Monday, September 1, 2008

The Guardia Civil Talks To a Stick Man

The guardia civil agent had his life arranged in his pocket
His wife and family wrapped around him safe in his mind
He knew the day was like a clock and this day was almost over.

He came upon a man so tall he had to gaze up to see the tired face
At first he thought it was a ghost or maybe a strange bird swept up from the tide
And seeing the dark eyes he knew that he knew almost nothing

He wanted to lay down his life his pain his history
He wanted to forget his parents and their hunger during the war
He wanted to turn to the manual of how to handle this sort of thing
But something ancient and primal sung inside of him.

He turned from the stick man and headed back to his jeep
Where payday and family dinners and things closer to his
Short reach of control waited
The tall shadow of a man was gone as he turned his head
And he thought of blue and his grandmother

looking towards fire

the boats had gathered over one
screaming ink spill of red
you could feel the tension as if
you too were perched on the helm of a little tottering craft
peering down into the big what of a journey

the air smelled like kelp and wood
you could almost imagine the rocking
and if you leaned into the wind
your destiny would all be presented in that red
it went deep as blood and you could swear it whispered something.

then there was a shout and the boats moved on
stopping at one mystery was not enough for this voyage
the boats would rest when each foot touched land
where hungry children and broken people could rest.