Two Poems

Fisherman

The Fisherman, Chico, CA (taken with a crappy cellphone)

Smoke casts over sky
burning cities of the north,
and moon rises red.

Charles whips the fly,
and I look on
as it sings and drops on still water.

It must have been so
ages ago with elder fathers, their sons.
I admire and fear his future

while grey twilight hides
fire in the mountains.
I strain on ancient words as if

former victims of bygone holocausts
still offer prayers to inform
response to what we here call suffering.

Can I take from them
and endure their calm rebuke?
Charles strips the line.

Unseen fly makes dark ripples
on dark water. Epicenter trembles.
I’ve felt it before,

words in a line telling me
to go where I do not want to go.
The fish erupts, then

plunges ‘neath quivering pole
to murky depths I know so well.
Better I should breathe

particulate food of muted perspective
than I should struggle for air.
I’ve felt it before,

words in a line telling me:
let the plane of water break down your face.
Body writhes. Mouth gapes.

I am slick with bitterness,
black eyes bulging.
Death praises me.

Black eyes bulging, they find
the fisherman intent as he pulls the hook,
his smile caught

between mirrored images:
moon and moon, hand and hand, sky and water.
Born from the frail edge of reflection

I return to myself.
I have felt the grip that can kill,
but did not.

Charles casts again,
and I see his dissatisfaction
curl like a whip to snap a perfect welt.

I am helpless.
I am a shadow fleeing.

~

Flood

Bear Hole after a heavy rain, Upper Park, CA

I left the concert hall ear-buzzed
and elated though I knew nothing
different would await me.

I dwindled with the crowd,
cut through deserted park to avoid
over-long sweep of the boulevard.

Stooped lights made small sanctuaries of path.
At the amphitheater, a pierced face
peered over stone-mason wall, quiet watch

for dealings behind. Upside down bicycle
must have been a sign.
Or metaphor.

I paused partway on bridge’s shallow arc
over the flood. Curling water glinted white
in an ever-changing script judged worthy

of momentary study for depth’s
push to rise. Behind me the moon
was a caustic mouth frozen mid-word,

neither grinning nor frowning.
Just as confused as I.
Clouds raced north over her face

making way for the next storm.
Water charged the amphitheater,
took the stage and front row seats.

Punks huddled far back in the dark.
And the flood’s cryptic words
bled out under my feet.