1993

David Sheppard

Poems 1993

(The following poems were published in the
The Live Poets Society 1993 Anthology.)

After all, it really was her blue eyes,
full of the sky and swirling,

just windmills. But as they turned,
through them I

saw the flow of thoughts,
saw her life surface through blue.

I saw dervishes
pulling silent words from deep

within, drawing to the surface
a potential she would never

have revealed by choice,
a power to love,

told by tattletale eyes,
told by runaway windmills.

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The Uncertainty Principle

The bashfulness of an atom constitutes
a chameleon of self-doubt, performing
a jealous preoccupation behind
an ephemeral veil. This fiery vacuum,
populated by only a hint, a tinge
of matter, conjures a gossamer motion.
Always spinning, agitated, it turns
upon itself and vanishes: an electron,
reappearing as a cloud of statistics.
The reflected Narcissian image feeds
on the incestuous vision. Mocking
the pining Echo, the answer always
rings crooked, incestuous.

Negligence has its own way
of proceeding, it own intuition.
Languid, the babbling primate lives,
following some strange astrology
or psychology of indifference until
consciousness, that surrogate of reality,
bedrock of percept, stirs, crystallizing
the methodic order. Cornered by
the pressure of the present, civilization
stiffens to fossil, but ducking quickly
into Fate's antechamber: Evolution
carrying a clipboard full of statistics
for a new generation.

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Grandparents

The night before my grandmother died,
she came to me in a dream.
We walked out back of their home
where I used to play in the dirt as a kid and
we talked of our short time together here on Earth.
She had come to say farewell.

Last night I said a short prayer before sleep,
a silent prayer,
prompted by unemployment,
loneliness and the guilt of past mistakes.
It summoned my grandfather to populate another
of my dreams, this one some

seventeen years following his death.
He had once
reneged on a promise to pay me
a certain wage for work I did as a kid.
He unzipped the cocoon of death he now inhabits
and told me not to worry.

That old farmer was dressed in a new suit
and tie, had a fresh
haircut. Before I kicked him
out the door, I asked him to hug me. I
wasn't going to pass up this one last chance. Besides
he owed me.

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Drum

Listen to me, he whispered.
Bring your drum, come
with me into the woods.
We will sit around the fire,
tell war stories, listen to
our mothers' heartbeat.

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Awakening

Think of cotton, baby chicks
and all things soft and warm.

Think of down from angel wings,
fermenting fern on a forest floor.

Think of the slow dawn of death
as it crawls up the cold eyelid of morning.

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Tea Time

I had tea with my wife this morning,
or perhaps I should say, her teacup.
It is white Noritake with green and
blue flowers, a little silver band
around the rim. I found it sitting alone
at the back of the cupboard while
I was packing to move. I don't know
what happened to its saucer. I still
run across old pieces of my daughter's
clothes. She too disappeared suddenly
and without a trace. She left more than
socks: bras, skirts, blouses, panties.
Perfect packing material for that teacup.

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The Woman

When the winds blow,
when the trees sing,
they bring a forecast of you.
They speak in the language
of bird flight, of snakes' tails
scribbling a living sand secret.

Speak to me, Wind.
Speak to me in the language
of trees. Speak of her
through drifting sand markings,
and the murmur of rustling leaves.

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