Jubal Drift: A film by James D. Autio

Sinking

And I felt myself falling,

      not through

the mattress, but rather,

off to the other side.

      Yet my mind was

scrambling for an out, even while

my back seeped down

through dark molasses air;

pot of fear burbling in the gullet.

And the bedpost stood so close,

but my arms, straining against

      the glut of night,

wouldn’t move any faster.

A woman 

in Victorian bodice and skirt

stood at the foot of the bed,

      her hands wrapped,

her spectral head 

cocked slightly askew,

eyes so forlorn.

And I fell through black.

At the Café

      It’s

the way the biscotti

slides back and forth

across the little plate,

as the breeze blows

just hard enough

to entice the trees

to whisper her name

      as if to me.

Snow Day

Duluth (watercolor on paper)

Brine Sludge: an artistic/poetic mélange

Crazy Evil Gorilla (crayolas on paper)

The Misplaced Painting (my first poem)

Milkweed and Wooden Leg (acrylic on canvas)

Andaigweos - woodcut by James Autio

Thee Constructed: A Love Poem

1.   I’ve built many a wall.

Out past the pastures

lies a yellow meadow, lush

with bees and buttercups.

I’ve walked where my workboots are

let down with each soft step

by thickly woven shoots.

It is there where you

and I are

mostly intertwined, melded

like brick upon brick,

my mind to your mind.

My body too is a shell,

a husk you’ve planted, furrowed,

hoed as your desires dictate,

clocking time until I’ve returned home.

O, pity your barrow’s wheel

has sprung a sprocket.

I’m pained to watch you

from afar, your basket

filled with lilies,

the weight of which drain

the joy you’ve held

in your belly.

Your neck, you feel, reacts

with each inch

my carriage slips over

the rim of your former world.

But oceans of tears

are the drip that feeds seeds.

Together, we are that quivering sprig

that juts from bunked earth.

2.   I’ve passed mountains and rivers

to build cathedrals, erect nunneries, but

you are every stone I quarry,

every piece I lay.

You’re an edifice,

a massive house of worship

towering over heathans.

Into the sky I build you.

Were I drawn

to distant Orient nations,

I’d raise you once again

to show the cold world my love.

I’d hire an army

to protect you, defend your

holy places

to the bitter end.

Were you assaulted by Visigoths,

I’d raise a wall. Stormed by samurai,

I’d train wooly mittened ninjas

to repel down your glorious buttresses.

3.   As I travel

you lay me to rest at night

and resurrect me with your morning.

I’m withering and turning to ash,

tired of having cut stone

in place of you.

I’m eating curry paste and unleavened bread

instead of dulling my knife

over your crusted sour loaves.

I miss your yeast

you keep by screw jar

in the pantry downstairs.

In gentle places

and dangerous lands filled with pitas,

your lips mouth secrets to me.

Alone, I hold myself

betrothed to my love of you,

while you are home with our farm—

hands kneading, kneading.

Six Foot Rise

I’d like to build a ramp

to make me more accessible

to crippled children in wheelchairs

and the elderly. Rise established,

I’ll extend the run so they’ll come

from far away with an eye on me

as an end prize while they shuffle

or roll, whichever the case may be.

The climb toward me will not be arduous,

but will require a prolonged commitment

(assuming of course that they have the time).

I’ll stand atop the ramp holding a tray

of sweetened treats. I’ll whistle ditties

to encourage the struggling kids

and even catcall the cute old birds.