BLACK LAMB
Henry’s diary for a dying day
saunters into November.
After Wars to End All War
will Guillem find his smoky way?
Apollinaire in a Sikh turban
waits out the head wound.
Carried to the ground
from a Paris window (11/11).
Long way to Tipperary, Gil.
Grandpa in his macintosh
in Belgium rain... gosh,
long ago, Captain. Farewell.
So long. Today’s Election Day.
Are we of the electorate
yet? Like a checkmate
in a game with yourself, aye –
Reds & Blues – rival brothers
in mired mirror war.
Each bears a torch
for her – the midnight soul mother,
those faces of benevolent fathers
children carry deep
into their forests of sleep.
Only the branding iron cauters
its contrary mosaics (through the Age
of Iron). Black Elk
troubles the star-milk
with one royal touch (smoky sage-
*
brush sand mandala). Soft, Selkie –
blue dolphin from Skye...
this mournful rage to die
sulks in the dark heart, MLK.
You must lift it from us, black lamb.
Forever & ever, light
candle through the night –
mass-vortex Gal of each I am, I am.
She smiles through waves, ineffable
Wisdom – heart’s foundation,
coracle of liberation.
She lifted Jonah (willing Abel)
into eye of hurricane –
the diamond matrix,
Everysoul’s six
ways – your dream song, Hen.
Her word burns like a fire in the Book
of Love, her Testament.
What Maggie meant
when she saw the young Nazir look
from the bright eyes of the gardener
& shouted, He is risen!
Out from your earth-borne
everlasting fire, world-fashioner!
So Morning Star whorls her self-sacrifice
& Guillaume flings another jest
& Henry’s safety net
swings sister-dove from rigor mortis.
11.6.18
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