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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  2/13/2016 1:19:24 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  145.     

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
   
 

   
   
 

  146.     

In Excelsis Deo - Variation The Second Of A Surrealist Carol For Madrigal Choir To Be Sung While Bathing 2

Hair of soap
and head of tears
Rinse mine eyes
of Christmas stars

O Bells, the Bells sear me.

Rinse mine eyes
of Christmas stars
Water me hot
and redly rare

O Fey, the Fey stars blear me.

Water me hot
and redly rare
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 to see

Eternally yours,

He.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  147.     

In Excelsis Deo - Variation The Third Of A Surrealist Carol For Madrigal Choir To Be Sung While Bathing

3

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

Rinse mine eyes of Christmas fears
Water me hot and redly rare
O fey, the fey stars blear me.

Wash mine 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 to see

Eternally yours,

He.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  148.     

Inside My Father's Bomber Dream - After Richard Hugo

for my father


Again, what is remembered,

sailors this time,
cotton candy sweet
in their dress whites
seeking out stains,
they're desperate for
a night in arms.

The chase is on.

Then dawn's blur, a slippery
salute less than crisp,
shirt tails at half mast,
nothing virgin is gone as
of yet, the war a distant
twitch barely guessed in
dense traffic roar and rumors
beyond the Narrows that
swallows are cheap shots
in a rusty bar beneath
the Verrazano. There taxis
wait, drivers with mostly
funny names, hard to say
them, but this is the one
city its citizens are Everyone
from Elsewhere and being
drunk is only weather,
and the port, this port,
old, grand, will pass like any
other but coded in odd graffiti:

ASK THE WELDER WHO'S YOUR MOTHER

REAL WINNERS CHOOSE THEIR GOD

From Here to Eternity
only 5 bucks to Coney
Island and back

Implication: come to Coney,
the franks are speechless
in the hand relenting to
degrees of gray mustard
smeared as the wind gray
there beside the ruins,
amusements, thrills, rides
plummeting children and
fresh girls for decades
crying a dead poet's name.


I've still no idea what the
inside of my father's bomber
looks like, how it smells
when filled with fear, laden,
perhaps passed off as gun
powder, fuel, flak flame
and smoke so deep in the
pores it stinks a lifetime,
yours. Mine by blood. Still,
your son is proud though
fear is the meal you often
fed dutifully eaten with
sliced bread so white white,
light in the shaking hand,
dread the tarnished knife
and fork, simple instruments
to quell your own terror
served up to sons, at least
one of them. I know that now,
and this:

Dessert is a son's pardon.

You nod, wink,
all's understood,
unsaid but conveyed,
not too late the
father-hope.

If you have one more bomb to
let go let's do it together. God
has chosen me and it wants
revenge, REVENGE the name on
a sudden wall, a painted scene,
swamp in black light bizarre,
iridescent Spanish moss dense,
tangled, sways, hints an invisible
wind, there you are too, an old
portrait, in uniform, good looks,
sad, even gentle eyes, a smile
noncommittal, the war is on.

Suddenly I lose stomach for it all.

I forgive everything.

You are young, a bomber pilot
dropping heavy kisses backed
up in the bomb-bay.

There's a wall somewhere
central in every capitol
of the world with your name on it.

Promise, I'll drop your name, not
bombs, every son's chance I get.


See all these sailors here
in packs? I'd kiss them all,
say to them,

Love your old man,

what he's seen is in his eyes,
finally dare to look hard there,
the face is yours,
no talking allowed,
no guessing either,

watch his hands,
what they do.

Never say

it's over.

Love, I mean.


That Sunday bar under the
bridge ushering ships in
and out the harbor counts
the bodies of birds fallen
from girders, watching them
fall's a kind of sport, a
free shot per bird, bottom
shelf, both winners and losers
choose from what's offered
or what's left, nothing's
for the birds. One takes
what's given, still,

I am for some things:

Be kind to taxis. They serve.
Brief is the port (any one)
that allows such purity to
pass almost unnoticed in every
young face, shirt tails out,

and stiff,

no wind to blow them.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon