Older dog had leapt from a hungry waka
and hunted as the first Adam of dogs,
running down wingless giants with fire and obsidian
in the green light of prehistoric growth.
The younger one, salivating for bully beef near the sail loft,
rowed ashore later, tail erect, on the prow of a clinker built boat.
Racing into strange trees to paint its own effluent markers,
smelling out another world in the same green light .
Younger one became a Leviathan
leaving bleached bones along the khaki hills.
Pushing its great snout into all food, all water,
While lean old dog dreamed of past feasts alone.
But older dog is waking again, in a kairos time, sniffing free air, remembering its voice, the hunt, it's belly. Remembering a thousand years of rich solitude. They're circling, sniffing warily, to decide whether to hunt together for another thousand years, under the green light.
For hollow men, Mr. Elliot,
without hope or answers.
Standing Victorian
on lonely shores,
silent guards 'gainst sea dangers.
They've forgotten what they've fare-welled,
looking for the return of strangers
What's to be done for those nervous watchers?
Running 'round the village,
pounding the sands in hybrid vigor,
because the chase distracts.
Hunting tall poppies through the tracks,
through wreckage of other worlds
that we weave into mystic escape-craft.
For those pursuing the new singers,
who later try dancing shyly in moonlight waves.
Rising on the swells of the great emptiness, the rise
and the fall of it.
Feeling the tides of Pacifika rhymes and winds
draw on their very souls.
Chiseling indelible lines,
scrimshaw on European mind's exotic ivory.
But there's quiet singing,
aye, in places where you always hear water.
They're trying to remember what the winds said,
how to push out of the current.
Struggle through foam to a place, without form.
To turn from foreign suns,
to find the God from whom they will get their own fire.