Peasant Life after Chagall

Feed sugar beets to the white horse,

Dance on the blue mountain,

Talk beneath the lamp

On a winter evening.

Let the little horse

Draw your grandfather up to the moon.

A kind man guides his wagon.

You are not sorry.

Your red cap and pug nose

Prepare you to tackle anything.

What do you have to know?

Only this. Let a tree grow in your mind,

Follow the footprints

Leading up to the sky. It is your life

Ahead of you.

The Circus Rider after Chagall

The red horse nods its panache

rolls its woman's eye.

The rider's acrobatic

stance defies the grave

laws of balance. Gaudy slipper hooked

over the left shoulder. One legged flamingo.

Right arm forming a classic gesture

of ballet. The horse rocks on

as the full moon dangles

from a laurel branch

like the hazardous white fruit

that can only be plucked by the angel

flying with moth wings

glued to a mortal body.

The circus is the sensual

ring in which love enacts

its risks, a production

of gasps, thrills.

The angel's arms open wide.

It has fallen in love with a painted horse

with the seduction of clowns.

O, it has fallen

like moonlight onto the earth

its wings burning off

its body becoming

three rings of joy.

<i>Chagall Poems</i>

IN THE ALBUM

At the third switchback we pull off

where the honeymooners fell

and I step forth as always onto the peninsula of rock

to pose against a jackpine sticking out

of the cliff face like an arthritic finger

pointing to disaster. The sky is always

cobalt with thunderheads building

to the west, the pinecones underfoot, a jay

chattering and with my jackknife I carve

my initials once again onto the lodgepole.

There's a bottomless lake, an abandoned mine

with fool's gold and rose quartz. There's a child

making snowballs in July, bear sign,

a clawed tree, an elk in the mist of a meadow

and stepping stones across Rock Creek

where we fish for cut-throat trout.

The past preserved in photographs,

the falls in the backgroud, up close there's me

on a sorrel mustang about to lope off

into the rest of my life.

Eclipse

THIS PLACE WHERE I AM HAPPY

The dark spreads its palm

From nowhere to nowhere,

Outside, the frozen crust

Of the barnyard spangles

Under the arclight. Snow

Captions fences neatly.

Each footprint jails a shadow.

The horses stamp in their straw,

Muzzles a penumbra

Of crystal, breath white balloons

In which no language hovers.

Their droppings golden stones,

Eyes of dreamy amber. The cinder block walls

Sparkle as cold bites through

Sinking red and congealed

In the window-hung bulb.

The black wind hurts my face

As I trudge houseward tugging the metal pail

That dances empty from its bail.

Nothing cries from rooftops

Or circles out of trees.

Cats huddle in the loft

Frostnipped ears rounding

To the horses’ even breaths

And the shift of massive haunches.

I halt, set down the pail

In a white expanse that is perfect

As long as I do not move.

South Dakota Review

ILLNESS OF HORSES: A WOMAN MEDITATES

1.      String Halt: A curious affliction. The walk is peculiarly

Exaggerated. A woman wearing glass heels searching for

Her prince. Authorities agree this is a nervous condition.

2.      Lampas: Your mouth swells with bad blood. Cry out in

Agony. Rub with salt, burn with hot irons. None of these

Methods will help.

3.      Founder: An enchantment of green apples. Monopolies of

Grain. Disease of the insatiable. Lie down, remove

Your shoes. The bones are coming apart.

4.      Heaves : Hard cough, labored breathing.

An unsoundness of respiration. Failure of love.

5.      Forging: You overrun yourself. An injury of ambition.

The wounds raw and new. Proceed with caution. Proceed

With caution.

6.      Cribbing: Bite obstacles grunting, sucking wind. A

Common vice. Boredom of marriage.

7.      Moon Blindness: Your eyes turns green and opaque. Tears

Fail you. Remain stalled in darkness until the solitary

Pasture silvers in moonlight.

8.      Staggers: A defect of the heart or brain. Confusion

Worsens in heat. You remain dazed for hours, or forever.

9.      Joint Evil: Infection of the navel. The world centers

Turns in against you. There is no cure. A marked

Inclination to lie down and die.

Midway Journal

Hoarfrost

The appaloosa grazes a glazed field.
A twist of branches
risks its signature.
The sky's a blank.

Desultorily, the horse
divines the pattern of its hunger.
A hawk
plummets from the crown of a burr-oak.
Something dies
without fanfare.

Sleet falls. A rain of blind needles.
A speechless wind. The gibbous rise
of headlands to the east
black with menace.

Pour your eyes
into this landscape. Now you'll move slowly
as the appaloosa working his way
across the silver pasture
mouthful by mouthful.

West Branch. Collected in The Boundary Waters by Joan Colby
Damascus Road Press.

BET ON GRACE

For my mother

Had to bet on Bet On Grace, my mother’s name

Because she was always lucky,

Held the only winning ticket in our

Group at Louisville in Spend A Buck’s

Derby, she liked the name. She liked to

Take a chance, explore a road

She’d never been on, play cards for money.

Bet On Grace came in and paid

A decent price. Tailed off after that

Though she often hit the board

If she was right. I know better

Than to bet a name, but always watch

To see if Bet On Grace was on the morning line.

Mother’s luck ran out as everybody’s will

Whether your bet is pari-mutuel or against the house.

The day comes when all bets are off but

Bet On Grace keeps showing up in the program

Running cheap and hard always worth a look.

Chiron Review