The Itsy-Bitsy Dream Catcher Wander Gee Billy

nuarevik

The Itsy-Bitsy Dream Catcher

BILL ARNOTT

Sun peers from horizon sparrow’s two-note song day breaks, a promise of heat sensory start of summer

Moist morning air jasmine, lilac someone mows a lawn crows carry on, conversing

Outside our front door something new unfolds artisanal architect construction underway Solitary thread to guys wire, rope, and anchor line high to low, starboard to port rudimentary pagan cross

Between guy-lines, connectors a structural frame takes form glinting silver, sunrise dew subtlest vibrating thrum

Alchemic straight starts to curve turns to round, the touch of fly-tied fibers cinched in solidity A spin, a spindle, a strand knit, purl, reef and square cloven hitches, granny knots embroidered into a matrix

Working toward a center unseen an octet weaves as one, this trapping trapeze an open mouth net yawning airborne weir

Commenced, concluded, completed a hunter-gatherer space in time. Yet all I see is a catcher of dreams and wonder what wonders it holds

Wander

BILL ARNOTT

nuarevik

I think I could wander this way the rest of my life – a small knapsack, sneakers, an old Navy CPO shirt, khaki pants, a small knife, a bottle opener, a nail clipper, a pencil & pad, a book, all I have... – Lawrence Ferlinghetti, Writing Across the Landscape

Pull of pack on shoulders obligatory hug, assuring reassuring strain, a tethered thread of DNA, taut hawser to the shore, familiar tidal ebb and flow, familial weigh the anchor nothing weighs so much cast off, if/when, you dare take care, to dodge the shit laid down, piled high, for you and any passers by, it gets into your hikers’ grooves where nothing gets it out, except passing of time, emptying, empty clear-mind clarity, and grit from scuffled, shuffled, miles walking walking away, away toward a something else, something imagined better, something new from tattered, clothing dropped into a roadside bin, don’t look too far, into the depths, the dark sewn patches, healing scars, a solitary burned out star that trails comet-like across crepuscular sky the crunch of well worn shoes on gravel fades away

nuarevik

Vancouver author, poet, songwriter Bill Arnott is the bestselling author of Dromomania and Gone Viking. His poetry, articles, and reviews are published in Canada, the US, UK, Europe, and Asia. Bill’s column Poetry Beat is published by the League of Canadian Poets and the Federation of BC Writers.

Gee Billy

BILL ARNOTT

Billy wore a brace, around his neck held G-harp into place, a chord he loved, three notes he'd play, or four on special nights, occasionally the house half full, instead of full-on empty playing on E the band would say with grins and snorts awaiting the next off-ramp and a fill. Yes G was Billy’s home, more often than not where he’d return, harp nestled into key like an heirloom quilt in eider down swelled with pride in cold, cold weather. Now at the end of a particularly ponderous, wanderous song those vague and directionless sojourns Billy seemed so fond of – recollecting liquor, lovers, ride alongs and endless songs that meandered, smoke-filled as memories, mementos, mired in his mind tugging, times gently, others acerbic sharp on the hackle-back of every neck, the brace, a coiled chain link shackle, holding him in place, next to a G the band, the stage, the half-E-fully-E-beer-soaked room with a server who knew everybody’s name, she’d hum the tunes and touch their arms, not sexual like, just a kind of touchstone, lifeline, in the midst of the storm of everyday. And she would go about her way, tending to everyone while Billy and his bandmates they would jam and stray but always they’d come home to stay in the womb-like warmth of Billy’s G, he’d bow his head toward his harp, close eyes and disappear into the music, movement, fill his lungs with love ... and he would play.