Fred Wolven

NO, I WAS NOT YOUR KOKOPELLI MAN

No, try as I might be inclined to ease the memories of you,
I will not, nor the smell or touch of you,
nor even the feel and beauty of you.
Much as I would like to live in the moment,
the long drives I sometimes make hold too much time for reflection,
so I try not to pass by too near where you live,
nor be there should you call, and
I am learning not to pick up the phone and
how to let tears fall when alone.
But, I cannot erase the memory of you;
I may never learn how to do that.

Nearly from the moment we met,
I felt you were my true love, and
I sought to become your dancing bear,
though I only knew one such creature, Theodore Roethke, and
he I met in his city, in the forests and fields and finally in a cemetery.
You were my Cinderella without slippers for you never needed them,
and I would have become your hump-backed Kokopelli Man
without flute for I only have my words, my voice and
my arms and hands extended to fashion songs for you,
but these were not enough as too many chords were off-key,
and whole notes were missing, and now only a hole remains.

I have tripped over a root, and this ledge I am on is very narrow.
I would have settled for being your Coyote,
but now I must learn to live without your breath,
and the sound of silence is louder still than the quiet
I hear in your words; louder than the space in your silence.

THE CAT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR, # 1

The cat just sits there looking in.
Once I stood in the middle of
a treed opening, just peering into
a Tennessee forest glen. Then I

was outside turning in. Now, I sit
alone inside, ten feet from you,
looking out into gentle October rains.
This space between us, like that

from dawn till dusk, fills & empties,
empties & fills, hour after hour,
& the silence weighing on me,
day after day, pulls me deeper & deeper

into the darkness. Like Roethke’s
geranium, tossed out by a maid,
that rose I last bought you has withered
& died, browned & drooped;

so, you bagged & tagged it,
& put it out for the trash.

THE CAT OUTSIDE HIS DOOR # 2

He just sits there looking in.
Today I look carefully through
journal pages, checking for notes
from Roethke’s lively meditations.

Yes, I notice that my lines are fewer,
the words more sparse, & even
the images not as quickly recorded.
I cannot find the song God has wrought.

Thinking it was you, I stewed, caught
& fought, then cursed, bent & bowed.
Too late alive, too far at five,
I did not know your love I’d lost.

Now, I do not know how to touch you,
though I’m willing to learn. Whether
I plead or only yearn, it is quite clear
what I tossed may be forever lost.

Still, I grope, I mourn; I wish, I curse;
I walk, I run; I kick, & yes, I even claw.

Copyright © 2005 Fred Wolven

Cover Design: Joseph McNair