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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  9/15/2014 7:53:45 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  89.     

from 'Ragas For Krishna' - Part 3

from 'Ragas For Krishna'

Sleepy Bee, he is rising beneath me, the hidden god is pleased

Somniculosus Apis, Sleepy Bee
Ascendit infra me, He rises beneath me
Deus absconditus placet, The hidden God is pleased

He is busy preparing a repast of sacred chilies of his Mother's garden born. Who will hear him sing their praises but me present alone with him here?

Yesterday Krishna arrived more radiant than when we first met beside the cardamom and the ghee in the intoxicating basement of the Indian food and spice shop not easily hidden below the sidewalk, such aromas cannot to be tucked away like the shop is, beside and below the avenue, just as his radiance cannot, should not, be hidden.

Which flower should I adorn my table with? I ask, approaching shyly beside the spice bins. I buzz inside, a bee for the nectar.

If you serve, says he, If you serve with cardamom and ghee then flowers three are best, the jasmine, the oleander, the anthurium. But if choosing only one, he looks at me, something insistent, responding, in his eyes, I would choose for you the anthurium.

And so we begin our time together, the first demur approaches, the blushing papayas, the cooking lessons, then the fires, the chilies harvested, curtains drawn. One day perhaps I shall fall but in this way:

I shall fling
the curtains back
Open the window
Throw cut sleeves,
for years gathered,
hidden, to the street.
Shouting out names
of lovers, I shall then
leap openly out, into,
land softly upon ginkgo
leaves and, golden, kiss
every parked car leaving
lip traces upon hoods,
trunks, windshields and,
lustily, rear view mirrors
reviewing all yore's cut
sleeves of love, secret
no longer, newly in love
with all the world and
if not all the world then
all the grinning griddled
faces of chrome and a
fiddle dee dee for the
fall of me into he who
has become my home


How I had to teach him what lovers
give to each how to kiss how to touch
how love is fluctuate fluent in dirty
tongues entanglements with the world

Still I have fluttered mightily in long
tangles of hair black, black his darker
eyes shine his bottom lip petulant hungry
for mine and those his parts smooth rivaling
Everest always beckoning to be climbed

And surprises
tenderness on his part
graces unexpected quick disrobing

the easy nakedness the hunger so
clean the affection grown from early
flings to ring heart rosaries forged

toes fall down to tumbles
grasps and pressing flesh
its own alchemy merging
but let there be two solid
but encroachable objects
together crushed into each

He is soon departed
likelihood of similar rare
the room empties
late afternoon shadows
his leaving leaves
traces and I am full

yet

emptiness is never fuller but
for beloved's absence felt which
of course is

the mystic's launch
the desert dweller and the roof
the longing tooth gnawing

one claws inwardly through
layers to find that Name which
Holier Ones say is written on
the back of the Heart

Thus remain I here in monk cell
soon to be more the monk's than
once spunk monkey's boudoir
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  90.     

from 'Ragas For Krishna' Part 2

from 'Ragas For Krishna' Part 2

I have been encouraging Krishna (which is a funny thing to say, Krishna being a bold, blue God) to find a language coach to help him with his accent, to tone it down while keeping the wonderful music/lilt of it...he complains of tilting his head as he talks 'as all Indians do' but I insist he merely speak and let his head and hands speak, too, in their own way. If he does more public events he will need to be understood clearly when he speaks while preparing his magnificent dishes from his country, his rich feasts of stories of the chilies from his mother's garden entwined by morning glories, the morning cock already at quarrel with the world just beyond the tin reaching in to take some spices too enticing to refuse...

I always feel as if he is, or will soon be, bored with me and my humble 'ministrations' but he sweeps into my little room like a Raj, a young prince beaming, brimming full of stories to tell me, usually some food spicy hot he has prepared for me offered with a grin. Then he strips instantly down, lays upon the down pallet in easy, unabashed nakedness - it catches my breath, I do want to see! I hurriedly 'hide' my Ganesha, the prominent statue of the god I have in front of my useless fireplace; this hiding I half understand...but still, naked, he has a fresh and beautifully made tattoo of Ganesha on his shoulder, he wears a Ganesha necklace, a Ganesha bracelet, and a Ganesha waist scapular, the image of which is just below his navel. So why, I ask only myself and Ganesha, never Krishna, why must I hide my large wooden Ganesha statue? But I do hide Him in deference to Krishna's wishes and meanwhile have intercourse with the god-in-miniature, scraping a necklace trunk with an ear, a tongue, receive a scapular kiss of the image upon my forehead as I trace those wonderful hairlines of the male body on my way to other deities.

