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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  5/28/2016 9:00:02 PM
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  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
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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



Whatever It Is, A Mariner's Tale

[the Martin guitar is considered by
aficionados to be the best in the world]

Whatever it is
the Martin reshapes
itself as do waves
upon which we once
sailed the ark the
boat we once steered
you awkward with
ropes/sails no
tongue for 'lanyard'
or 'bow' though
clumsy same fingers
fumble jib then
chord strum without
stumble pluck strings
breeze confess what
then is obvious
sunlight burned into
each body (whose)
your legs easily
bend forming each
yielding bow upon

I am the twine
the Martin knot
forgetting you
me tying patiently
holding form
whatever it is
that allows each
countless wave
to shape break
as did we also
break wherever
legs insist as
they do(and lips)
(tongues) betide
we lash(the
eyes) tied flood
ebb breathe all
sleep beyond
coral carefully
traced around
(all those countless
mouths beneath)
strange or familiar
sound as is the
Martin formed
whatever it is
womb once found

or/and tomb found/
lost again foregoing
guiding star exchanged
for adamant dark
whatever is apparent
in all storms heart
eye and after

Each chord questions
Each wave beseeches
yearns as does tide
yearn for moon/I/we
can be, or try (we
want) such turning

tattered sail

frayed rope


bent wood



guides only
a blonde
smile placed
upon knees
each our lips
pretended shores
whatever can be
more than what
empties and shapes
the sky we will
become flung
beyond breakers
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 Police Line...

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, explains 'breaking glass, cars aflame,
mayors counting bullets in locked rooms all over

the world, spinning press releases in cotton
candy machines -

'All answers are pending investigation.'

*'shark' in Spanish is 'Tiburon' which is the name of
the sea town in California that Robin Williams lived in

**oneryu: a single line poem with a title. It falls into
the category of micro-poetry.
Warren Falcon



With Spring Arrives Blossoms, Bridges, And Old Kobayashi

What a strange thing!
to be alive
beneath cherry blossoms. - Kobayashi Issa


From the roof tonight
sighing after Brooklyn Bridge
and that Other so
close beside

blue curves shape
city-glow orange into pink into

letting down their
girders they follow me to my little
room at last

the bare bulb astonished


after all these years they have
winked from tenement distances
over tar over stoops disturbing
only the prudish pigeons

through my open window
with their faithful light
they finally arrive

this night of wavering curtains


I recline then

stuporous on the

sag sofa beside

the black mirror

evening air heavy

from certain blossoms

a pungent semen smell

Kobayashi? can 'stain' rhyme with 'Spring'?

Will 'Spring' ever rhyme again with 'screen' or 'crane'?


One touches the other which touches me

I am become a massive bird
bent backwards

a wobbling kite of tallow and tin
a bruised three-blade fan

petroleum kisses over
massive cables between coiled

legs those others of mortar
of hot metal glow

the handsome welder masked sings
into the retina of his dark glass

of a strange
thing breached

entwined with bridges
a bloated form of
tangled arcs/angles

how lips chafe
gently the many
necks curved
of alloy


A Balthus* mirror


drunk on blossoms

in my youth

I swayed

easily seduced

by bridges

nothing's changed

about me now

that the ginkgoes

are surprised by

it is spring

the blossoms come

nothing to do Mr. Kobayashi

but to open the worn book with

your name upon it and try again

like you to be a mensch **

*Balthus - Balthasar Klossowski de Rola, best known as Balthus, was a Polish-French modern artist. Throughout his career, Balthus rejected the usual conventions of the art world. Some of his most well known paintings are of swooning young girls or women gazing into handheld mirrors in lonely, well-appointed interiors.

**mensch - a Yiddish word for a person of integrity and honor.
Warren Falcon
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon