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Poems By Poet Warren Falcon  10/20/2014 4:10:39 PM
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Warren Falcon   Best Poems From
  WARREN FALCON (04/23/52 - xxxx)
 
 
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  181.     

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
   
 

   
   
 

  182.     

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
   
 

   
   
 

  183.     

Response To Bernadette Mayer's 'First Turn To Me...'

'you appear without notice and with flowers
I fall for it and we become missionaries

we lie together one night, exhausted couplets
and don't make love. does this mean we've had enough? '

- Bernadette Mayer


Failing the Grand Coniunctio
this is the only one we know
the one where we eat dirt
and swallow, are filled and
swell belly up a meal to be
eaten when the Messiah comes

Leviathan is our heavenly bridegroom
presses the banquet table with elbows
manners forsaken in the end
yanks at sallow meat forsaking
the wine which has turned
no First Wedding miracle can
be repeated - no do-overs here

Candles burn on as always false promises

All the doors are marked EXIT

Still we must try
at the Feast

make small talk

look interested

all the while thinking

This is it?


Angels without knees
aprons spotless starched
as beards of saints
complain of humans
the stains they leave

Overheard
between the fork
and spoon obscenely
crossed
one angel to another:

They call it love
what we are supposed
sublimely to sing of
but frankly all that
pushing and shoving
faces in agony the
cries and curses all
that pulling at flesh
bruised as the moon
this can't be love

We stand without legs
the better for it but
for these we must attend
bent over their plates
greedy to have at each
other again to marriage
beds one last time

And then the singing
begins

an eternity

songs about dirt
about longing to return

how all hurts there
mean something
after all


http: //www.poets.org/viewmedia.php/prmMID/21051
 
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