Five poems by William D. Sheldon

CLIFFHANGER'S LANGUAGE LESSON

There is a way to sit, half way down the Bright Angel Trail

in a crevice where hikers won't disturb me.

Watching the light shift along intricate rock walls

in shades of pale orange and pale red and desert brown that I have

no names for --

hundreds of shades.  You cannot imagine this rich 

palette of rock wall.

So subtle is the shift that hour 

by hour the falcon mistakes a shadow

for a patient mouse,

swoops, realizes the mistake again, 

returns to his unyielding perch.



Of course it is fruitless to ask

Who am I?

The canyon grins at my words. The falcon explains

quite rationally: irrelevant, he says, unyielding 

as a book in a language you don't know.

I like the word "irrelevant" coming from the falcon.

That he can even achieve the sound of an "r" is completely astounding.

And impossible. I assume that this part is a dream, but

the Canyon is smiling wider -- or is the sun setting?

I'm tired, thirsty, covered with a fine dust

"That's what I've been trying to tell you," says the falcon.

He swoops again, this time the shadow is a mouse and 

falcon snatches mouse from a tiny breach in the ancient wall.

He does a little fly-by to show off his squirming catch.

A MASTERPIECE OF SLEEP

Did you ever notice the pecker on Jesus 

In Caravaggio's Madonna & Child with St. Anne?

It has its own identically shaped shadow on

the young savior's thigh -- quite a feat of lighting.

It's more like a finger than a cock, pointing helpfully at

the serpent the child Jesus is about to step on

and presumably subdue with a bare foot.  

The Virgin mother, herself also immaculately conceived

(since the early 16th century) already has a couple of toes

on the writhing snake, just behind its head, and appears to

be holding it in place while she hoists the well hung 

Lord into position.  

So, the next line would be -- you mean he 

was hung before he was crucified?



And the answer would be don't be sacrilegious, boy or it'll be 

back to the gas chamber for you. I came from there, of course, emerging 

unexpectedly saved from the holocaust, ash falling like snow around me. 

I was afraid to brush it off my shoulder 

afraid it was the old man I'd played chess with last week.

Or my son.



When my wife sees the old man standing by our bed,

which she does a couple of times a month,

her scream wakes me up 

dissolves his image and my hope of rest.

He's around a lot in the winter. The cold

brings him out of the forest.  



Then I'm awake for the night, 

nothing to do but sit at the window

watch the snow play with the air, 

the pine branches wave and ripple -- 

the blousy sleeves and flourishing skirts of giant dancers.

Our fence looks so silly

pretending to keep the trees out.



I'm not myself these days.   I'm you.

I wake up in your bed

next to your spouse

touch your lover privately and look at your image

in the mirror. I see you as you don't see yourself

I suspect. So tremendously loved.   So full of grace.

SHEET MUSIC

The last time I met God

we had a long talk about

the sound of the viola and

the salty taste of my lover

after about an hour of

bowing -- that was his word,

bowing. He's got this sense of 

humor that takes getting used to

but he does understand the viola --

how sweet the musky sound can be,

how thrilling its moan.

DAY TWO IN THE FALLEN GARDEN

This black day			began last night

when I tore us			in two again

to watch squabbling		inept halves

		blame each other

for the gaping wound		of their separation

ignoring the obvious 		cure

THE SLIPKNOT THAT BINDS US

When I was six

a friend tied me to a tree

and said "you will like this."

Last week I reached the moon

after only three hours of concentration.

Anyone can leave his body.

I can go where I wish.

I'm watching you read this now.

William D. Sheldon prefers the essay form to food (he truly loves food) and occasionally scratches out a poem. He freelances from Flagstaff, Arizona. His comments on Shakespeare and Clinton, Bill Gates, Sloth and Envy can be found in the archives of TW3's Guest Shot. His short story The Way A Thief Laughs is in the archives of TW3's New Voices.