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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  7/27/2016 2:43:44 AM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  145.     

I Have Some More Thoughts About Your Dreams Of Late

The storm has passed.

Was beautiful but beauty
was ruined by the fact
that many there are a river
away without warmth still
or who finally got it then
lost it instantly in the
new storm without name.

Still, the gingko trees on
my block are golding up,
lost few leaves to snow
weight and wind; snow softly
sits accenting a white feather
boa between limb crotches,
winking through powder and
gold glitter over pedestrians
below who feel a sudden heat,
a flush of love,
and don't know why.

Isn't love always above us?
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  146.     

I Once, Your Other Darkness

for two paintings, one by Caravaggio,
'The Conversion of St. Paul, '
the other by William Hawkins, 'Horse'


I once, your other darkness, quoted Hopkins to you,
of seasons of dryness in the bitter pitch midst
his discovery, 'What I do is me, for that I came, '
not a text for self worship but, rather, an assent
to keep world woe intimate, felt in that greater
scape - inner - making poems from orphan woe, from
furtive grace which eludes then storms, in bleakest
place sudden parses in the greener green,
newly, of things while pleading still,

'Lord, send my roots rain.'


In the shorter light, the extended
night, of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or pen but make offering for your own
work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,

see what may form in the spreading dirt,

what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.


Caravaggio, (1571 1610) , Italian painter,
'in painting not equal to a painter, but to Nature itself'
- from his epitaph

William Hawkins, (1895-1990) , self-taught American artist
'His dynamic, artistic style was forged from his optimistic,
hard-charging, 'survivor' mindset.'
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  147.     

I, Twitter, Stutteringly Remember In Cyber Chases

'It's got to do with America,
my love of music, my grotesque loneliness...' - Henry Miller


Are not all summer nights

born late in America, fading

only when morning glories

breech fairgrounds entire

continents long,

fog draped at dawn?


Pine perimeters encircle

veiled hermetic tents.

Suspended rides now frighten.

Momentarily the carnies are

relieved of their ugliness.

Cotton candy gins spin

confections dry to cold crystal.

Sugared metals stop,

their precocious tongues tuned

too early for erasure.


I, Twitter, stutteringly remember

in cyber chases, late night,

sitting at computer scrabbling

after old grievances such are

lovers, cheaters, jilts, and those

rare 'got-lucky' graces, unexpected

shudders and shoulders where I broke

open, finally laid, laid waste for future flatterers

and failures of heart.


Sniffing my fingers for remnant tents,

I recall, sickened, the candy at every fair,

hand fulls gorged, glutted, belly sore and

wanting more, drowned in the push-shove

of fevered bodies intent on the fast rides

where one loses stomach for the ordinary.

Dizzy, I grab my ankles, confess instead,

I've puked my guts from excess, spun sugar

and cartwheels, mechanical distractions

ghosting up Stillborn nights holding their

breath well past bedtime.


At a window counting railroad cars

a boy thief is stealing circus hours.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  148.     

In Excelsis Deo - A Surrealist Carol For Madrigal Choir To Be Sung While Bathing

.
Hair of soap and head of tears
rinse mine eyes of Christmas stars
O bells, the bells sear me

Wash my hair of splendid fears
water me hot and redly rare
O trumps, the trumpets blear me

Scars heal me up to here
scald me pinkly if you dare
O gay, the gay sleds slay me

Is that flesh floating on the surface me
who swims or sinks fraternally?

I know a strange me
with soap for eyes
and suds for see

Eternally yours,

He.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon