Archive for June, 2016

String Bean Hill [Nocturne No. 1]

June 25, 2016

As clover was the perfect cover
for a fallow bean field,
it seemed the beans were
an afterthought, pressed into
the ground by the subtlest foot
on the subtlest evening of the year.
It seemed the string beans cheated the land
as they lay fallow in the darkness,
Yet truth is often expressed
in terms of string beans in a green field
growing straight and narrow
against a backdrop of clover and light.
On string bean hill
we fell asleep in a moonlight so awesome
we forgot the green of day as it lay in wait
for us under the dark ancestral sky
.

The Fog

June 21, 2016

Light falls across the fog. The fog is dark.
So nature is growled-out and groveling once again.
A course of roses, a course of smells—
smells not quite strong enough to be a course
for the fog, though, for this perfume has
no essence, no parade, no grace, nothing left
save ravening beasts caught in a glass masquerade.
No mistresses to clown for, no real masters
to play with. He’s so hungry—he’d be a fool to eat
what they call dog food.  Call it fog fuel.
Enter the watery mouth. It circles the bone.
The crunch is like a wafer from the sky.
Can this be flesh taken from a self-canned man?
Do you understand, sir, all that I am?

Olives of Endless Age

June 8, 2016

To love so, truly can become the dawn,
The shining afternoon, a tranquil eve,
Every summers’ day you want, the lawn
So green and free of weeds, rain seems naïve.
But I should prove it. Apollo, you can
Be the Olympian, if you like. Dionysus,
I know you’d rather crawl, your life a span
Between mire and fire. Crawl, though, for us.
For we are poor—poor in poverty,
Poor in earthworms—the lawn is sodden black—
And poor in gods and goddesses.  They flee
And fly–perhaps they never will come back.
So, proof I must confess: it works, for clerks
Of love, this poetry of furor. It works.

Ecce Homo

June 6, 2016

Shall I tell you what rhymes with ‘wait’? What turns
Your shoes wet from the snow into the cold
That’s frozen so inside your soul? It burns
For you. This scorching bait becomes a scold—
Also for you. Breathe now. Breathe slowly. Hold
The air against your chest. His fearsome eyes
Should come into your mind afresh. Behold
The man.  Behold his sin—contempt, lies.
The argument, I’d thought was his, was yours,
Was always yours. And seeing all, you did
Not stay. Nor heard me say, no peace, no wars,
No crowns of thorns.  Ecce homo—outbid.
But wait. Just what is it that rhymes with ‘wait’?
Too late to say. Right now, we must placate.

Untitled

June 5, 2016

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Lancelot

June 4, 2016

But why do I count on you to fight?
Why count at all? Why fuss as time
Must sting to be apostle to your sight?
Such a slight sight, such a false rhyme.
The birds fly high over the castle’s keep.
The children drown each other one by one.
The clouds roll off the sea, a place to sleep,
When pure poetry becomes the  sun.
The moon must hide the clouds, invisible
To man and boy, to be a symbol so
Irreverent, so indivisible
That the man-boy must be a child of woe.
The day is over, so is night…and plot
Must not intrude…on good, kind Lancelot

Manhattan Henge

June 2, 2016

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