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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  3/2/2015 9:00:21 AM
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  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
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Planet UnRequitia Poem # 6

We take our ragged bones out
of rented rooms for long walks.
You point out between bricks
the rainbows in windows,
the dirt now become your dirt,
your genius for transformations.

Back inside our rooms, last
castrati sings on the radio.
Enter winter under the door crack.
This becomes an event,
the retelling in high C -

Today sweet Molly with the black eye
and the cut on her breast cried then
decided to return home to Bud who
beats her when she's drunk.

I tried to talk her out of going
but she was going and she went.
Warren Falcon



Planet UnRequitia Poem # 98

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.

Please, Heart Song,
I take back all the
names I called you,

I was drunk
take me back
give me your number
O do
Warren Falcon



Po Chu-i From Far Away Thinks On His Angry Wife

Of Po Chu-i, Chinese Governor & Poet (772-846 CE) :
As one of his poems explains, he suffered from paralysis
at the end of his life, one leg becoming useless.

'A well-fed contentment...
is there no greater achievement in life? '


'Too late for you, Little Stinger, '
he carves it himself, again and again,
years now, upon the stone,

'A well-fed contentment...'
and all the rest, but in his
mind it is never done.

'Old Po, ' he thinks to himself,
writing another verse in his head,
his own epitaph upon the other side
of the jade-stone, 'now rides a wild
horse to the end of all roads.'

Weary with the business of state,
of commerce he now cares less
though once he was poor and his
firstborn son is dead as a result,

'Old wife will never let me forget.'


Her heavy face displaces among
clouds, swollen with hard tears
her sorrowful gaze calls for the
always hungry child who was lost
when they were poor, without work
and down on luck.

The frozen ground
reluctantly yields these many
years unmoved by tears slow to
name his little grave, too long unmarked.

It now wears a monument tall of finest jade.


'Of pleasing the inconsolable, '
he writes in his head upon
horseback, poems to be untangled,
brushed smooth, ink and quill of
miles stroked until there is some
rest, a cozy inn rare, more often
a tent pitched lending some simple
peace compared to the mansion in
the wealthy province, the ponds
full, the barns full, servants
many and busy, all the fruit from
miles traveled to keep a fragile
peace which needs constant mending.

He thinks of his gray wife.


'It is as it is and should be,
of love these conditions come
bringing many mouths the fuller
hearts to break for love and
life seek to be undone again
and again.

'Such is the life the Allotter
gives. Why complain when one
has the gift of a patient horse,
Wen Ding, Steady, an obedient,
good companion?

'Why lament when eyes may
at beauty of all kinds still
rejoice; even of human woes
which break the heart much
music can be made, and without
false pity.'

'And without false pity, ' he sings,
'a coin given is heaven restored
until the next hunger pang, from
this friendship with strangers is
born, the best, of gentleness without
debt, untangling from mane to mind.'

'Untangling from mane to mind,
one takes real pleasure as they
come and, thanking the glad day,
banks them in the vaulted heart.'


Not given to self-pity, only
fond of nostalgic reminiscence,
he loves fabrics smooth, soft,
purchased in Yangshao where
he loves Spring's First Blossom
with whom he grew up, courting
her near the auspicious old well
of Silk Moths Aplenty.

He thinks of these and many things
upon his horse during the lonely
journey through difficult passages,

'Through difficult passages one
cannot avoid accumulating much dust, '
he composes out loud for the horse
to hear, 'perhaps our only wealth,
dear friend, of friendless miles.'


He rests awhile in the wide
orchard where bright plum flowers
rain, decides to unroll his pallet
to sleep beside the humming glade.

'Raiment, ' he writes in his sleepy head,
'of bees and leaves. An old man puts the
best plum in his sleeve to bring home
to his wife.'

'Why strive when nature is bounteous
and all ills can be made right with
wet sweetness? '
Warren Falcon



Ragas for Sleepy Bee

for Krishna, both of them, god, man

And so we began
the cooking lessons
the first demur approaches
the blushing papayas then
the fires the chilies harvested
curtains drawn



Slow him down.

