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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  7/26/2014 4:08:14 AM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  157.     

On Our Broken Boat The Harsh Light Will Not Break

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'Others the same - others who look back on me because I look’d forward to them, What is it then between us? ...What is the count of the scores or hundreds of years between us? ' - Walt Whitman


On our broken boat the harsh light will not break.
We see our day clearly as we can.
Tell the night, now it's here to stay, that

once I glanced the sleeping youth, legs against the wall,
felt a pall descend upon us here,
this boat lancing the bay waters darkly.

Some to books then, the priest to his sad, effeminate stare.
I can no longer envy those of the black cloth
so bend and tie the shoe.
We shod our feet against what long loss of motion,
eyes downcast or boldly returning the stare?

Beneath each eye there's some familiar look we refuse.
We map our way to sleep in the palms of shy or frightened hands.
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Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  158.     

On the Train, Haiku-esque

For the blind woman
on the train every
journey is inner.

She touches my shoulder,
moves just
one seat ahead,

feels her winter coat,
metal ring pinned
to its shoulder.

Smiles when she touches
it, dark rings of her eyes
light up momentarily.

What universes are in the heads all around me.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  159.     

only this to hear

only this

to hear the dipper spilling
too full
the deep well
yielding

knowing a hand of dew
brings such sweetness
wet, cool

wet
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  160.     

Our Mutual Confession Invisibly Drawn - Pentecostal Church Ruins

Descending the hill in unplanned rehearsal,
what has become a destined association,
our mutual confession is invisibly drawn.

A ruined one-room church appears,
a cemetery plot weed-hidden behind this
once sentinel house long remote to men and
as present as God, my own presence is bound
to his who stands confounded now as three,
one above grave, one within it, and me
in between, one eye upon him, the other
upon sagging dirt where bones and a
ragged shirt share an unexpected
moment of veils confused in sunlight's
disarray of leaves, wood, of stone and
shadows frozen there, not breathing
for us all in un-storied astonishment.

Here horseflies feast.
Upon weathered stones are
only creases where once were
names, dates, even God's Word,
chiseled by a now unknown hand,
an impression only, one among many,
reduced to no plot but that of Providence
left to surmise swatting at Eucharistic
flies proving only flesh and only blood,
a flood of questions eventually exhaled,
and exhaling still, waiting beside
a white rock with wings,
ignoring fires,

leaning into changes.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon