Pollywogs and dragonflies
Salamander slime
Some are dreamt and summer schemes.

Mud Daubers on the cattails
Catfish on the hook
Crawl daddy in the cranny.

Crickets with backward knees
Buzzing honey bees
Poets of a summer dream.

Martin Hunter

The 15th Day of the Seventh Moon**

In the court of the Jade King, on the day of the ghost moon
The general of the northern region was taking tea with the King.
Before them was a large map of the realm.

They talked in hushed tones.
Green tea was poured from a golden ***.
Bowls of rice and fish were spread before them.

Just before dawn the general of the western region arrived.
He removed his armor with pain.
A court physician attended to his wounds.

He was escorted into the great hall
Past the guarded rooms of the inner chamber
Into the war room.

He knelt on left side of the King.  He spoke,
“The armies of mountain kingdoms will not come to our  aid.”
“We can not wait for a change of heart.” The King relied.

“How did you come by your wounds?”  The King inquired.
“I crossed the great river at the summer camp
And was set upon by a Han scouting party”.  He replied.

The sun was starting to rising in the east.
And a western breeze
Carried the hint of burning pine.

The Abby Well**

Rahu, old sage of Wu Tai Shan,
Stood by the Great Doors of the Abby.
His dog slept at his feet.

The wood gatherers were descending from the mountain
Their carts piled high with kindling.
They stopped to draw water from the Abby well.

One woodsman spoke up.
“Hey old man, why is the armies of the north
Encamped on the west wall?”

“I have not been so informed until now” Rauh replied.
“Let me ask my dog Ketv.”
The dog arose and stretched its back.

“My dog is also ill informed.” he said.
“I thought you were the sage, old man.”
The woodsmen laughed.

“Is it your dog that speaks to you?
Let me hear his wise advice”.
“He will not speak except to me.” replied Rauh.

“The old monk’s dog barks at the moon. What does it mean?”
A woodsman mocked.
Refreshed the woodsmen left laughing and barking like dogs.

Soon thereafter Ketv began to sniff the air becoming very excited
“Go fetch the wandering monk of Wu Tai Shan,” Rayh implored,
“And I will stoke the fire and prepare tea.”

Soon the wanderer came into sight, thin, clad in rags,
With weathered skin and shining eyes.
“ You need not have sent Ketv to lead me back” he shouted from the Abby gate.

“I can not deny a dog his duty,
I can not lead those that will not follow.
Come here and bless this shrine with your wisdom” thus spoke Rayh.

I am here and it is the day after.
I lift a pile of unread mail off of a chair and open the blinds,
And watch the sun boil the dust in the air. I set and I take it in.

The room smells of old corsets and perfumed talcum powder.
An antique Lady Schick Consolette hair dryer
Hides partly obscured under the heavy frame of the carved mahogany bed
Along with stacks of magazines and catalogs and…………
God knows what else lurks there.

And I realize that I am the only one now lurking,
Looking into a room that had been forbidden to me
The soul domain of the lady of the house.

But she in not here to make things tidy for this impromptu visit.
She would be so shamed by my eyes taking this all in,
Her secrets, her pills, her special candies, her oils, her perfumes -
All of the alchemical accruements of femininity in jars and tiny boxes.

And the symbols of her wizardry, her diamond encrusted Eastern Star ring,
Pendants, broaches, earrings, necklaces, bobbles, bracelets, clasps, loose pearls-
From a strand I broke long ago during happier days.

The sun dust boils from this cauldron now,
This stuffy, over stuffed chamber of perfume and chocolate,
Of daybeds and special treatments, laxatives, gels, powered and pills.
I dream…..a can of gas and a match would be a fitting end

And then I see it on the dresser, an old photo of a family, a pretend family
And a face is cut out of it, his face…….and so I feel, for a moment
Her pain and see the world has she may have seen it. So be it.  It is done.

Picasso stood at the window looking at the shape of things to come.
A rage was building is his belly. Sharp remarks he made to his lover
Were eating at his gut.  She was useless to him now.
Stained by tears, she could not see him now. She would never understand him.
He was doing her a favor by leaving her.
Tomorrow her mother would come to collect her.
It would be a good day to visit his printer, he thought.
One woman crying and another screaming at him would be too much.

Late that night he came to her door and stood outside listening.
He felt like walking in and wordlessly taking her.
He knew she would submit.  But then, the act would make him soft.
Could he have her and still throw her out the next day?
He stood listening and thought.
Picasso, yes.  Picasso could do this and would do this.

But the moment passed.
The image of a bull folded on the arena floor bleeding out.
His face was that bull’s face.
In celebration of this tragedy he would stay
Locked away in his studio painting his sins
Without remorse and in willful defiance.

The next day the mother came.
He met her in the driveway.  He kissed her
And pressed her to him.
“You sent me a child” he said.
“Take her away and then return alone.”

If you fall, I bruise.
If you’re cut, I bleed.
If you want, I shan’t refuse.
If you follow, I will lead.
And if you lead, I will follow you
No matter where you go.
No valley is too far to pursue
My blue wild indigo.

Old men that stink of gin
with brown stains of chew
oozing at the corners of their
unshaven smile
Raise their twinkling eyes to you
As you saunter slowly by.
And suddenly they are
Twenty now with winks
And nods and memories
Of the by and by.

Martin Hunter