Ref

Dinosaur Valley

Here's a poem of mine which originally appeared in descant 2002, volume 41. I just thought of it because of a recent trip.


Dinosaur Valley


We crossed the low river on large stones
To where barricades held back and routed
The water to reveal the prehistoric tracks
Pressed in a portion of dry riverbed.
None of it was as exciting as we had hoped.
Then the rain came sprinkling on a light breeze,
Growing heavier as we headed for the car
Until it seemed when we were all loaded in
That we were submerged in the soaking gusts
Rinsing tourists, cameras, and sunshades away.

So we drove back into town, to the square,
To browse the overpriced antique shops,
Owned by unseen middle-agers,
But well stocked with elderly ladies
Versed in histories and obscure objects.
I hunted through a thicket of canes
Until I caught hold of one with a lizard carved
As if creeping upward towards my hand.
I have no need for a cane, as of yet,
But I studied the intricate pattern of scales
Cut into being long before my birth,
As we sipped our rural lattes,
So good, and served by a beautifully normal girl.

With no intent to stay, we are staying,
Imbedded in a flimsy motel
Until the rain decides to tie itself off.
The clear morning gave away no sign
As we headed out for what was only to be
A day trip to enliven vague memory,
A chance to wipe the glass of the display,
And brush the sand from the circular fossils
We stumble upon from time to time,
Just to see if they live up to the pulsing warmth
They once were, or if that warmth never was
And only seems to have been when looking back
Between the mounds of collected essays.

A small plant sprouts from under the baseboard
Beneath the bathroom sink. Drip of the faucet.
This motel may hold a little longer.
I lie in bed and listen to the rain,
Hearing each distinct drop chasing another,
Crashing and running from the roof,
Plunging through the night into buried streets and lots,
Into every roof, into dumpsters and gutters,
Onto a bicycle leaning against a wall,
Motionless, all its wheels poised on the tip of turning,
And through the trees into the swollen river,
The river crawling out, absorbing,
Filling the prehistoric steps
The way darkness fills my shoes
As I slip them under the edge of my bed.

Our Hostess Masquerades as Eve

Buckle Up

Passage

St. Francis, in his youth, discovers the seed passes through the bird and into the womb

The Discovery of Fire

An old collage

Here's one of the first collages I made over a decade ago (1995, to be exact). Monica and I were making collages one evening in the apartment we shared. Monica, do you still have the one you made? I remember it included a fairy ( I think) and several images linked together making a branch.

In the end

Swiss Fertility Goddess