On Walking and Listening to Rachel Sherwood, +1979

The beautiful dead poetess sings, sings
in my ears from a cloud of sound, she reads
from the blue chapbook of her forebodings,
sheaves of air gathered from posthumous seeds.

Premonition of unwritten chapter,
I sixteen, she twenty-two, she could not
have known me, yet that photograph of her
says, Come, come kneel thee upon my soul’s mat,

for water does flow from this stone, I choose
thee, turn the valve, open my attentions,
though I know what you’ll become, how you refuse
a hearing to foreign meditations,

Emperor of your own narrow nation.
Falling, I would have trusted, wouldn’t have
clinched up, grazed by some abomination,
tarot, palm, strange divines I knew not of,

not knowing what I know now, terrible
wisdom, fruitless poverty of the wise.
Poorer then, I’d have been amenable
to mysterious lines, her afternoon eyes.

© 2014 David A. Welch

Rachel Sherwood’s story here.  Her voice can be heard in the recording included in the article.



And the Feeling was made
flesh, and sidled in next to
us, where we sat in folding
chairs in the dwelling of
the Numinous, and sang
a song of Gathering
without a single word
that meant a single thing.

The gifts were made of helping
hands, the altar table, too.
A notional sacrifice,
the Feeling was blessed in
a leavened loaf, which we
broke in the name of None
and ate on the way back home.

© 2014 David A. Welch

Red Coyotes

Texas heat is coming strong.
Soon will be the days my irritability
is on a hair trigger. My skin’s prickling
and it’s only June. Already it’s ninety.

Speaking of heat and our fine state,
they’re packing it bigger and louder
these days. Long barrels and cartridge
magazines shoulder-slung, lining up

for steak burritos. Family dining takes
a weird turn, automatic rhetoric has
a new click, family values running
red and wild, in snarling packs.

© 2014 David A. Welch