Kometes

image borrowed from bing

Kometes

“For most of the history of our species, we have been

helpless to understand how nature works. We took 

every comet personally, and had to create myths

as an attempt to explain the patterns of nature.”

--Ann Druyan

My grandfather was a wonderful landscape artist,

who, facile as a Faustus, somehow cajoled

the sky itself into accepting temporary residence

on several of his canvases, creating uncanny

unsettling vast horizons filled with cloud formations

that had depth, perfect clarity and exaggerated realism--

so much so that the worshiping clamoring crowds

felt compelled to dub him affectionately: 

“Sky Carpenter--Master of the Skies”, 

and he was, controlling light, shadows, mists, clouds,

the sun and all the elements like a Norse God,

and his hundreds of paintings swirled with spiritual splendor,

until toward the end of his life, when his brushes moved 

more slowly, his ancient heart pumped erratically 

as ten kinds of pain rushed through his shaking limbs, 

and dexterity abandoned his fingertips; 

he growled like a grizzly

within the dark cave of his creativity, 

painting individual portraits of the pain spawn,  

exposing their faces.

The sky dared not to elude him as it grew closer

and clearer than ever, and the point of parallax

allowed stars to suddenly be within reach

as new planets appeared behind his eye lids.

At night, he said, it felt like he could ride a bolt of light,

remembering that wondrous evening when he had 

stood with his grandfather on a dark hillock in 1910,

watching the night sky in childish anticipation

of the magical materialization of Haley’s Comet.

In 1986, when he was 88 years old, Carpenter waited

like a wolf for the faithful comet’s return;

We knew exactly how it would be;

I would stand by his side as first grandson,

and it would show itself just after midnight,

and he would shout its name, and it would

come to him, a great cosmic creature 

scorching the treetops;

“Good Bye, Butch!” 

he would bellow before he lassoed the maverick comet,

throwing himself onto its fiery back, grabbing

two handfuls of stardust mane, with space fireflies

buzzing in his long gray hair, managing one small wave

before he dug his strong old legs into its shimmering sides

and rode off into the vast silence of the cosmos.

And that 

is just how it happened, leaving me here

to relate the tale; but how in hell does one begin

to explain to folks that my grandfather rendezvoused 

with a heavenly traveler, pulling down the mother

of all comets, hopped aboard and rocketed off

into some sweet dark distant oblivion?

For Christ’s sake,

no one will ever believe me.

Glenn Buttkus

September 2012

Posted over on dVerse Poets MTB

Would you like to hear the author read this poem to you?