Wondering a Plenty: Three Poems by Ben Weaver

 

Wooden Axle and the Wasteland of Trains

Jeffy at the spigot

those eyes like wind through bullet holes

or a sink full of dirty pans

motorcycle clouds

jackstrawed telephone poles.

Went to see the beekeeper

a rope hanging from an oak

leaves on the kitchen floor

her breasts like snow

falling through a torn screen.

Root poems crow footing up her arm

is how the world ends

sister coming home through the corn

old Work Bench Face and his midnight thieves

building the railroads a wasteland.

Out of pine shadows

the re-gather begins to congeal

whispering totems make fire

from scattered orange peels

and boxcars clanking up the moon.

Jeffy up near the engine

singing Nobody Knows the Trouble

shoveling hallelujah from the avalanches

smoke and laughter rise

and once more go between stars.

And so Little Sister protects

the wandering needlework

of the forsythia and the despoblados

puts blue on the rivers and streams

weighted with stones into her many ferny loops.

Those who knew what the forest had in mind

before Wooden Axle rolled up

are standing in the doorways

refusing Old Work Bench Face

and the conquerors entry.

This time the stories will be told by the

rare touchwood and quiet mossery

Jeffy at the 6 burner

Little Sister rolling out the dough

because generosity is how you prepare for a rainy day.

New Great Explorers

We come up in the bottoms

through the brambles,

the streets, and single tracks,

the river carries its shoulders

out through the fields,

every time it rains

crows post on snag wood

and swallow stones

from the holes in an old lightening bolt’s shoe

we are the new great explorers,

we saw the legs off, sit on the ground,

plant water and moon smoke in our

shoulder blades, pedal joints,

we wait in the stems,

like sun light, rope swings

towel less swims

and rooster crows passing in apple trees

we go forward by circles

abounding by and by

as salt from the oceans collects on our skin

going back up cloudless

coming back down again

this time as fishtails and black-eyed peas

we live like coyotes

listening to sagebrush

counting the days between rain

we know the weather by being out in it

know the way, by watching it unravel,

as a white horse shows red dust

or an orange thread pulls forth from a seam.

we are the new great explorers

self-willed, seeds of sun expanding in the shadows

in places where the rivers come together

and the herons listen to frogs and spider webs,

we make the wind exist

make blue sky out of our breath,

through the brambles,

the streets, and the single tracks

we claim the day with our legs

we are the new great explorers

we are the bicyclists.

Bike Shack

String the boot print moon up in the window

scrape some sand and twigs together and sit down

this be my bike shack

fold up a few onion skins

stuff them under the door to keep out the draft

I will light a fire.

Sweep the beans off the counter into the grinder

swear to the swift birds

the river current

them cold-outback stars

You know truth be in the ditch ice

stovepipe pines, wondering snowflakes

and brilliant revolts.

Uncle Whistle Bones and Hawk Eye nephew

toted a canvas bag stuffed with wolverine

and dingo dreams back up to the cave

then lit snag wood and Jewelweed into a pinnacle fire

danced shadows onto the limestone walls

perpetuated freedom, carved songs,

outlaws, shantymen, gandydancers.

Last time, a lightning bolt from sister Chestnut’s chimney

blew a heart through the speckled dawn,

left Gramma out in a rainstorm

clutching porcupine quills and horse bones

swearing to the garden loam

listen here she say,

we better chase the shrieking jays out

and don’t avoid your heart any longer

nor violate your purpose here on earth

it be a dark road

fly down it with light

hold tight, hold tight

now you hear.

And to you sweet single track

dark wood worm, mighty aspen bridge

if we cook, love, and build our adventures

from the limitations of whatever is at hand

the result will always be a surprise

made of its own proportion.

This be so in the shaky morning light

this be so in the stone skipping dusk

with legs all a burn in circles

this be the way, this be our lost trail

dog hearts of thicket, wondering a plenty

the land is everlasting.

River Bottoms

Braided Creek

Manitou

Chequamegon

Sawtooth

Crosby

Black Dog

Shoot those gullies full of half-moons and steelhead

tell the kids I went chasing stumps

hunting mushrooms among mossy rocks

riding the hills to let the wind be known

winding back down the long way home

fog and tea leaves, rose and cabbage

only a few lost rovers will find it

tell them, this be my bike shack

stay long as they want

can’t say when I’ll be back.