DON WALLIS — Three Poems
Falling Vegetables
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To Arne Nybak
painter and puppeteer
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What's this painting
tell me about the rural draftsman
who fled the itchy roots and spores
in the country—the boy, Arne,
who threw himself and his brushes
and paint box at the tall stores
in New York and Los Angeles?
Decorated windows, floors and ceilings
with hangings, sculptures and murals
to earn his living, to learn something,
to become valuable... Only to
drive his automobile off
eventually on vacation,
stop for a short rest,
see the local color and daydream
about someone bringing the arts in
and getting them to flourish in the area—
someone else—to make it—
not himself—before he
opened the door and fell out
much like these onions and mushrooms
falling out of a basket
out here with us in the field.
Papyrus And The Reed
I've heard a hundred different people
trying to express what it was like
for them to breathe,
stirring among the papyrus reeds
along the banks of the upper and lower Nile
long before the anonymous scribes
of ancient Egypt. And
I've read a thousand writers since
who've either tried to inscribe
the harsh sounds of relatives arguing
their way into a disaster...
or the soothing sounds of brothers and sisters
lightening their hearts in laughter.
All my life I've heard
the screech of poets' fingers
scraping the sky, the ground, the water...
searching for words—for sounds—
writing about their own experience
on this earth; and I have allowed
them to help me let my vision
become heaven and my life be a toy
held in the bending fingers
of all the other happy children
living here in the world.
Dreaming
I still want to look
into the Buddha's eyes
and see Moses
crying glorious tears of joy
when he finally gets to see
Jesus pulling Peter and Judas
in close to him, telling jokes,
at the Marriage of Cana
while they're drinking the wine.
I want to enter an oasis
in the desert
and kneel with Mohammed
to pray to Allah to thank Him
for all the water
I have already been given
in my life... and for the bread,
and the dates and the prayers.
I want to float on my back
on the Ganges under the stars
and inhale a mouthful of smoke
from Gandhi's ashes
to get close enough to him
to tell him something funny
so I can see his huge big grin again
and his one little tooth.
I want to see
the life around me...
to see the abundance;
and to look at all my dreams,
and hope. I want to be
in the world with other people
who are grateful and happy enough
to want to share themselves with others.
I want to see people...
to see their faces...
to see what's real...
to see the conflicts
among my own mind, mouth and hands
and the agreements as well.
I want to hold my eyes wide open
with my own two fists...
to reach deeper into myself
and pull every weed
and hindering thing out,
so I can cultivate
the rich top soil in me
and water it well with the good rain,
my tears... I want
to feel the soreness
deep in my neck, in my shoulders
and in my lower back
and take another drink of water
and eat something.
I want to sow the seeds
and grow the crops
for more than two or three,
or even four or five hundred lifetimes
before the very air that holds me up
lays me down and I finally collapse
and the breath of God
leaves my mouth,
my tongue
and my lips.
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