Clay Shwab

Edited by Emily Anderson

 

Farm to Fable

 

Like a 5-year old with a too-heavy Easter basket, I have wandered about the farm, finding stories left lying about. They are everywhere: in the pacing fields and orchard; in the steady old barn, made of giant timbers drawn from the woods with great efforts many lives ago; around the spring house made of stones from the pond that was made by the springs; along, and in, the river and deep in the woods. Sometimes I find them buried in the grass; sometimes they are just there, right in front of me, and sometimes I have to be very still and very quiet, and then they creep out. The basket is almost full, so I best take some out while I am still able to carry it.

I cannot tell them well or as they deserve, but I can show them to you.

 

Now It Begins

There are stories here.
Where to begin?

With the snow? Not the gentle kind
That stops a man in a wood to wonder.
But a determined snow, one with a purpose
that has just begun.

With the dog? This one thinks.
You can see him thinking. Of the snow and more.

With the girl? She was prepared.
For the cold. But not for this snow.
(those gloves don’t fit)

With the barn? It is strong.
It doesn’t care the snow is coming.
Those stones were placed to hold up
great, hand-hewn long ago, timbers.
Some thirty-foot-long and still with bark.
We are in the south.

So, there are stories here,
Look closely. Let them show you.

 

It Is Cold

It is cold
and there is nothing to eat
as you sit so red
on your bough seat

It is cold,
new snow has your seed enshroud
as it sits, so white,
on landscape, betrayed
by leaf and flower

 

No Need to Bow in Shame

Oh, no need to bow in shame
early daffodils
(though it was for you I came
across familiar hills
full with expectation,
racing the rising day sun,
to greet a new season)

We were surprised the same
By last night’s snowfall
(though it was for me it came,
it knows my love, that’s all,
of comfort from its blankets,
that cover the remnants
of faded fall brilliance)

We were surprised the same
By last night’s snowfall
(though you’ll rise to be tamed each summer,
then she by fall.
I, in bubble yet unlanced
granted by Chance
hope to see another dance).

No, no need to bow in shame early daffodils.

 

The Gas Lamp

Like slowly turning up the gas lamp
in times long gone
at phlegmatic pace
comes misty, pre-spring dawn.
The mists hang on
as if, for us,
to stay that persistent light
a few moments more

 

The Drama Queen

Envy the lily.
For not her petal or hue,
nor for those Extras—
pads perfectly planed arranged, seemingly askew
(and yet, just so, for maximum show).

But for proud entrance and exeunt,
as if, for her alone,
the sun set, rose, and shone.

And for her curtain call
when the grand band thunders in,
so she can take another bow
to enter again when that music stops.

 

Our Rodin Moment

In our Rodin moment our thoughts are stone.
Your stare says “Now what!”
I’ll wait– you first.

By the same force
we have been drawn from our safe place.
You, from well-planned riverbank tunnels,
I, from storm refuge farmhouse onto water glutted paths.

 

The River’s Rare Rise

The river’s rare rise
transformed the bipedal trail
to one more suited for your type.
Curiosity, no species-specific muse,
has put us here.
If not for her, we would never have met.I am glad,
a sentiment I fear unshared.

Now, Your call.

 

An Invisible Flute

In her soft cotton dress–

the green one with purple flowers,
bought when she first opened the shop–
she thought it bright and quite fitting,
and it had been, then–

with fingers that play in the air,
as they will,
on an invisible flute,
she clicks the clasp
on the delicate chain
with her mother’s little blue cross.

It had taken a while.

 

The Petal Tinkerer

Tinkerer of petals
from apple blossom to bloom
your wings now perfectly still
decry frantic pistil tickling, like fingers on braille.

A grand puppeteer
has brought us both here
with mixed purpose—
pawns of a master.

Or the petals perhaps.
You to glut on now’s nectar
me to know of then’s.

Or the tree,
to spread its domain
when I return
to taste the unconsidered fruit of your labors,
and then toss them aside.
You and your blossoms
will long be gone.

Or was it you
for my seeing
and for that crow?

 

Two Swans

I do not mean to tempt you from your garden
or to scare you away.
It’s a mess out here.

Let me watch for a while
floating side by side
one looking east, the other west
a couple none the less.

Your water is greener on the other side.
And calmer, too.
Let nothing tempt you from your garden
or scare you away.

It’s a mess out here

 

The Designer’s Skill

A frugal set designer placed
this tree and limb
to backdrop whatever plot
a day might bring:

Storm’s conductor, arms splaying,
baton clutched in hand
Evening stage for a lonely cricket,
with chorus to blend

Display for fertile summer glory
Platform for a new-snow story

Children’s choir sprouting a new spring
Squirrel’s plank from dog-spite to sing

Finch retreat or launch for hawk
Slinking cat on which to stalk

Palette for fall’s crass brashness
Last stand! –that cat’s fall from rashness

Perch for lovely mockingbird lies
Curtains through which dramatic moons rise

Fairy stage to find solace here
To douse nature’s doubt that brought them to tear

Whatever theme or Puckish shadow’s offence
The designer’s skill will assist forth-hence

 

The Spider, The Frog, and the Koi

Dancing on the pond’s green surface
a frantic spider flits along the
(just too high) stone wall
with total abandon.

The emerald frog and fixed yellow mouth
is purposeful in pursuit.
The red-spotted koi, too.

The koi moves ahead,
Nosing aside the flopping frog
now scampering forward
along the great fish’s back.
They, like a sailor drawing in his anchor line,
hand over hand,
are gaining.

In an impressive splash,
the spider loses

 

No Contest

God’s rolling pin,
Lording mercilessly,
bowling over the nightscape.
A strike every time.

 

Old Dirty Turtle

From what source rises this armored soul,
With plated heart reflecting mal-intent,
Slung not only from without
Within, volcanic discontent?

An impassioned heart can be stilled by love-soured doubt
By perverse imps who prowl unconsciousness—
A demon’s vow of pompous bliss
An out-of-balance emphasis.

Assume the source is self-perseverance
A heart in darkness is still a heart—
Untouched, unscathed by observance
Or hemorrhage from cupid’s dart

Intrepid ventures beyond this haven
Grant carrion for that hungry raven

 

Katydid

Like         a sonogram
of             a baby’s heart
bold        hypnotic sound
comes   the siren’s dart

Sweet rhythms   penetrate
a sweating            summer eve
and pro-    phylactic dark
to form      the spider’s weave

Seductress     of the night
omni-presently   unseen
shrill rasps      delight
in luscious      melody

“Become      the submissive.
feel unsaid  memory.
entranced   and enchanted,
come to me. ”

 

The Wealth of Ponds

When last I saw you in early spring
Drawn by the song of the green king
You hopped leaf to leaf, so glad and free
here then there, a joy to see
each new leaf, by competition, unrestrained
like a fresh idea, promise of lilies did bring

Now, in waning days of summer, I come along
From too long not hearing your evening song
But what have we here?
From under glut harvest you peek, small and frail
a result of unconstrained growth and economy of scale

Compounded interest had sounded so grand
The garden now littered by some invisible hand

 

Residue

My way took me to this battered tree
Long past its days of flexing change and spring’s renew
Impatient storms had torn, what patient age had yet to.

But no yield to persistent rust,
For in alien promise layers burst
From wasting tree, renewed purpose

Strange texture lacking in hue
Beauty sprung from life’s residue

 

Shadowless

My shadow on a tree at night,
lit by the light of the moon.
Forgotten till this frightful sight
Shadowless comes too soon.

 

There’s a way I know

There’s a way I know.
Lined on either side
with pretty yellow flowers
rising overhead.

They turn to watch the sun
as it moves along.
We could follow it
for our while.

But you might like another instead.

I don’t know
just where it goes,
but far as I can see
the grass is soft

But you might like another.

 

The Visit

The trail he had made with his sons was now just a memory of night travelers. It had been for a while.

The weight of the leaves on his worn boots was a comfort as he came to the stream that had been the path’s purpose.

He stood there.

He wore the fresh colors like an aged coat that knows your form better than a shuffling old tailor.

No words disturbed the moment.

They lacked the strength.

He felt the scene with a slow pan, stopping to drink from the different wells.

Across the still stream, flinty cliffs

 

river birch ornaments impossibly clung
with bony fingers
that clawed at the rock
looking for grip and sustenance

 

Blue reflecting itself, itself on leaves
Double this double that
twin worlds ascend, descend
a reflected lie to call out, loud

 

“A simple stone could break this spell
cast as I came to see and take in this well
of ludicrous beauty.

It was some forest imp or river nymph
who knew the state of my heart,
and so to me sent this twice given dart.

Well, I too can cast, though without charm,
such joy I cannot bear.

So take this harm to shatter your sorcery”

 

Mockingbird

Snow, the weatherman was saying
Its 38 degrees and raining
Now hush little baby, don’t say a word

Absence makes the heart grow fond
The darkest hour is just before dawn
Papa’s gonna buy you a mockingbird

Work hard, persist, and achieve
In Christ believe, comfort receive
And if that mockingbird don’t sing

All things come to he who waits
Time will heal and the pain abates
Papa’s gonna buy you a diamond ring

The pen is mightier than the sword
Praise the Lord, Praise the Lord
Papa’s gonna buy us a mockingbird.

 

Caught

Caught,
stilled, and surprised,
the lilies

so occupied with their daily dance
(though the signs were there–
the chilling air,
leaves green then red then brown
and tumbling down)

are locked in the grip of last night’s freeze

 

Was Says It’s So

Was says it’s so, so am is as it is
Let me let it be

The pushers put this spring house here
Let me let it be

Will will say it would be far better to be
as before the pushers put this springhouse here
Let me let it be