Memories Keep

In Old Wisconsin when I was young I’d sit upon the damp-wood dock and dream,

The gapped one held by heavy dull iron studs,

The pylons bent in the mud when weight of foot was pressed just off center.

You’d move slowly to the end, with just you breath going "hussish" heavy

Against your tight, careful, still chest — no heart, no no, don’t quiver, don’t shake.

Til you’d reach the end and slowly sit against the rocking and the wood whine

Of pylons bent and shifting in the mud torquing on the studs.

Out beyond your eyes, smoky and young and bright

You could look at the deep blue darkness above and below in battle and staunch conflict,

There is the black of your eyes which you cannot see but is made of so much light so you can,

There is the black of the sky which is that of the nothingness between everything

Broken apart with little holes called stars whose edges are dull and fuzzy and reach out into the solid solid black,

There is the black of the water, like glass it seems to have no color but the colors put there,

It is still and clean — it is serene — it is unreal in its color unlike the eyes and the sky,

It changes more and less, the sky grows bright blue in the day and deepens and matures,

It is the essence of time, but it becomes what it becomes of its own it seems, you feel, you see,

The water is everything that other colors put in it, it is green like the algae and black like the night,

It sees your movement and repeats it broken by the ripples of your movements, it reacts alone,

It does not choose.

In Old Wisconsin when I was young I’d sit upon the damp wood dock and dream,

You could watch a heron, white and feathery cross along the lake line, precise and white

Without the light it still was white, pure and graceful until it crossed beneath the hanging vines

And became as black as shadow and then passed from sight. 

It would sail in silence, the silence of whish whish whish of wings, slight and only there in memory.

A fish would pop from the water to gorge itself upon the skittering mosquitoes and gnats,

The tiny fuzzy grey dots causing vast ripples and rings that distorted the black and caught at lights

From the small two-window houses all around the shore with their orange firelight color,

Then back to the water with the ‘crishack’ splash sharp and distinct amidst the subtle sounds,

The here and there of this place and world that can be heard in memories and when you close your eyes.

And you close your eyes.

The ‘vrissshhhhhhhhhhhhhh’ of a grey chevy suburban crossing the bridge on its way home,

A forest green 93 Pontiac Grand Am, a gaudy red dented pick-up truck with a bang amidst,

All across the bridge with ‘Vrish’s to places close to the crickets ‘cree’ing and the fishes popping and plopping,

The whishing of wings, the whining of the wood, the sishing of the leaves rustling in the light wind

That rumbles around the ears when it picks up like small light thunder, soothing like the end of a storm,

The thump of your heart released from its restriction, the hussish of your heavy breath,

Your stomach grumbling and sloshing with liquid and gas, the sound of bats skittering past with their husky flapping,

And your thoughts amidst the rumble, amidst the calmest cacaphony,

How we think amongst this noise, how we cannot notice it walk past and miss it,

So much there to miss to catch, to then see instead, overwhelming overwhelming are five senses,

Who would want a sixth lest we never learn to use the first of them to its proper depth.

In Old Wisconsin when I was young I’d sit upon the damp wood dock and dream,

Until through everything, shrieking like a banshee would be the wail of my name from a mother’s tongue.

And up I’d tramp over the roughly hewn wood-splintered steps dug into the dirt and decorative rock

Leading up the hill across the cool soft, dark green grass that grew up to my ankles and tickled and waved

Goodbye, patted me on in my path, the red brick walk bulky and set deep in gritty dry cement,

The clack of it against my shoes, up the steps and inside into warmth and sounds of rushing water from the sink,

The television set a mixture of alien sounds in hundreds, more sounds than insects could breed in years,

The telephone ringing sharp and gargly, the dryer rumbling like a dilapidated engine,

And still the thoughts can come, sharp and taut and fast amidst all this and oustide the other sounds

And inside still others.  And all this in Old Wisconsin when I was young —

A memory like all memories that must be kept and not forgotten in part or sum.