10.09.2019

beehive hop melds drones




SCRAMBLED EGGS

October in my spindly cedar octagon.
Oblomov in a quaint gazebo
waiting for his Olga, O.
Henry had an MRI today.  Beat.  Ochin.

His mini-RI, his Ocean State,
full of scrambled eggs &
mussels, canonical sand...
some Narragansett raving (will abate).

He can’t lift Juliet (or JB, either)
out of the bitter surf
with a pompous word, a mere
sniff to the wise.  Just take a breather,

Hen.  The heart is a mystery
who can plummet?  Purple
majesty amid all people,
8-ball in the Rabbi Shabbat sea –

where be wisdom be to found, Henri?
In love again with Heidi
or whole neighborhood, ey?
In Mendelssohn, where the bee-

hive hop melds drones to symphony...
where children laugh naturally
& Sophie will skip-to-me-
Lou through the live-oak gateway

immemorial... as toward you, gentes,
Jeannie, Juliet, Jonah,
the heartbeat (Shekinah)
skims near – overshadowy Benny Voluntas.

10.9.19

10.08.2019

fireball parody




META-BRIDGE

October Indian summer weather;
delicate red hands
of sumac & maple pause
suspended, swing through clear air.

A white paddlewheeler like a ghost
glides upstream out of
Lethe – like a church dove
burbling an emerald paternost,

a moody coracle out of Iona.
Who is the master here,
O mini Man o’Tar?
Whose maze is this, Grandma?

Nile Voodoo Queen seeks her Osiris
at the snaky rainbow mouth; &
Henry Churnagogue steams south
to find his figurehead (Columbia’s

Joanna-genesis, out of impoverished
Franciscan waters).  These two
reflect each other – so
your spring-coiled safety net’s accomplished.

So when that fireball parody of Icarus
– no guidance system – lands
a direct hit on Ireland’s
intricate dear vessel (Ick-R-Us?

Ich bin ein Russki, then?) our meta-bridge
of bridges, our Iris beyond 
all arks, will respond –
braiding a human chain of love & courage.

10.8.19

10.07.2019

driving around Kenwood




BLUE CLAY

Driving around Kenwood, the memories.
In the mist.  October
leaves me almost sober
(maples blushing maroon, umber).  The bees

have mostly flown to sleep (in the calyx
of a sunflower).  You’ll find
soft traces of the mind
in whorls of thumbprints – Red Wing phoenix

lifted out of blue clay & industrial (okay
now what?).  Zone of quiet
emotional measurement.  Whit-
mind, informing each & all.  Today

the Mississippi is a feathered serpent,
mirror of oak & maple,
cottonwood.  Oak-apple
galls the rotund roundhead tyrant –

harboring the charismatic prince
whose mother & bride is
Espiritu Santo, Sophia’s
father & son (green acorn salience).

The canoe downstream is almost invisible
like a pair of wooden lips
whispering across the gaps –
a miniature ark, whose rainbow burble

bubbles back her own Churnagogue wake;
she is the radiant candle
glowing through the cupped hand,
the clay grail mending each American mistake.

10.7.19

10.02.2019

keep on pushkin, straight ahead




RED FOX

Under the silver shoreline of late cottonwoods
the quiet gray clouds
the dry river weeds (wounded
with scattered sumac) Hobo broods

as always.  Trying mightily to bring it all
into focus, under the aegis
of an ineffable Isis-
eye (black West Branch granite, under veil).

Seated on her throne, standing for a Mind
of grace.  The poets’ doctrine
as against the matter-men –
lambent clay mutter-shape (FOR BLIND).

Johnny, we hardly knew ye... Iona
clover, twirling like a dervish
in the shadow of an Irish
Tyche.  Liberté, coulombe, Columbia...

Jeanne, Jonah.  Up from pacific waters
of an Ocean Rose, an Okeanos
Newport oakenship – ceremonious
wedding (chaste prow, beyond all wars).

Like scrape of diamond on a coal-black
door.  Marking your graffiti-
passage, Henry Contumely –
he hath entered the realm of signs (alas,

alack).  You search the scriptures, lil Red
Fox – but do not come to ME.
Swift as cottonwood leaf
her sun-heart passes... (Dion-Isis?  Fled.)

10.2.19

9.30.2019

scribe's tattoo




RIVER WAVES

I miss the mourning doves of Providence
at the end of September
amid these amber
sheaves of wheat (gleaned evidence

of Morning Star).  A new immigrant’s
landed in Minneapolis
light gray, with neckpiece
of black-white bands.  Postulant’s

collar, mayhap?  Or a scribe’s tattoo
ably marked upon the neck
like Isaac or Melchizedek
or some Eurasian collared coo-coo

hums b-flat from the fiery furnace
of her supernatural
affection (international
orange toucan, maybe – or Falcon-Ace)

& so transfigures frozen Everyman
out of his callous armor
into another feathered Amor
winging like an arrow back to Magdalen

& turning to golden almond in her hand
like the sun beheld by Ondine
underwater (bright, serene).
As river waves lap softly overland

her clear tone modulates the earth
back to its mended origin
within your warm all-human
clasp (chastened Columbia’s rebirth).

9.30.19

9.21.2019

like a willow bird-basket




DOVE-FLUTE

As Hart’s Admiral of the Ocean Sea
inched toward his New World
or Derry’s Columba (Pearl
Harbor child) anchored his monastery

like a coracle of Ionian gold
in the rêvesonge of an orrery...
So that Prince Hal Harry
leant upon Hobo’s broken shoulder

in order to meld his Camelot tall tale
into a pilot’s river-rumors.
Driftwood-heavy humors,
welded like Jeanne d’Arc in jail

to the high dream of moral freedom –
each bright soul’s laboratory
of liberty (that’s the main story,
from Memphis to Melchizedek-welcome).

O the hollow heart of him Joan lifted!
Like a willow bird-basket
(1132 tons of Itasca
taconite) nailed to Galahad-helmet;

in the clay banks, at the matrix
of four rivers, where
a raven’s bone-flute sauntered
through the air.  Mourning genetrix

for son of Abraham (Jack-in-the-box);
sweet shibboleth of 5-2-9
transmuting sacrificial wine
to shocks of wheat (her arc’s bright locks).

9.21.19

9.18.2019

at the end of summa




SURSUM CORDA

These heart-shaped leaves of the cottonwood –
yellow-black memories,
your excavated face
from the dark archive of branded blood.

Leavings from an old mosaic, my Psyche;
yearnings you magnetized
like a Tombs Angel surprised
me from despair – desire molting to fiery

grace.  Loose, unloose these cords,
sister Cordelia –
churnagogue Jonah,
heart’s winepress of happy candle-words.

I hear hands clap together
this little light of mine
I’m gonna let it shine...
through the funhouse mirror

mend you ways, O Minotaur
sacre du printemps
bête pour FIN DU TEMPS
so you may stand with sisters

brothers   in the great congregation
at the end of summa
when the threads draw
taut (1132)   Rabbi, Rab Ravelin

sursum corda   my clay Columbia
as out of the flaming kiln
the milky waters spill
& your glad-sparrow brother sighs   selah

9.18.19