A Dream of Poetry

Two poems by Frank Pounding.

A Dream Of Birds

In my home outside the city,
on dark land, a forest wasted by fire,
you play guitar lighted by a single candle,
a glass of water held between your bare feet,
by the arches of your small feet.
The force of your quiet playing appears upon the water;
the overringing notes reflect upon the white ceiling.
Le Rappel Des Oiseaux.
I thought I would drown.
As you finished, I began to ascend.
It wasn’t time enough.
I asked you to play again, to play more slowly.
Without looking up,
you placed the tips of your narrow fingers against the still strings.
I held my breath until I woke.
 

A Dream Of Astronauts

We are astronauts, you and I,
In white suits and mirror glass.
Our expressive hands muted by fat fingered gloves.
Our winged feet sunk into heavy boots.
Blue hoses deliver oxygen,
Yellow tubes catch our breath.
On the ground, among black cabling and ghosting vapor,
honest men communicate by sign.
They uncouple lines and test compression.
They read gauges and collect data.
Satisfied, they move to safety through an iron door.

There is a rush of stillness.
And we are launched.

Above us there is silence.
Below us is the earth.
Tectonics.
Migrations.
The pale deserts.
The dark canopies.
Improbable waters.
Tribes.


Frank Pounding is a Canadian expat living in the mountains above Santa Barbara, California, with his two horses, Hey Baby, and Sake. He rides a ’67 Triumph Bonneville 650, a 2015 KTM Duke 690, and a ’04 DRZ 400S. Frank skates Earthwing decks and shapes his own surfboards. This is the first time Frank has shown his writing to anyone other than his mother, who he will soon be taking skydiving for the first time upon her 75th birthday.

 

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