Ah! give me all the cabbages in the world in all my poverty! Am I not, too, a Raj of floors and scented pillows, this beaming god beneath me thrusting utterly to reveal his secrets, his desires, his pleasures to me who am not, when all is done, a god?

Life, dear Valdosta, over all, is good, yes? I wish it no ill. But, agreeing with the cock, I will quarrel, even fight, with life when young men still leap too soon from bridges because I have learned (and relearn it hard lesson by hard lesson at a time) visionary company insists its tracings in many forms, man to man being but one holy expression, those sons, burning mother's hands upon them demanding, insisting to life that each her sons is a rajah, a Sleepy Bee.

So please the intemperate humanity, in the face of patient deities the burning ones are leaping still and I am ill with grief, with prayer, their dead bodies gone, their now emptier hands.

And he leaves me.

I return to my poems.

The room is filled with Krishna, aromas of rose oil in his hair, pungent spices in his sweat and upon his hands and skin, and sex.

I retrieve Lord Ganesha out from his little sanctuary of hiding (it seems I am always retrieving deities) and we both laugh richly. I remember to sprinkle some cologne upon Him, to pour out some milk into His votive bowl, to rub His belly, to light another candle (the other extinguished, panting, while we were busy bees exchanging knees and sighs, diffusing male spices into bracing air, fingers upon oily chilies thickening in always morning hunger) .

I light more incense and thank Lord Ganesha in all his forms, appearing both large and small, His adornment of Secrets, though one cannot easily hide an Elephant, man-love, and more in such a small universe whose toes I seek to tickle then gather for a shoe as tides shrink and swell, grow and diminish depending upon the worshipers, those who will do so in spite of those who would kill delicate or manly infidels whose worship, forever babies breath, is all the more meaningful.

Be damned the trellises. The petals shall reach, shall extend outward.

The violin's throat is cut.

'Do not ask me to see it! '
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  91.     

From the Encampment Of Heart Strife, A Warrior's Journal - Fragments From an 11th Century Japanese Scroll

for Goodfew


'like unto like'
but do not say it
my forbidden simile


one is not immune
to jealous couriers
who would come
between lovers

Rice paper is thin

Tender words never
tear though ink

Wild tears fade
sure words to guesses

Distance reconciles
murmurers with desire

Duress strengthens
supple resolve

supple resolve
thickens skin

thickened skin
feels the better
when simple
loves caress



paper curtains
for ink yearn
their brush strokes
burning stories
to bear



a fly
strolls a realm
just on the other
side of light

only silhouettes
guesses too
thrills at motion so
slight framed in
window gray



in love with
small things
keep what
is seen where
hides the wind



Geese tell
of return and
so I will when the
burnt village
counts its embers
measured in hands

there are treaties

generals

gilded boxes
are exchanged
and the
Mongol spices



no milk for her
child the nipple
droops a sad
thing while dogs
run wildly about



Hold Fast
the greatest
among us

he knows
only war which
makes him great
in one thing
alone

I know
of waiting

what the horizon
safe keeps behind
its ear

of love, yes



your top knot my hand
unknotting
your long hair my
scented bedding

sudden
startled
wildness of laps

the vase
so very
still

a clutch of stamens



I dream again
of moonlight
of sewing
that work of
warriors naked
needling seams
In this dream
I know the pattern well
so near to hand
a blessing



let the dead bury
theirs

his face
sleeps upon my
belly

I do not breathe
do not wish to disturb



Dawn just

light fingers
trace in circles
each my
breasts

what tickles
but a sigh interrupted



In your dream

a gentle
boat slowly rising
with waves

the gentler subsiding

slides up
my torso
to keel
to kiss
Never again will I go to war

I lie

Already
the men are heavily gathering
new arrows hot for flesh
only for yours I am



From childhood our song

'Hurry awake sleepy bee
Softly sings the breeze
To sweetness we are called...'

When the sun
is high
shall be
freshened
with tears
our parting

behind the barred door wait
a lock of wound hair
silk pouch of my gated heart
it will be a hard arrow to pierce it

Small boys
muddy feet
cheer
chase behind
innocent fists
raising threat

for them
such punctuation
I regret



only this

to take a quiet supper
to hear the dipper spilling
too full
the deep well
yielding

knowing a hand of dew
brings such sweetness wet, cool

wet
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  92.     

From The Train Window Haiku

View upon entering Philly

receding steeples

the hairline of God
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon