on Veterans' Day

OLD CANOE

They walked on the beach on Veterans’ Day,

Henry & Alex, 11-

11. Father & son. 

A peaceful drone from the Pacific, hey

ey yo.  Henry, oh Henry, what

have you done?  Broken

the lawful bonds of Christen-

dom.  Limps toward Yehoshephat,

your son, your son (beneath milky

ocean spray).  Laborious

struggle to restore justice...

the father’s crimes his legacy.

Innocence precedes the chaste

memorials of same;

children entering the game

adore that grass, to which they haste.

Endicott ripped the Cross out of

the Union, Jack – inspired

by Rog Wms (hired

Ajax?).  Puritanical ab ovum

back in Topsfield (prior Zaccheus

Gould).  Desecrations

rule the day.  Someone’s

idea of revenge, rebellion... us?

The Narragansetts have a word

for youthful arrogance

(I forget).  Once

Henry walked another beach (Rhode

                     *

Island) lugging remorse (mule, dunce).

The heavy waves pounded.

Ocean-soul sounded.

Cordelia’s quipu-crown (silence).

The madness works itself out (&

might end, someday) –

the greedy Boar will slay

& slay, until his tiny orange hand

is stayed.  Complacent cows of Bashan

wallow on the slopes

of Washington (one hopes

Starbucks will runneth over, son)

until berserkers finish slaughtering

(but that was in another

coffeeshop – it wasn’t her).

Columbia keens for her offspring

in Ramada Inn, who are no more.

Henry Oakillas, huffy

Henry, O... what now?  I

do not know.  To the bridge?  Claymore?

More clay?  Sword shall pierce

your own soul, Mary.

The air, soft here – sea-

air (light of a sweet lightness).

The chaste beginnings of Thanksgiving

in the myth, in the dream...

on the shore, by beam

of some old canoe.  Hoping, hoping.

11.12.18