Borobudur night sounds
Progo River hurrying through the shallows
chuckling tokay booming his love song
waking everyone who hasn’t already filtered him out
crickets pulsing
airplane’s vacuum gush
shaka shaka shaka cicada beat
thin voices down the bank
the odd rooster going off early
rumble of traffic somewhere
casual scratching of an old mosquito bite
the river swirls them all together
transforms the angular noises
into a smooth wash of night sound
closes the day
In memory of Michal Rae Graber. Photos are from Old Sheep Meadows Nursery.
Michal
her skilled hands turned out wonders:
hemmed curtains and flowery aprons
perfect pies from the tiniest kitchen
heirloom roses and brand-new daylilies
gardens planned with secluded nooks and deliberate views
seven fiercely independent and loyal children
a crisp white Federalist farmhouse that only grew better with time
and a completely different desert adobe
warm brown with cornflower blue-glazed window frames
that gazed on cacti with open affection
she moved with surprising efficiency
wielded a sharpshooter shovel
with more grace and speed at 60
than I could muscle at 20
and drove the big old blue truck loaded with bouquets
through the Old Port’s maze without blinking
if you complimented her
she’d fold her glasses-on-a-string
lean across the table
say I don’t know
but widen her laughing eyes
and give her head a little shake
simultaneously accepting and denying your praise
she gave me hugs
and paid-odd jobs
a home away from home
and a wonderful forever-friend
her littlest girl
whose hair she’d brush
just for the soothing closeness
most of all she wished to be gracious
to leave the world more beautiful
than before her hard work began
and though she’s more than earned her rest
we can’t help but mourn
for the cozy old keeping room
will never be the same
explaining hot dogs to Europeans
hot dogs
plump taut hot flesh
nestled in warm soft bread bun
studded with red (tomatoes) and white (onions)
and a ribbon of ketchup
(not toe-mat-oh sauce)
crack the sound of the bat
the waft of steam from the warm bath
from which they’re drawn
or the crisp black stripes of caramelized skin
the hot red sizzle and smoke of the grill
or the woodsmoke mixed with cedar duff
of camping in the northwest
the hot packet of meat comfortably warming your palms
on a cold spring Little League night
the sinful carnivorous pleasure
of the hot dog joint
in Boulder’s sanctimonious heart
Smith’s spicy thick hot dogs
a taste of my childhood
made by my neighbor/friend’s family for generations
Sara’s – the venerable greasy spoon at the peninsula
we’d brave the line then hurry
to mix hot dog, ice cream, soda, sand
with sun sinking into the lake
the first time I tasted a Hebrew National dog,
considering converting
spring training in Phoenix
watching the Cubs
learning from Chicago masters
to add tomato and onion
There’s nothing quite like an American hot dog
(if you’re American
and eat beef).
summoning a sea turtle
Dear Mr. Turtle
come fly underwater
with your solid scaled wings
and your fine gentle beak
soar over the coral
the triggerfish and wrasses
the brittlestars and clams
flap your flippers
and sail our way
to the three pale fish
who wait breathing anxiously
for your sweet arrival
Dear Mr. Turtle
please gift us with your presence
during this brief visit to your home
half a world away from ours
and we will hum you a lullaby –
all that we have to give
that might suit your watery ways
under mosquito netting
inside the sheer wisp of fine netting
each outside light goes stretched and starburst
until sleep lets us surrender
to a false sense of safety
we enter and our mindset shifts
waking >> sleeping
apprehensive >> accepting
everyday >> romantic
common >> exotic
exposed >> protected
(partially)
each time I tug one gap closed
another springs in its place
impossible to fully close out
jungle
September: Equinox
an equinox with no pull of fall
this year there’ll be no
slowing-down shedding-time
no long inward-turning impulse
pictures of home bring yellow and reds
but more the sense we’re moving
at a different rate
to a different clock
not just 13 hours ahead
we’re in a time without seasons
without the rhythms our bodies know
chasing summer
while the people we love
watch for frost
power
the middle-aged men
consumed by their taste for power
suck the color out of each scene
each scarlet hibiscus = antivenom
undoing the drain of girls and beer
meanwhile I watch the smooth pewter waves
trying to go flat as glass
straining to tell them something
those lost boys don’t yet know
the power of submission
of turning their bodies
to catch the divine breath
that still would blow them toward
the Happy Isles
or the relief of unclenching their fists
from the executioner’s staff
and refusing to torture
one more soul
Danau Toba Dream
the lake shushes us to sleep
a sweet sloppy sighing lullaby
the whole black-blue basin jiggles
while this big world spins
another dark night streaked with
columns of staccato horizontal
dock- and boat-lines
and the unseen air is as heavy
with smoke and water
as a Varanasi ghat
mimpi indah, Samosir
the river grows
at lunch the friendly waiter explains
in a month from now
when the rains come
water will cover
all these rocks
we murmur in surprise
sit placidly on the same rocks
after our meal
retire to our room
and then the rain starts
slow at first
uneven pings that could be monkeys
then the usual short steady afternoon shower
then it changes, drives down in pounding lines
the whole scene a gray blur of
air displaced by water
shingles shoot past the open woven window
and the stream beside the lodge
becomes a chocolate surge
it pounds on like this all afternoon
until I wonder
what’s a cyclone like?
then I remember to check the river –
the rocks are gone, a month early
each one washed by
the galloping white waves studding
thick brown ropes of river
racing away from the rain
bringing the mountain down with it
Thanks to Cedar for helping to type this one up!
