quench my thirst.

poem

Figure Forty

One second, the time it takes

to inhale and exhale a breath,

held for a beat then released.

Not the breath of a lover

or worried mother

breathing in fractions of a second,

held for one long moment

at the touch of fingers tips

or a ringing phone, released

with a cry in the night.

60 an hour, let’s say, breath

upon breath upon breath beginning with

that first one exhaled with a scream,

an eternity passing before the next;

enough drama for one day.

I’ve done the math. 86,400 a day,

sun up to sun down around

the clock, long days drifting on

currents of breath, lazy eddies spinning

off here and there, galaxies receding

away only to bob to the surface down

stream, a Doppler trick of memory.

Days on end approaching like the

mailman taking time to squint at a

number or chat with the codger

at the end of the block. Or like a

tracked fastball thrown in a late inning,

stitching registered only

after you hear the smack of the

ball in the glove, only after the

thought: full count.

Have I got my figures right?

3650 days to a decade, a

calculation done in the head, a

quick tap to wedge a zero into place at

the end of a year of days, time

pressed between bookends, ten thin

texts stand at attention, spines out,

proclaiming eras; “The Sixties”, Disco,

Reagan, Me. Abandoned station platforms

viewed through frosted glass, receding

to pinpoints of light that blink off

finally, forgotten in the steady snare

beat keeping time on rails that drift

toward each other, bent on collision

far up the track. Check my work, I’ve

never been good at math: 14,600 days

is a long time to wander in the desert

looking for the Promised Land. Better

use the bathroom before setting

out. Now for some multiplication:

350,000 hours or 21,024,000

minutes; I don’t trust the calculator

any farther than I can throw it. Let’s

get back on firmer ground; seconds

and breathing. One second, the time

it takes to inhale and exhale a

breath, held for a beat then

released. A lovers breath promising

an era of seconds, sixty every

minute, in lost time on a slow

mail train to the Promised Land,

bent on collision again and

again far up the track.

poem

August Garden

She kept secrets in March

while birds spilled the beans

and frogs egged each other on

to reveal hearts hatched

swollen and glistening.

She never cared for the

shallow attention of the

cultivator churning stillness

into cake dashed and

glazed with her frozen

smile. She made offerings to

birds. They begged standing on

broken crust and schemed future

robberies under cover of the

chaos of creepers and vines that

grew at a ridiculous rate shown in

science class on brittle film threading

through a ratcheting projector.

She drank in great gulps, head

thrown back, spilling water

that soaked through layers

and overflowed down

the length of her to pool

around her feet then vaporize on the

hottest days into a soft dream

edges erased, colors receding

with the setting sun into a paste

thick enough to spread on a slab of

tomato sliced right off the vine. She was

always glad to see me, rooted, staked and

bound there, unable to lose herself

in a crowd or at a party, command

the center of the room and laugh into

her glass or walk the rows covered over

with broad leaves that hid a world that

scuttled and mated and ate and died.

She was always attractive, reflecting

the chemistry of light shed

from the greasy smear of an Impressionists

pallet.

poem

Early Bird Special

We used to joke about the

Early Bird Special

but here we are alight on

the perch of a cheap

meal, wing to wing and beak to

beak with migrants and

those less imprinted, year round

chirpers of trash talk.

Fat Mourning Doves plop near the

buffet, seconds, thirds

and forths, taking their good sweet

time while Blue Jays preach

sermons on rough and

tumble and order drinks all

around, sticking the

Wren with the tab. “King of All

Birds, my ass” they squawk.

The joint goes quiet as a

church on Friday night

as Tufted Titmouse times two

exchange words then a

twenty with the maitre' d

who can't seem to find

their silly name on his list.

“What's that she's eating?

It looks so good”. Finch cuisine,

I remind you, keeps

you up at night. In the end

we share a suet,

fly home to an early bed.

November 23, 2011

poem

Woodcock

Adapted for eating elsewhere your

beak a piccolo waiting for

a cue while chickadees, jays and

cardinals improvise and take

their solos.

poem

Letter In the Mail

Hauling water from

the creek, cutting

slab ice from the lake,

rending oil from a

whale, tapping keys

that strike the platen,

watching the hills

shed light for shadow,

committing to

memory every

line in her face,

drawn in quick sketch on

a secret page,

waiting days for the

letter written

over hours on

milk white paper

stitched with lines that hide

a message in

between wrought, penned words.

October 27, 2011

poem

Garbage Day

Apex of the round,

departure point for

points unknown, leaving

behind a clean slate

on which to compose

a fresh tale of need

and want met without

thought or grace or awe.

House's in a line

unmarked with the blood

of the lamb, offer

up styrofoam and

melon rinds instead

of innocent first

born sons. Sacrifice

to the off-shore gods

of low wages, buy-

in-bulk, race to the

bottom. The driver

leaves my can crushed on

the curb, lid sailing

away on the breeze.

November 3, 2011

Poem

Meditation

Words like contemplation and

center clambor for notice.

Life, the raven, the trickster,

lifts the lid on another

unexpected stew, a meal

to savor or choke on. Let's

say grace and pass clockwise, the

dish is hot. Looking inward,

horizon distant, sky shot

with contrails trailing those with

ticket punched and one free checked

piece of luggage. Below on

the ground facing east or west

or north, sitting cross legged,

hands upturned in stillness,

contemplating the center,

my attention wandering

toward what's next in the pot.

November 9, 2011

poem

Fridge (Form Over Function)

A sphere would be more pleasing,

a minor planet

casting shadows, reflecting

light, impending doom

just a roll away, squashed flat

for want of Pad Thai.

October 28, 2011

Poem

Knockout Blow

The Thrilla In Manila came to mind last night

after a Philip Levine poem read twice

without cracking the

code.

Luzon, your old beat, host to high stakes TV taunts.

The Fight of the Century but we missed

the bout, the knock out

blow.

Smokin' Joe, dead, Ali, blank, looped in soft, smudged frames.

You, turned Florida soil beneath granite

markers platted in

rows.

Somewhere between a dream state and may-as-well-read,

we touched gloves and returned to our corners

to wait for the

bell.

I granted you youth to keep the fight fair, two-ten,

a long reach, lid flipped, spilling rage, grinning.

Up my sleeve, the

itch

to mix my blood with your blood my sweat with your sweat,

absorb blows to my head, my ribs, turned cheek,

view you through cut

lids.

Then wade into your lethal right, annointing left,

injecting all I've got into one gloved

fist, my knockout

blow.

November 22, 2011