We seek a sign

ISLAND SOUL

I remember that tropic hummingbird

levitating in the garden

in Roger’s Providence –

over crimson bee-balm, sailing leeward

toward St. John’s (St. Elmo’s?) fire.

New World already old

when Williams left the fold

for New-Found Land – an Aztec empire,

blood-soaked under sparkling banners

– Huitzilopochtli.  Sign

of bestial regression

(eaten by bad table manners).

We seek a sign, & lift it on a pole –

bow down, force others down

before fresh idols of frustration.

Teeth gnash, flesh burns, heads roll...

But it shall not be so with you,

spake Dov the Nazarene.

One sign alone is given –

that lad Jonah, in his whale-canoe.

I recall the scene (Deserto Rosso).

Old guy, utterly grey,

cornered by jumbled array

of gray paint cans (cooped-up, coo-coo)...

We are all Seekers now, Roger.

Pacific island soul,

deep Ocean swell...

gray-green still humming (shepherd-seer).

2.5.16

Compass of Roger Williams (courtesy RI Historical Society)