He speaks
his accent thickly
richly Tamil
each syllable

a child's story
stutters a boy
waking at dawn
asking for something
to eat

Sleepy Bee - she calls to him -
Go my Sleepy Bee to the garden
smell the jasmine there touch
softly the spices in trembling
rows fetch then chilies of many
colors I will prepare for you a
meal as you desire

when teacher makes you drowsy
by noon smell the spices in finger rows
upon your hand there remember the touch
of chillies smooth whispering of lingering
liaisons to come and you will brighten
my Sleepy Bee

A chili omelet she makes
a side of yogurt to soothe
the burn and milk from the
cow drawn as dawn's first
udder swells against the
press of distant hills where
the Temple soundly sleeps
so very pleased with itself

Mother each morning - rubbing his eyes

as he stumbles into the garden - sings

You may shout if you wish to wake

the Temple for the cow cannot speak -

Wake up! Awake! Make haste!

Lord Indra comes! Prepare the wicks,

the incense sticks for Holy Fire!

Hasten! Hurry! Quicken!

There beside Indra's captured fire
the little grate her Bee awakens
watches slow movements slicing of chilies
removal of seeds washing again plump
hands cracking of eggs beating them
bent spoon spreading ghee sings upon
hot stone enchantment of liquid becoming
firm becoming food she turns in rhythms
round she rhythmically prays

After breakfast the rose oil is
poured his raven hair smoothly
brushed his shining face his smile
reveals prepares him for school
kisses his uniform clean ironed
smelling too of rose scented soap

lunch a string of chilies many colors
sewn together when still in a waking
dream smell of chapatis fresh from
palms to stone

Chilies burn - he speaks slowly
each syllable enunciating practicing
through smiles -

but the touch of her
hand is fire She is far away
but I can feel her burning
hand upon me now

He is quiet

It is I who stammer

How can one enunciate such wonder?


Krishna complains of tilting
his head when he speaks
while his hands speak
too in their own way of
entwining morning glories,
the morning cock already
at quarrel with the world
head tilted too just beyond
the tin roof reaching in to
steal too enticing to pass
the untimid spices


He will soon be bored with me, I fear,
my humble 'ministrations' but still he
sweeps into my small room - the candles
lit, the incense rich - a young prince
beaming, more stories to tell, and food,
spicy hot, prepared for me, an offering.
Smiling, he strips instantly lays upon the
pallet in easy, unabashed nakedness
a proud new tattoo of a god on his shoulder
he wears an amulet a sacred bracelet
and a waist scapular the image of which
is just below his navel

So why - I ask only myself and the god,
never Krishna - why must I hide my large
wooden statue of the god? I hide it in
deference to Krishna's wish thus become
willing consort to the god-in-miniature,
scraping it with an ear, a tongue, receive
a scapular kiss its image upon my forehead
as I trace the wonderful hairlines of his
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 heaving
god upon me thrusting utterly
to reveal Himself, His mystery
to me who am not a god?


So please the intemperate
humanity in face of patient
deities burning I am ill with
grief with prayer into now
emptier hands the sea
I am when he departs
the wax hardened long
sputtered without form

the stories to me return

I reach then beggars fingers
to my face smell his flavors there
remember chilies smooth skinned
touches whispering of lingering
liaisons finally come

'and you will brighten my Sleepy Bee'

In my sputtering darkness O return


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

I retrieve the god from his little
sanctuary of hiding - it seems
I am always retrieving deities -

and we are both laughing
anointing cologne upon Him
pour milk into the votive bowl
rub His belly light another candle
the other extinguished panting
while busy bees exchange knees

and sighs diffuse male spices
to vapor migrant fingers upon
chilies thickening in always
morning hunger


More incense then

thank the god in all his forms
appearing both large and small
His adornment of secrets though
one cannot easily hide such deity
man-love and more in such intimate
universe whose toes I tickle shoes
abandon as tides shrink swell
grow diminish upon 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
because forbidden

Be damned the trellises
the petals reach
shall extend outward
the violin's throat cut

Do not ask me to see it

Then - deity restored to rightful place
good-natured from obscurity
again revered - return
to the kitchen onion slices garlic crushed
wine poured then begins fire O Indra
more aromas extend into


He leaves me the better for the wear

more the better for me.


He is leaving me

will be returning to India soon

He is departing such as our strange
arrangement has been almost four
years of weekly 'chillies gathered'
Sad I knew as empty hands know
at the start to keep the reins ever
taut while keeping open the heart
for new breaching

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

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

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 ghosts

traces and I am full


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 that
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
the once spunk monkey's boudoir


I retrieve the god
from his little sanctuary
of hiding - it seems I am
always retrieving deities -

O retrieve thou me my heart
Warren Falcon
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon