Return (June 1991)

I

I awake at 9 a.m. to the sound of the rain

and can't get back to sleep again.

So I sit on the porch and watch the puddles form,

watch the black bird bathing in the rain.

Some would call this a portent;

Blackbird, grey cloud, chill teasing rain...

But I know better than to look at the future like that.

I don't look at it at all.

I have this day to listen to the rain

as it cleanses my world

washes it clean again.

~~~~~~~~~~




II

Later on that day I find you blowing bubbles.

Like the bubbles in puddles I know that they are good.

They float away with the clouds, just wandering,

No place particular to go. And I can go too.

You say you find four-leaf clovers as we walk you home.

You share your luck. It comes off in your hand.

And in your lips

I feel myself going with the bubbles and the clouds

and returning with the rain.

~~~~~~~~~~



III

Soldiers have been coming home for days.

Students are returning their books.

Much knowledge passes through these walls.

Many deaths for dollars have kissed this year.

But I can only die to myself time and again.

Today I only live to hear the music play,

to feel the wind and the rain coming down

to explore the world

within

whatever makes us

who we are

you and I

and wherever we can go...

~~~~~~~~~~




IV

I have no fear of darkness

of lightning and of rain.

Although the storm is violent

all becomes clean again.

~~~~~~~~~~

copyright1991anthonybaldwin

written June 1991, Purdue University-West Lafayette, IN)

The Firewater

I.

Sometimes it is hinted at in whispers.

Breezes. The wide-eyed cattle who cling

side by side, flank to flank bawling at first and loudly

and then silent know.

It is the pressure. They feel it

When there is not yet a cloud

They smell it in the air

like the tell-tale smell of liquor on the breath.

They smell it and they know.

The breezes hint more strongly

the air becomes colder by degrees

until we, too, begin to huddle for warmth.

We smell it, too. We feel it

now. A drop...not to worry.

And this is the beginning of the flood.

II

It always starts slowly

Pitter patter....children scatter

to find shelter

leaving their games behind.

Helplessly herded and hushed.

Hide-and-seek no more.

Bawling, clinging to Mother's side

and searching in her eyes

which reflect only the grey approaching

and coldness.

Some would say we should have seen it coming

In their restlnessness.

And some would blame them.

Regardless, it comes.

Slowly.

The Firewater!

III

The winds whimpering winds to a wail

and alarming drops tear into, onto, over...

Pitter patter...doesn't matter

We tell ourselves

Surely it will pass.

but the gutters now are overflowing.

Now the windows are blurred

We fear and we can't reach out

to wipe them dry.

The gutters are overflowing

the firewater pushes, tears, shoves

Throwing up from the gutter here

and there a dead leaf. Soaked.

It begins to become apparent that our Mother

impermeable Nature is not always kind.

and the windows are blurred.

The windows are closed

to keep the storm out

to keep us from the storm's screams, or

perhaps we don't want the neighbors to

see us cowering like cattle

flank to flank.

but now, of course, we can't see

outside. The windows are bleary.

We want to hide and seek but

We can't see past the tearing rain.

We can't see the playground.

We want our games.

IV.

Perhaps it is then that we realize

Walls are useless, windows blinding

and a roof no protection.

We look again to Mother,

Searching her eyes to see

only the grey.

She struggles angrily with the storm.

Storm opposing storm

wind on wind

Jetstream and breath

rain opposing ice

searching her eyes to see

Only stormy reflections.

what now (?)

We look for a father.

Father lies in the grasp of the storm.

We fear and we can't reach out

We fear that he shall be driven by the wind and tearing rain

like so many leaves, soaked.

Driven until he lies like so many dead

Leaves in stagnant puddles

Tossed, broken, and soaked to lie

where the wind can no longer lift like leaves.

Soaked. Leaves. Left,

Mother has blown away. Impermeable.

The wind whispers now. Screaming

left to children.

V.

Orphaned, now the storm is over

Bawling calves wander restlessly

heads down finding stagnant reflections

in sterile puddles

searching for mothers and dry ground.

We breathe deeply, now the storm is gone.

We fill our lungs, and eyes.

We find a sterile world.

We breathe the sterile air

and shield our eyes from

stagnant reflections in sterile puddles.

We, homeless, search as well. Until

We find a father's charred body

Drowned,

But as the grey subsides

A reflection in the skies

Reminds us of the wondring eyes

of a father. A reflection

of a father. A reflection

of a father. A reflex...

I suppose it is a reflex.

No...a dance...of degrees.



By intense effort

slowly, clumsily, eagerly

by degress

by the call of some divine voice

(like Lazarus)

and as we watch in awe

Father comes forth.

Father regains life.



The stagnant water drains.

A new life begins.

copyright1992anthonybaldwin

Sonnet #18

(a parody)

Shall I compare thee to a bale of hay?

Thou art more dusty and far less neat.

Rough winds do toss thy mop about, I'd say,

Which looks far worse than hay a horse would eat.

Sometime thy squinty eye looks into mine

Through stringy, greasy hair that needs be trimm'd,

And ne'er a horse had such a stench as thine,

As though in stagnant sewers thou hast swimm'd.

Thy disgusting image shall not fade;

This my tortured mind and soul doth know.

O, I should love to hit thee with a spade;

And with that blow I hope that thou wouldst go.

So long as I can breathe, my eyes can see,

And I can run, I'll stay away from thee...

(sorry, Will)

copyright1991anthonybaldwin

Espero curar-me de te em alguns dias.
Debo deixar de fumar-te, de beber-te, de pensar em te.
Será possível?
Segundo as prescrições da moral em turno...Pode até ser.
Me receitam tempo, abstinência, solidão.
O que é que se sabe disso?
Ninguém quer lembrar do que quer dizer "compromisso".

Parece-te bom que te queira mais um dia só?
Não é muito, tal vez é poco...será suficiente?
Num dia se podem reunir todas as palavras de amor
que já se dizerem sobre a terra e pode lançá-los no fogo.
Vou acalentar-te com essa fogueira de amor queimado.
E também o silencio.
Porque as melhores palavras de amor estão entre duas
pessoas que não digam nada.

Deve-se queimar também esse outro linguagem lateral e subversivo do que ama.
(Você sabe como te digo que te quero quando digo:
"qué calor, ne", "quer um cafe, meu amor?", "adoro as comidas que você cozinha", "ja é noite"...
Entre a gente, a um lado de sua gente e as minhas,
te falo "ja é tarde", e você sabe que digo "te amo".)
Deve-se queimar-as...todas as palavras...
Não restará uma única palavra, e a gente ficará muda.

Uma noite, um dia mais para reunir todo o amor do tempo.
Para dar-te-o. Para que faz com ele o que você queira:
guardá-lo, acariciá-lo, botá-lo no fogo.
Não serve, é certo.
Só quero um tempo para entender as coisas.
Porque isso que estou vivendo é muito parecido a estar saindo
da luz dos céus para voltar ao escuridão do manicômio,
para sufocar-me na fumaça dessas palavras de amor.
Para queimar-as, ou queimar-me nas chamas que surgem.

--
copyright 12/2008 - anthony baldwin