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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  7/29/2014 1:37:48 AM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  181.     

Reasons For Leaving

.
for Andy
far flung from
Black Mountain,
Charles Olson
in mind, quoth -

'I come back to the geography of it...
An American is a complex of occasions,
themselves a geometry
of spatial nature.' - from 'Maximus to Gloucester, Letter 27'

*

You lost
again,
poor boy,
in way out
places.

Better there
than lost
in familiar
here/now
such is NYC,
East 10th
street soothed,
sore -

red wine,
air conditioned
poems

Writing (is)
bitterness
mixed,
prayer,

such is
personal
geography.

Stunned
how life can
somehow go
but one can
either resist
or flow
with it
feeling

Deity

(is)

the
Greater Current
ripping all
cloying maps,
clawing hand
from roots
on the bank
worn by
Greater Intention.

One relents

may like
Jonah lie
spent,
still defiant
under

withered
gourd vines
such are
poem-shades.

Still,
the dreaded
Nineveh volks
repenteth.

Not I.

No 'shed I'

but

El Shaddai.**

Effective, what?

Indeed, more
God's work
than my
half-hearted
attempt to
convert rivers,
alter courses,
egos,
when
mine own
is still
wrenched

in Sacred Grip.

All's well
that ends
swell or is
swollen
with a
modicum
of sensation.

Can't wait
to hear of
travels
Klondike
&
more
tis boon
to read of

just here.

Ah to be
anywhere
but here

but intent
is to bear
this where

enduring why,
still celebrating
breath,

sky,

sidewalk
generously
allowing

my weight.

**Hebrew for 'God of the mountain', & 'God Almighty'.
The root word 'shadad' (? ? ? ;) means 'to overpower'
or 'to destroy'. This would give Shaddai the meaning
of 'destroyer', representing one of the aspects of God
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  182.     

Remembered Laughter of the Frail Daughter There Beside the Fields Sweet Grasses - Impressionist Autumnal Portraits In Miniature

.
[Notes jotted while gazing at Impressionists paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, Autumn]


*

Among ginkgoes
cloven leaves fall
whose burnished
berries yellow late
melon sweetness
of Autumn days


Among boxwoods
evergreen for no good phlox
blooded leaves settle upon
golden flax of weeds
seed the chilling ground
receiving soundless
lips of grain enduring ice
and ice again


Amidst the sortilege
coo of pigeons in the
distant spired village.

low of legion cattle turning
toward evening millet

mow of fringing grain chafing
toward winter silos


Blue waters at a distance
blue the tails of otters
blue the eyelids of sleeping beasts
nested beneath the earth


Distant crows sound the
morning field beyond pasture

Dew murmurs names upon
passing grasses

Echoing wood gold where,
below, the stream's gash furthers along
slowly murdering dimensions
of width and depth


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


Remembered laughter beside the old well of the woods


*

Spittle on the chin

stubble upon the cheek

she met her love beside the creek


Turned in her sleep

the calling heat gathered

the steep bank in the wood


then fell

as water will

forgetting the blood's

first stain on the long discarded sheet


A woman now she fled toward love

and fed there

but famished still

died there

stuck in 'King James',

entangled in lyrical tongues,

Revelation's virgin.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  183.     

Repose Of Needles

For Sanju,
who says she is
rotting within,
and dampening

And once again,
for my father


If you need to stand or lie
in the shade for awhile then
do so as farmers do, as does
my father who farms his despair
in hot sun then lays beneath
pines in cooler shade to rest,
to dream that activity between
dirt and sky means some lasting
thing in its doing even though
his ruined life cannot make
it right between clouds and
his obsession with weeds.

Between the garden and the
untilled woods he rests,
repose of needles and bark,
mid-day sun insisting its
question slowly. Night dawning
he at last in darkness stands
returned from day, a practical
vision of green shoots to come
from blistered hands.

Up hill to the colder house,
he wills himself to life-enough,
speaks some words to wife,
arcs widely around silent wary
children and lives to be old.
His loss of memory leaves it
for others to forgive, to live on
in the rich rot of that ongoing
question which nurtures his
memory haltingly, gracefully, on.

Astonished, I have arrived at
love for him who hurt me most,
have learned to obey the odor
of decaying things compelling
hands to dirt. Within the dream
of staying, the tendril and the heart,
my aging body takes on my
father's form.I, too, like him,
am a farmer when I note how
it moves in its winding reach,
rooting, rising, giving horizon.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 

   
   
 

  184.     

Scapegoat - Minimus Stuck - Fragment Abramic -

...continuously caught
as the ram redundant among
thorns, horn pushed, blood
ignored, to come more itself,
or other, to kindred bodies
entangled, sacrificed by
thorn, first born.

I am caught up in the matter.
 
Warren Falcon
   
 
 
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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon