RodWords

Selections From 

OL' WHISPERSTICK IS BACK 

September 1991 to March 1995

         JOT

Jotting along the

white field paper-turf,

the mammoth ink ball glides.

Rolling   bowling   scrolling

blue pigment pathways across the open land.

Strange to be an atom,

and observe the horrible rutted-road

scraped into the tender weave,

My pen the iron word-roller,

ramming   slamming   rumbling 

flattening wild spandrels and tendrils of bark,

phlewing black oils in the stain-painted mesh,

Well... inky, molten, now tar-paved and dry.

I hear the simple rhythmic whisper,

I look to see the

slowly curving sticks that breed

the square,

its fields of neutral,

now a city-bright habitation

of arts.

Well, Pages do not hunger. Only hearts.

Years later, by this scurly scratching,

could I heal my world

with words? 

 Words from the Hluhluwe Umfolozi Game Reserve

         VELDT I

Out here in the wild,

the Veldt, 

wild flowers grow --

bursting from thorny branches,

nestled in the overgrowth

of twisting vine-like trunks, from which

small shoots spiral, fresh-green,

wrapping limbs with thorns like fat needles,

protruding from aged, turning tree-man arms...

We are taking a walk

in the world of the animals.

Wild choops and chortles in the distance, rise from

long stretches of mountainous valley, and

crop-bunches all foresty,

like continents on the globe

spread across the grassy hills.

Clouds haze the distance, as we

walk under leafy bonnets,

observing sparkles of afternoon light

on dew-dappled cactus.

And at night--

the stars,

      the stars!

            THE STARS!

         VELDT II

The car went bumpety bumpett

down the dirt-rock road,

flanked by wild bush

and strange trees,

as we drove the endless trails

in and out of sunshine.

Many kilometers passed:

no sign of the animals.

You search the sprawling weeds and amber grasses:

nothing.

Then suddenly, a two-ton rhino steps into the road

and faces you -- horn to bumper.

Then suddenly, giraffes waltz over to nibble on treetops,

monkeys scrabble into view,

groups of zebras pass...

they are everywhere.

You see a tapered log,

laying at the bank of the river

    (a dark green lagoon, 

      shored by lush ferns, palms, bushes)

you see the log --

then it moves sideways and slips under the surface,

radiating ripples, 

leaving only a few dancing bubbles on the water --

and you shiver --

at the brilliant disguise 

of the crocodile. 

Rocks move --

they are not rocks: they are animals.

A leaf flutters and:

a red-breasted bird shoots out, chirppling.

The car drives on,

and the

animals are

watching.

         VELDT III

Bungalow morning.

Outside, the wild bird orchestra,

cooing, clucking, squawking,

whistle-tootling like repetitive jazz-riffs,

tong-tonging -- much like 

a mallet striking the high bars of a marimba,

in perfect time:

tink -- tink -- tink -- tink!

Then, above it all,

a mocking laugh, lunatic-crazy, echoed by long

boomerang slide-tone wailing,

two, three times,

Then, like the salt-water bubbles, pin-popping the beach

                                                 after a splash,

happy little birds:

chirpee.    chirpee.    chirpee.

"Crey-Dah-Lah!" a massive bird answers.

"Hee-hoop!  Hee-Hoop!" another creature replies.

While Shane spreads jam

over toast.

Composed For Composers

CHOPIN:

                    Scenes in Shifting Snow

BEETHOVEN:

                             Mountains, Valleys, Rivers,

                             Skyscrapes and Uproarious 

                             Collisions of Joy

PROKOFIEV:        

                                Angels and demons at play

                                Slopes, under changing skies

                                Mathematicians with their furious calculations

                                Large farm machines chomping through fields of wheat:

                                Glittering turbulations sprayed high into the air

BACH:

                 The microscopic

                 Supra-Galactic matrix of life,

                 Atoms, nebulae, skin, blood

                 Cities, children, shimmering,

                 A complex grid of

                 Glad.  

    

         My Friend, The Knot

Halfway up my shoelace: a knot.

Thin black, papery-taper, knotted.

Yanked and jerked, 

wound round and round,

pulled in and through,

cinched to a tiny-tight ball,

denying my fingernails any access

for recovery.

I pry, I probe, I pull, I attempt to

gently claw the rounded lace into its original

length and line,

but, no.

The knot is strong. So,

I'm thinking of Brian now.

Bound in circles of confusion,

spun in strands of sorrow by

the saddest implosion of all:

the death of Ian, your two-year old son.

And your soul, now

yanked into a knot.

Bound by grief, anger, and

the horrid silence of unanswered prayers. 

And you,

cursing the God who gave,

cursing the God who took away.

Understandingly knotted, denying all

hope of recovery. 

Oh, my dearly beloved knot,

             what can I do?

Sketch of Jesus, drawn in 1975

         child

Now, my friend, my knotted friend,

I am walking in your footsteps.

We saw the hand of God give a precious gift.

But when the hand was opened,

behold, the hand was

empty.

Our living, pre-born child is no longer alive.

I understand the knot that constricted you.

Until today, my knot was tight, until today when one thread of one line of one part of

the big knot showed just the smallest, tiniest chance of becoming

Unknotted.

When I heard the Bible/poet man say:

We will cross into eternity and meet our dear child.

He said our child

Went leaping from the womb into the pools of everlasting light,

there to splash in a thousand radiant dawns, and somehow, later,

When we come stepping slowly, barefoot into the same pools,

We will recognize our child, and our precious child

Will know us, as well.

I feel my knot unraveling, slowly... 

How I pray the same for you. 

SONG OF THE

MORNING ROBIN

Robin Lark,

sweet morning lark,

you sing one note

over and over and over and over and over and

over and over and over and over and over again.

One note:

whistle-chirp,

one note only.

One silver

slide-up song,

crisp-chorus,

whistle-chirp,

whistle-chirp,

whistle-chirp,

pulling my

head out of 

slumber and

into a 

glorious light.

Morning Robin,

your simple

song is

Christ.

I grew up with this funny trumpet-lamp, sketched in 1975.