Greg Heimer
Stats
Pastime trenz pruca
Hometown seattle, washington
job photographer
interests landscape, portrait, travel
NOMADS
There will come a time
For rich and poor alike,
When all we can keep
Will be what we can carry.
Money will be no good.
Laws will mean nothing.
Things will have no value.
Rough gangs will rule the streets.
We will follow the animal's trails
And learn again how to make a fire.
We will live close to the ground,
Dig for food,
Drink from streams.
Life will be raw and bitter.
We may hope to begin again
But there will be no starting over.
________________________________
THE RAGA OF THE LATE AFTERNOON!
Even after our rest
We still wear heat
Like a heavy garment.
In the center of the seared plain,
On the imaginary landscape,
The trees around us
Are pierced by low, golden light,
And the morning glory fades
From blue to pale magenta.
Subtly the wind starts
And the raga begins:
The droning of the tamboura
And the rattle of the tabia
Intertwine with
The shimmering whine of the sitar.
The long-haired young man laughs,
The old man smiles.
The music rises, runs,
Falls and repeats its fixed scale.
Then the wind shifts,
Carrying a whiff of the monsoon,
And, as in a dream,
Abruptly, the raga ends.
________________________________
SUBTERRESTRIALS
He wrote his poems standing up.
"Keeps me grounded," he liked to say.
So he wrote about:
Truffles and grubs,
Ants and worms,
Voles and centipedes.
He always had dirt under his nails,
And he had about him a musty smell
Of wet leaves.
He said that when he died
He wanted to be buried
Without a coffin.
Now he lies in the soil:
Supine, serene,
Wrapped in roots,
Among his earthly friends.
Poem Titles
> Nomads
> The Raga of the Late Afternoon
> SUBTERRESTRIALS