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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  8/29/2014 5:23:12 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  157.     

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
   
 

   
   
 

  158.     

Pasturale Lullabies - Fragments Of Nocturnal Song From A Child's Abandoned Grave

Lullaby One

Remembered gait of young ponies toward
the spring's sweet water


Remembered laughter of the frail daughter there
beside the fields sweet grasses


The daughter, as the water, passes into silence


Lullaby Two

Distant crows sound the morning field beyond pasture


Dew murmurs names upon passing grasses


still, the woods echo


Below
a stream's gash extends

slowly suspires erasing dimensions
of width and depth


Lullaby Three

Blue the waters at a distance

Blue the tails of otters

Blue the eyelids of sleeping beasts
nested beneath the earth


Lamentation Song

Dear one

Dear one

They've mown the hill

The grass remains


The modern scythe and sickle
felled the frailer blades but stained
their metals green with your name

Now the sun alone shines

burns that hewn spot where I first
learned to love your passing

where I watched your leaving
grow wild and lovely,
untamed beside the stream

learned to hear the quiet there
where now a cycle is begun


A new season of your death
is running rampant again to know
the blades of time and men
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  159.     

Perservering of Palms

for Karthik, once again,
'The light foot hears you
and the brightness begins...' - Pindar


that salt adheres to the palm
proclaiming only this
that purchase requires both
sweat and the one hidden pearl
of scraped touch

much there is in the hand
bequeathed;
beneath the thigh the grit
burns smooth the groove
where you lay

your wonder - that purchase
of kisses, too, with salt,
crystalline, rimed - is hard

Timed little breath-hairs,
inscaped light, red, turned
the more out in layered traces

delicate,

veins strain the
more for tongues' hard press

tapered fingers flame
that these lips may chaff/
chafe more the love
from the grain which
skin frames from
cloudless scansions

Obdurate Sun,
unclothe now,
apparel dispose,
appear beyond
familiar feet,
cast off,
at last unremembered

legs arc,
display,
sunrise splay
without restraint
tangled limbs arch,

on summit burn
where doffed shoes
obey Flame which
does not snuff nor cinder

Kindled limbs
do not go out
do not ash hot
to powder
nor the colder grow

though each is made distinct,
distinguished, though each
is extended, extinguished in
the other's contradiction
neither brother or lover

but both
be perseverance
of palms,
of salt

Preserve.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  160.     

Photo From Lost Days At Stillborn Falls

You see them all morning while driving,
broken cars, omens, those towns you drive
through graveyards now. Your one good
tooth a headache, windshield wipers break in
the storm. Road side glass cuts your feet.
You curse your shoes in the back seat,
fumble with blades in the rain.

One good town out of six and that's the one
you leave behind where your shorts hang content
at home on the line, back yard neighbors
speculating over lingerie with black lace.
The sun can barely contain itself.
The mail man wishes he was me.

The story is Jalise - I was nearby - she dripped in
soaked from rain announcing, 'I need to get
out of these wet clothes and into a dry martini.'
For me? only a towel to dry her and nothing more.

I swear, Jalise, pornographic peekaboo, hide
and seek, I'm drunk again thinking of you,
how I cut my baby teeth on Stillborn glass,
feet bleeding on always wet roads. One mile
out of two I'm thinking of you, how you wouldn't
let me love you, just hold your hips in jeans,
'just friends'. Your black lace is still a pain.
Five men out of six would call you 'b*tch' or worse.

At the laundromat now a woman in nylons stoops.
I drive by with a wave, another town, same storm,
a study in shields and blades wondering about
nylon mysteries, hand washed, bent woman's
name turning over and over again in spin and
dry cycles of drink.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon