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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  1/28/2015 4:13:18 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 

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  1.     

Boots. Spider - 2 Winter Haiku

1

New boots? neighbor asks

I smile at the worn things -


Snow washed by country fields


2

Who moves my books! I ask aloud


Cornered spider

Quickly looks busy
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  2.     

Brief Prayer After Viewing Grunewald's 'Isenheim Christ'

.
'Genuine knowing begins when sentimentality no longer bars the way.'
-Eugene Monick



I, too, have hung

on a cross, my own,

but nonetheless everyone's,

too often disowned,

denied,

decried as untrue,

unnecessary, that

there is no Adversary,

only Light,

that overbearing Rightness

which never

leaves room

for me.



I only know

that deep night,

that way beyond sentimentality,

that way over and beyond 'the Path'

into the thicket, the swamp


where the god of gators waits,

submerged, calling to me to

step less lightly upon the world.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  3.     

Response To Bernadette Mayer's 'First Turn To Me...'

'you appear without notice and with flowers
I fall for it and we become missionaries

we lie together one night, exhausted couplets
and don't make love. does this mean we've had enough? '

- Bernadette Mayer


Failing the Grand Coniunctio
this is the only one we know
the one where we eat dirt
and swallow, are filled and
swell belly up a meal to be
eaten when the Messiah comes

Leviathan is our heavenly bridegroom
presses the banquet table with elbows
manners forsaken in the end
yanks at sallow meat forsaking
the wine which has turned
no First Wedding miracle can
be repeated - no do-overs here

Candles burn on as always false promises

All the doors are marked EXIT

Still we must try
at the Feast

make small talk

look interested

all the while thinking

This is it?


Angels without knees
aprons spotless starched
as beards of saints
complain of humans
the stains they leave

Overheard
between the fork
and spoon obscenely
crossed
one angel to another:

They call it love
what we are supposed
sublimely to sing of
but frankly all that
pushing and shoving
faces in agony the
cries and curses all
that pulling at flesh
bruised as the moon
this can't be love

We stand without legs
the better for it but
for these we must attend
bent over their plates
greedy to have at each
other again to marriage
beds one last time

And then the singing
begins

an eternity

songs about dirt
about longing to return

how all hurts there
mean something
after all


http: //www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21051
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  4.     

Abandoned Train Station Near Grandmother's Grave

for Lida Harris

Then died there the rose beside the house of tin.

The track bore no train for years.
Weeds travel tendriled and
yellow rooted between trestles.
Broken vessels whistle through
shattered teeth of glass.
Only wind and no rusted train passes.

Though the scene bears dislocation,
though the brain remembers station and motion
of steam engine and iron wheel rotation
the places of old gone passing
bear no malice toward stillness.
All around mute remains remind the
occasional passer of former days;

an old snuff tin crumbled in a reverent hand
longs for the woman grasping then,
holds sweet dust beneath her tongue
as the land must hold her now where is
no whisper but sleep beyond sleep.

Weeds to the eye are sad between rails
but listening to their green and yellow belles
the rightness of their swaying displaces all sorrow.
Their distance is a distance one cannot know
but only borrow in imagination by extension
of miles, their reach is ours then, translated
green and longing, their leaves throng the
evening air, in silent clamor fling down seed
to summer's blundering prayer.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 

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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon