Written by Lonn Pressnall
An old cock pheasant
Burnt orange sky
Fades to Black
First star no longer alone
Overgrown twin morning doves
lie flat in the spruce nest
irises smile nearby.
Brown puppy dances under
Small white moth.
Death and Eulogy (for Linda before she left us)
Dreams which do not always
Carry you over troubled waters or
Stormy air...these images
Flashing from a timeless zone.
I must relinquish. O' yes,
Struggles as a salmon coming home.
But...letting go in a collective
Sense of unclasping the millions
Of little brittle fingers which
Clutch at my remaining sanity.
Breathing...Hatha...sun and moon...
rain and, yes, ...the stars!
To the Memory of David Foley
A gentle man of reason and wit
Surrounded by paper and books
A friendly, helpful fellow with
Fresh flower in his lapel.
To be defined and documented
As a real human being who
Could laugh and smile...smoke
A cigar and continue reading.
Threshold of Dreaming
Prenatal Ghosts murmur prayers
Heard by poets and madmen
While teetering on the threshold.
I felt as though I was sitting inside my skull
With my knees pressed against my chest
And as the many colored smoke rings
Drifted from me,
The breeze caught them.
That was the last I ever saw of those days.
O how my eyes strained to catch
The shell man's nimble fingers;
O how my eyes dazzled at the bright colored
O how the soap bubble prisms longed to be
All those days and more were mine when
Merlin ruled my senses.
Time swirls at me
as endless chains of solid objects
Hang like a chromosomic pattern
In s p a c e.......
In constant slow motion.
And all other things
STOOD STARKLY BEFORE MY EYES.
Thus chaos reigned upon all those days.
There could be no more miracles.
So, I made all things, all events,
All people, all existence a miracle.....
Following a vaporous prayer over the Threshold of Dreaming.
Mother/Creator's Child of Grace
There is a special time in art's creation when you must not
Stare into the yawning abyss of mother/creator
Indiscriminately criticize the newly born child/art.
Rather wisely be patient and stand
In awe of the wondrous event.
After a time, the miracle will crawl
And stand and walk and run and fall
To earth again. You may then judge openly
The quality of its fall from grace.
Go now and be silent.
After a rain
tiny toads dot the campsite
on the canoe's bow
a dragonfly lands
resting a long while
flat against a tree
a light green frog
beneath clear water
pick walleye bones clean
long paddle across Moose Lake
a Styrofoam cup
Robert Ingram Jr.: Man of the world
Golden throated notes soaring skyward baritone to tenor and back again.
Earthy dark nuance inflected and intoned with
Rich Italian mocha and sparkling champagne.
Standing center stage erect and proud bravely singing, acting,
Speaking in metered phrases: A Man of the World.
Negro, African-American, Black and Beautiful... the learned man
Courteous, friendly, ready to share his love of theatre, music,
Black history in impeccable English , French, German, or Spanish.
At home with his plants, busy aquarium, and clutter of memorabilia,
Listening to jazz, cooking fried shrimp or baked chicken, hosting a
Cast party in a Japanese silken bathrobe laughing deeply at the story told.
Or in church albeit Roman Catholic, Protestant, or Unitarian-Universalist.
The honey-coated throat and silver-tongued diminishing chords
Arrest everyone in listening range and all who are so
Blessed arrive at the split second of dead quiet with singer's
Final note fading into sweet silence.. ....Fini