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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  7/13/2014 8:32:09 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  37.     

Annunciation - for Cesar Vallejo

Arriving late to love

the broken tower
mourns its ringing ruin.
Long drought of air
stills the clapper.

But one breath, Trembler,
cracks metal.
Muteness falls away.

Frightened doves scatter.

Annunciation of rafters:

Come.

Remember gaiety,
how to sway.

Who pulls the rope
are many.

Silver coin,
fly up from

empty fountain,

renew into
wishful hand
a saint's
pocket prayer
returning.

Poor in heart, scatter.

Bread, swell upon
leaning monuments.

Flowers
for the dead,

wildly grow
pinching lovers

who kiss

over

open

graves.


Black Rooster,
searching, scratch
all dawns.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  38.     

Anunciación - para César Vallejo

Llegar tarde al Amor

la torre rota
llora su ruina timbre.
Larga sequía del aire
alambiques el badajo.

Pero un solo aliento, Trembler,
grietas de metal.
Mudez cae.

Palomas asustadas dispersan.

Anunciación de balseros:

Ven.

Recuerde la alegría,
cómo balancearse.

¿Quién tira de la cuerda
son muchas.

Moneda de plata,
volar desde

fuente de vacío,

renovar en
mano de deseo
de un santo
oración bolsillo
volver.

Pobres de corazón, de dispersión.

Pan, se hinchan al
apoyándose monumentos.

Flores
por los muertos,

crecer salvajemente
pellizcar los amantes

quien besar

encima

abierto

tumbas.


Gallo Negro,
buscando, a los arañazos
todas las madrugadas.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  39.     

Archeology - What The Stele Says 'Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'

I am uncovered, thin, bared upon thinner
sheets the man-ripped to many images,
torn into, landscaped to former curves.
No longer do I grieve enclosure, touching
only myself, delivered from layers.

What begins to be, earth swell, breaks
root-room open to blood means.

All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hands, purple insides flare warrior nerves
to unknotting surprise.

Magpie dances.

Lines, veins, strung between Pole Star
and First River Mouth, an embedded ruin uncovers in milk floods.
Touch gently first what has been too long concealed.

Hard touch congeals once was telling mud remolded into
“Not again. Not yet the bleeding Centurion.”
Wield roughly then through gates too long shut.

When I cry out, do not mind. Blindly ram. Do not stop.

Magpie, my keeper, is flying.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  40.     

Are You Hungry? A Poem For Departure

for Karthik, departing

'Who has twisted us like this, so that -
no matter what we do - we have the bearing
of a man going away...so we live,
forever saying farewell.' - Rainer Maria Rilke


out of hearing

the last sense
to go

sing to me now
before ears take
leave and I shall
have no more need
for words, sounds,
even these my sighs
heard as I hear you
dropp the soap in
the bath

I imagine you bending
vague in the steam to
find the bar by scent
as you wash away
your own which has
so compelled me
again and again
(so gladly the
little deaths)

Cleave to this
I say aloud
though you may
not hear my plea
in there
from where I sit
bent doubly-over
multiplied with grief
for leaving all this
assumed presence
chalked now upon
crumbling slate

I am caught up in this
vision without glasses
squinting for what is
real or not though you
are faced to mine as I
obediently move my
shaking hand to your
belly, the scar there,
edges still hot
to the touch

Much there is I will
make of this moment,
drying your back as I
have daily done -

once
began the rite
first night

gathering now
the last

o when
the towel easily un-
folded, drank

woven
little mouths many

deeply
into what
has become
natural in me
with the wiping

In this
I am become
free now of
thinking intent
to this my task
to last, this minute
or two, to linger,

each is
become a touch
this one

and this

I am right now to speak
of this, retrieving the soap
which clings one strand
your hair tangled there,
a cypher I read
with joy grown
long into cleaner
disorder

a leaf upon the
bathroom floor
blown in through
the night window
random now
for discovery
a gift

I bring it to
you calling to
me from the
bedroom
as you pack
fumbled upon
the unmade
bed,

'Are you hungry? '
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon