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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  9/21/2014 3:04:03 AM
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  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)

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The Nyro Poems - Majestic

for His Winking Majesty


'Tornado spawn, ' he said,
gesturing to ourselves and
laughing, 'chapter and verse,

'The storm darkens us around.'

We took cover from God under a
broad-leaf, low-lying rhododendron,
hunched over a hand-rolled cigarette
thumbs could touch but not each
other. Shivering every toke all
reaches curtailed beneath chaste hail.

In mud gulch, percussive rain on
sheltering leaves, we sang Nyro
(I could hit the high notes then) ,
as frightened of each other as we
were of the gale - the sermons
remained between us unspoken
but for thunder.

'Stoned Soul Picnic', 'Timer',
calmed or tired our terror
now Lear-caged in storm sheer,
odors of tobacco, sweat, of loam,
and lust hair-wet, heady.

Biblical fear - nostrils flared,
smells pungent, sweet -
punished flesh leaned into ground.
Our roots were ungrieved,
and are ungrieved still.

Ah, Laura of the soulful trills...

the years have spilled out since
Tennessee mountain torments
reigned where he was once and
only a Monday king after all,
a god of storms, chased downhill
to shaken limbs, prophetic stumps
triumphantly singing to leaves.

Now where are you?
What of your harlequin shoes,
those suicidal crocuses, ?

I remain stuck in King James, entangled
in lyrical tongues, Revelation's old virgin.
I stink still of sweat having long forsaken
Jesus, though I'm told I am not 'by Him forsaken'.
I've sworn off cigarettes, a penance long overdue,
hand-rolling old fears, instead, in onion skins brittle.
Remembering thumbs' refrains I am ill now, this
Nyro song here to calm me praying for another storm...


backyard empty clothesline

silk slip,
one pin down,
dips shyly in
brick shadows,
pornographic breezes.

I sing to my knees now.

when did I marry Lonely?
can't recall but fell kid-hard

Beyond Manhattan Bridge
sudden heat lightening
a good night with cool rain
old vinyl - Nyro

needle scratches

done with song

**Laura Nyro (October 18,1947 April 8,1997) was an American composer, lyricist, singer and pianist
Warren Falcon



What Remains, Remains

Stricken with 'arrhythmia',
or so my doctor do say which,
the name of an ancient queen, Ethiopian,
first century, leads caravansary into
dunes and what remains undisclosed
beyond weighted horizon,
to Her I yield my heart no
matter its many loans overdue.

Here is my trifle then in
earnest, a release.

Call in the priest
whose ancient hand's
most unsteady,
a lifetime of withholding.

I remain for the moment free.

Between St. Marks and the horizon my fingers still work.
Warren Falcon



Who To Blame - On The Ocassion Of The Deaths of Robin Williams and Michael Brown

I'm blaming the fullest moon for Williams death, and for Michael Brown's by moon disguised as cop, I'm calling out high tide beside an ocean town named for a shark, I'm forbidding any mention of a town called Ferguson where a young man in the street lies uncovered for hours, fenced in by strips of yellow plastic oneryu - Police Line Do Not Cross - where one clenched fist stiffens and flies feast indecent as any moon, I'm cursing a rope in knots, plastic wrap, duct tape silver as a moon, a chair too easily kicked away, that moment when swaying slows to dead calm, one bedroom slipper on the floor, I'm compulsively imagining the last moment when decision becomes deed done, I'm praising and cursing all at once that a great mind in greater pain finally is stilled, and a young mind, college bound, too soon is unconfined beyond thought and vision, that the last cigar was sweet, was not enough to pardon neither cop nor moon, I'm wondering how a moon so large becomes pathetically entangled in once gentle willows suddenly splinters beside a river explaining, 'breaking glass, cars aflame, mayors counting bullets in locked rooms all over the world, press releases spinning in cotton candy machines -

All answers are pending investigation.'
Warren Falcon



Dusk At Princeton Station

man on the platform
Northward trains
waits pressed against
late summer

rush as only
shadows can

sun slants/the dark slides easily in

tree clusters red, yellow
tinged, early October, top
limb silver shine leans
downhill over-catches the
man leaning on a rail face
to late sun, worker, dirty,
pants torn, catches it
in the ear (so it appears)
he does not move, think,
fears what might occur
from such a limb


at this late hour
sun and shadow slide
away from each as I wait
the train here more mine
to outrun what is left

chase a horizon
toward gold then red to
Magic 10** never old or
worn as am I rush
rocked by track
lilt wheel tilt
toward melting

a permanent one
hang some where

it is a song once
upon a star all
child's play now

for now
sitting here
the jolt
to begin

all the
slow coming
to speed


the sway at day's end

shall not hold back
these tears for fear
of no press to return

for now

but to sway

**Magic 10 is that name photographers use to describe
a quality of light past sunset but not yet fully dark
which is 'magic' to photograph as there is a visible
dark blue/black shine not seen at any other time.
Warren Falcon

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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon