Archive for February, 2013

To Poise an Errant Lady

February 25, 2013

Suppose he rose in his dream, not to fall down the stairs,
but to beckon God with a secret prayer to poise
an errant young lady. Suppose he reckons to poison the giants,
maybe forever, because the falling prayer
always started when he found his  glasses in his dream
and he knew he could see the giants were everywhere.

For a dream-song is just a breath of air expelled,
and to poise an errant young lady is more pose
than prose or proposal. His heart went out to her,
his love forever, poised at the head of the stairs
drawing  her breath, from the vertigo, the falling prayer,
to the world itself…just a breath expelled.

He would poison the giants forever, if she fell.

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Every Owl Howls

February 13, 2013

Only my sorcerer’s lips
are left to probe
our silent thoughts
together. Two owls,
so far in the distance
you can see them only
as breath in the morning air.
Picture nothing arising on the horizon.
Picture hand-written poems falling
like leaves from an old trunk.
Sentence fragments,
a grammar so peculiar
it describes a land almost invisible—
bequeathed to you,
my child and heir,
to travel where
every owl howls,
and every coyote kills.

Last Poem

February 5, 2013

Your breath as it sits
above the ocean, so like a pale
winter’s storm drifting out to sea.
Your voice as a wave crashed
against the beach,
so adulterous to be there.
A child in winter’s clothes,
a wound stitched by barren trees…

I remember your voice could make
arias from my poems.
Your voice could climb above the clouds,
even as winter remained in the mountains.
Your voice could be a desert so dry
it might never comprehend the rain.

And so your poem will be my last poem,
a poem from a long time ago,
written by you, now that you’ve got past death,
as though the imperfect were a vocation.
For you belong to us now.
Come. Welcome me to your new home.
Let me hear your voice again, my love.
We must grow larger. It seems that we must.

Untitled [ Still Life ]

February 3, 2013

mango1

And they beheld Him even Him

February 2, 2013

Today is James Joyce’s birthday. It doesn’t get any better than this:

When, lo, there came about them all a great brightness and they beheld the chariot wherein He stood ascend to heaven. And they beheld Him in the chariot, clothed upon in the glory of the brightness, having raiment as of the sun, fair as the moon and terrible that for awe they durst not look upon Him. And there came a voice out of heaven, calling: ELIJAH! ELIJAH! And He answered with a main cry: ABBA! ADONAI! And they beheld Him even Him, ben Bloom Elijah, amid clouds of angels ascend to the glory of the brightness at an angle of fortyfive degrees over Donohoe’s in Little Green street like a shot off a shovel.