Whispers of Saigon
by Corbin Wamble
I
If my beating heart lies within my life
I lull with but an empty cage
Watching the passing of the winter
Lilacs bloom to bowls of porcelain
And crack upon the snows first kiss
Us creatures of such perennial matter
Lost throughout the cruelest months
Residing, the first of all the muttering songs
When the open shutter sighs a brisk November wind
With the scent of earth flaring the nostrils
The decomposing flesh of Autumn
Tendrils of brown and yellow and red
Blowing like newspapers across the street
The wilted smile of Jack O Lantern
Yellow toothed, lavished hair spotty and gray
To the bed of lilies
At the brick lain foot of the rowhomes
Where the ashen streets winds on
To crooked fingers that cup the sky
Gray, gloomy, morose canvas
Its tawny bed asleep
Below the legions, trading blows
Toting similar banners of green
The seven pillars
Have heard the songs of Autumn
And come on cool nights across the Delaware
To exhale a dying breath and sway the copper bridge
II
And where Augustus laid its head
The heaving breath of lying dogs
Left a dagger and note
And swept a life under a rug
Upon the soles of corduroy rubber
Carried the spine that walked upright
Sauntered up to June and back
And kissed beside July redlights
Swayed in sync with sultry gusts
The musts and do’s and fingertips
Full of promises and whimpers
To decipher fleshen lips
December wrought the sultry air
To ghosts upon the happy shouts
I thought it first your wild stare
The middleman and teasing mouth
You gave me first six years ago
Your kiss, and then you wished to see
The urgency of humid nights
Come back across Starnbergersee
III
I came here on backroads many months ago
The lonesome musketeer toting his quail tipped rapier
When the bare trees gave no shelter, the verdure no relief
The daffodils now grow brightly with the colors of October
In the trenches where the ground was bare with frost
The river voided of noise, its instance only broken
By the course caw of a goose
Who talked of the cold stabbing through his feathers
And now the goose has gone
And the heron returned
Its white figure tentatively galloping through the shallows
With the quiet lap of the waves against its underbrush
The child now sifts through silt and sand
He calls loudly to his mother
And dances in the brisk chesapeake
like a log of driftwood
Swaying on the horizon
Breeding, living, moving water
Home to many
In you I have found life
When comfort sheathed itself beneath snowy peaks
And now the wind blows, warm and tender
The sour gust is gone, lost in the winter’s mantle
The walls of brush and lumber
Concealing the heavens mirror
To be free from any man that walks, I go
Where the hawk and sparrow dance in the sky
They give chase in ribbons of three
In the direction of the wind
Tongue bulbous and bloated
Swollen and beaded with unspoken word
I was an invalid in those days
I knew nothing
Yet I find the yellow winged butterfly blending with the hemlock
And beating its wings to the sway of his branch
And along the alleyway of violet posies
And crashing greens of all shapes and shades
They rest easy knowing the wind and the scent of lavender and honey
Will soothe them every summer
The bumble bee and dragonfly find their home
Bristling back and forth among the earthen wings
And they touch with others of their kind, at peace
They do not speak for they need not spoken word
Only the spread of their wings and swift movements
Back and forth among the wind
Back and forth between slumber and a myriad of green
Content in their natural excellence, they find no strained lifeforce wrought out in mediocrity
Sheathed in shade below the roaring oak
Its streaks of light parade down like a crashing cymbal
As the call of the robin descends below the canopy
Echoing wind and repeated passages
The melodious symphony names the season
The deer radiates its ears, like a horned owl
It stares at me and I return its tentative watch
There will be no danger in my invasion
But it will leave none to fate
My reverence offers no solace
It trots away peacefully, its cottontail erect in the breeze
The stolid oaks and maples look down upon me
I am their ardent stripling, far wiser are they
They encircle my trail
They tell me I am safe beneath their swaddling cloth
The clubmoss showing no resign, it walks
Forward among the greater men
Its brothers offer shelter for the meek
Without charge or debt
The feet of branches walk in silence
The crimson ghost of the cardinal runs quickly across the floor
Flirting effortlessly between two generations
It soothingly haunts the forest
Beside the trail a single purple orchid
I am beside him, growing effortlessly
Blooming in the passing glances of sunshine
I walk onwards in isolation, leaving him to stand tall
My fathers and grandfathers surround me and pierce the sky
They call to me from above with broad endearing
They say great heights can be reached in time
For they are sturdy on rough ground
Pressing their legs between rocks and boulders and phistic soil
I stand beside them, linking arms
We grow as one
The river smacks its lips beside the shore
Murky, it holds its secrets
And leaves much mystery to be explored
The beaver leaves the bones of his exploits
He fashions a spears with his teeth and leaves his work to be admired
I walk towards the dead amongst the living soil
My verse flows free and brisk as the river
And shoots up tall among the trees
My friends are honest and humbly alive
May the fallen log cross the roaring stream
May the robins cry never cease to stifle combat
May the mossy scabs never cease to cloak the stone bridges and ancient trunks of maple
May the sun meet the highest field of the canopy and be denied entrance
And so the forest may preside over itself
Lockhearts, bending fingers gray and black
The aging skin of each wise giant
The frothy bed of the bare breasted trail
Bury me in the amphibian day and cicidian night
Where one breathes, tastes, hears the earth
Vines that hang below and clasp the soil
So I am tethered to the ceaseless war
May I run briskly like the stream
And rest my weary head upon a bed of silt
May I float like a butterfly through the strings of light across the trail
How it glides along the bay like the schooner at first light!
The sky rose and amber, its timber hull like sturdy jasper
The crow caws through its coarse throat to put an end to my burrows
And so I greet the blonde wheatgrass of mans end
Elderly hands hold my spirit in the distance
I will run steadfast and return to this place
The white tailed swallow hops away at first sight
He will take no chances with a man
Corbin Wamble is a seventeen year old writer from northern Delaware
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