Poetry from the 80s

These are some poetry items written in the early 80s. Someday I will write more...


Running Home

Running the gamut
Flapping my arms at the edge of flight
Whispering the secrets of life
Digging through Grok, I'm truly out to see
But
Its not out there its not in there
Its everywhen and everywhere.
Dirt in my toenails, a child laughs
A distant sparkle across the water.
The master bows to the peasant
The peasant bows to his work.

Dave White 3/4/2005



Battle Child

Buzz buzz the flies
Under slate skies
And the wind is past,
Stained is the meadow’s grass-
The air sodden with ripening death.
Weeds caught in windblown hair
And tear-streaked cheeks
Eyes darting everywhere
The torn and tiny dress
Pink, red, and mud.
From kneeling, knees stained red
She carries a headless doll
among battle dead.
The flies buzz
She listens,
And kneels again.

Dave White 4/18/1982



Fire

After wet years
The forest stands
Thick, rich, and tangled--
Only lofty trees
Find time in the sun.
But in dry seasons
With no greening water
The sun parches trees
Grim brown and yellow
So fire comes in blitzkrieg lines
Through peaceful forest
Laying waste the land--
Only scorched survivors stand.
Then rains return
To wash and change;
To soften the edges
And deepen the lines
Of bleak black land.
In wet years
Innocent young trees spring
From rich black earth
And young forests whisper
With a new breeze.

Dave White 2/11/1982



Tiny Warrior

Across the burning gravel dunes
And past the fleshy hills,
To where the land is flat and wet
And shakes with pounding roar,
Along the path of scent and self
Trekked the tiny warrior.
Glad she was in warring strength,
Hard she was in sovereign color,
She loved her sisters as herself
And felt full pride
For tribal scent she bore.
Down the winding warrior line
Came a many savored spoor,
The turgid taste of insect meat,
And the twisted smell of war.
With quickened pace and gaping maw
And venom oozed for strike,
She raced across the salty ground
To pay her debt to life.
Twas there, around the spíké'd worm
That warriors strove in strife
Brave deeds for Reds and Blacks
Tributes to tribal might…
On a soft sunny day
At the ocean’s edge
A washing line of foam
Swept away
A caterpillar
And some ants.

Dave White 4/10/1982



Patience

Einstein shows us
That mass ain’t that fast
And reactions have their rate
That keep us in this state.
So,
If you want to visit stars
Or catch a glimpse of dinosaurs,
Don’t worry--
It’ll come to pass
That you leave behind
Your mass.

Dave White 4/12/1982



Ancestor

Silent slithers he
In men’s roots
Reptile that sees
From every eye;
With spectral venoms
Green, red and black
Is everyman fraught,
So to doom
Comes all
That reason has wrought.

Dave White 3/1/1982



Waves

Colors of light
Are left behind
On lunar dust,
Only the sun’s
Silver whisper
Goes on.
The moon gives
The round year waves,
The ocean waves,
And a woman’s waves.
Ripples in water:
Crest against trough,
Pattern against void,
Light against dark,
Life against death.
Waves are not lost
On sand,
But come to our ears
In a deep whisper.

Dave White 4/10/1982



A Dream

A rose petal
Loose from its moorings
To drift and wither
A brown curl
Hose-washed with debris
Down a suburban gutter.

Dave White 5/16/1982





Doom of White Knight

In gray land
Where day meets night
It is decreed
That gray is black
And gray is white
But truth
Has sown its seed.
White knight
Tall on white horse
From black night rides
Into gray dawn
The dark ones shudder
And slipTo darker shadow
From the mist
Forms the wizard gray
And from his fist
Shines light of day;
The knight draws
His blood-black blade.
Rolls of thunder crash
Clash of white and gray
Cold steel in cold light
Dissolves to ravens
In frantic flight,
White armor in mist gray
Tarnishes and rusts away.
From the shadows, a shout!
Dark ones drag the knight
From his shrinking mount
They rend and sever flesh
And dance in the gory fount…
In gray land
Where day meets night
Tis now decreed
That black is black
And white is white
And gray is judged
In honest light

Dave White 3/1/1982



Reality’s Texture

A boy, making toes and heels in sand
Stops for a shell
Feels its chalk, its rough and inside smooth.
A pinecone in hand; cool wood fruit
Spiky against your cheek.
Sometimes a feather in the street,
A gum wrapper or lipstick toothpick.
Student, leaving rubber-soled printsIn wet sand, stops for a shell: a clam
With his thumb he feels its rings
Of growth, and time in the sea.
Rough bark, and bristly green,
Among family and friends,
Grips black earth and rock, strongly,
Feeling the sky.
A pigeon from the park came by
To find a crust of bread, stale peanut,
Popcorn from the movies,
And to litter one feather.
Scientist, stamping heavy wingtipsInto the edge of land and sea,
Stops for a shell;
With practiced fingers he counts rings,
And contemplates warm dinosaur seas,
Cold fish seas, coral, kelp and crabs.
Gray squirrels, quick to move, to stop,
Halfway up a tall pine;
Two brown needles, together at the ends,
Twirl lazily down to soft needle carpet;
Slow beetles march, and gnats humIn pine flavored haze.
Tidbits in the city, bits here and there,
Heels on sidewalk!
Rush, short frantic flight;
Back to looking. A cocked head sees better.
An old man, feeble, his last walking days,
Uncertainly sets slippers into sand,
And stops for a shell,
One of many that grew and died,
And left its life, for boys, in the sand.


Dave White 4/12/1982