slow boat to Atlantis

archaic Mississippian ware (Minneapolis Institute of Art)

ADAMANT ACORN

The steady quiet of the river leads me,

& these monarchs afloat

toward Mexico.  Mote

of black-orange sail, tacking across a sea

of green... like a jasper flag of Jonah

(flickering calm coral

pinned over equatorial

squall).  Sextant from Alexandria,

sunken Heracleion – lamp from Atlantis

beaming through night sea;

matrix of Milky Way,

your Isis-canoe... assembling Osiris

from slow-roiling flatlands (Mississippian).

So Wolfram’s grail-witness

(ineffable justice

planted in lovingkindness) branches on

through Osip’s, Nikolai’s chaste vision –

adamant acorn of creation

(shining emerald of redemption

framed by buoyant casket-stone).

The red muscle pulses into veins.

A wheel turns versus gravity

rowing time to eternity;

the melancholy of Ravenna cranes,

the mortified forsaken innocence

of flighty Juliet

my filmy safety net

hugs tight – lifts up to cedar salience.

8.29.19

now we are six

SOUL LIBERTY

Today be the birthday of granddaughter Sophie

the Bangladeshi-American.

Her Baba became a citizen

in 2017.  They’re just as American as you & me.

We made a covenant of equality

before God, long ago.

African-Americans know

how long it took to become just barely free,

not to say equal before the law

in this blood-soaked country.

It begins with soul liberty –

thumbprint of human dignity.  We saw

how Roger stood alone against the weight

of Boston magistrates,

to separate a faith’s dictates

from common civil rights – & shape a state

of openness, of global mutuality

– planted in equity,

grounded equality –

premonition of a new reality

emerging like a dream rose island

from an imagined Providence

(Roger’s capacious sense

of Edward Coke’s law-learned hand).

Sophie, dancing image of an unseen grace,

child of the universe

sprung up in Minneapolis,

take hold of your inheritance – one hopeful place.

8.21.19

to shade the children from the burning sun

my Hobo Code coffee cup

WAVE-THRUMS

I’m coming to the crown of the river-tree

& the mouth of the copper serpent

following Hobo, where she bent

toward the Delta of American poetry.

& there’ll be singing & dancing, each clown 

hootin’-&-a-hollerin’

& dressed up like an Indian

to celebrate the simple joy of Union.

& I’ll trail behind Benjamin Latrobe

the good mason of Washington

taking after his dear son

to build a floating city from mosquito-glob;

I’ll watch that Phoenix-bird arise

like an evening Jonah,

spreading her ghost-persona

wings from Frisco Bay to Providence

to shade the children from the burning sun

& fly them to a new playground

where wave-thrums sound

their steady oceanic Truth for everyone

whose eyes merge in the Sophie-bark

curving over the Churnagogue

(octagonal pine-log

hover-canoe; dynamic-ceramic arc

empowered by the muscled wheel

of hopeful human clay)

– J-stroking toward an Agape

aflow to share, to guide, to lift, to heal.

8.20.19

shout it from the rooftops

CLEAR PINE

Hobo was playing solo crane bone flute

like an airy trompette marine

as he watched Henry puzzle on,

muttering his thumpy rhythms en route.

It’s the Union, the Union, Hobo intoned –

as your eye is clear & light

in the pasture breeze – right?

We wrestle with this violence, shark-boned

with vicious avarice – yet Sophie-gentleness

may rule at last, a restoration

of your soul’s volition –

the true child-wish, mild & harmonious

as that lamb-lily in the tiger’s eye;

as Sophie plays her middle Cs

at center of the keys

& swings all 88 into the sapphire sky.

Hope is our natural state – for a grace

bestowed, unbeknownst to us.

Lost & found – like that Tombs

Angel, swimming from the marble face

to lift a prisoner out of the dust –

Rebecca Salome Foster, spun

by Bitter-Lamb into the sun;

drawn out again (by Jeremy Ann) at last...

So Henry clutched the muddy wheel

& turned it, counter-clockwise;

from oceanic Providence

to clear pine river-source... you feel

                       *

it turning, turning... into San Francisco

& a rainbow pigeon-throat

blent with rainbow trout

all natural wonders for that footloose hobo

full of ecstatic spiritual deliverance

marked on his feet & palms

from walking, chanting psalms

all the way to the Delta – joyeux entrance

into azure Gulf, American trumpets

O when the saints

come marching in...

& the clay wheel turns bronze serpents

into flame-gold lambs, whose linking thread

folds limbs into a March on Washington :

where they will wash away corruption

& the violence greed breeds – the dead

shall climb up from their graves, & dance

the Beguine – the beginning again;

the restoration of all men & women

in the clay river-light of Cahokia’s immense

plateau – across Big Muddy from the sky-

blue angle of the Gateway Arch –

that silvery canoe, echoing the arc

of one invisible & omnipresent loving eye :

Aye-Aye of Providence.  Elliptical wafer

lifted from humble bowl...

Hagia Sophia (universal

soul) wearing her limestone life-saver.

8.9.19

whispers out of Colchis

painting by Michael Gould (acrylic and Elmer's Glue)

MILKY DOME

Henry hearkened to the dream song hum

along the stairwell of a crane

bone flute.  The black mane

of Mama Miriam Dodona waved to him.

As if a little tree anchored his coracle;

a branch of whispers out of Colchis,

woolen silky-shroud of Maximus –

his golden fleece a minor miracle

where twin wheels mesh to form one

almond (of almonds).  Mighty

mickle canoe, whose Isis-eye

looks from the prow (tease of the sun).

There is a vortex in the Black Sea

where the Great Year pivots –

Hamlet churns through his regrets

there, until Milky Way whorls like a G.

There is a grail of emerald stone

beckons from the bottom

of the sea.  Four rivers stream

out of a matrix there – exalted zone

of moody CHURNAGOGUE – the potter’s

center & circumference;

Ferrara ghetto-sense

mingled with Dante-radiance (all hers).

& the backward Nile flows down to Memphis

where the martyr at the bleak hotel

sipped from her cup, & cancelled Hell –

his milky dome hoisted to foamy wisdom-bliss.

8.8.19

photo from Ballets Russes

ALMOND ARGO

Old Hobo-&-Henry, down by Big Muddy.

Hobo lounges in cottonwood shade.

Twirls a bright curving blade

of tiger-lily, so orange & black, idly

between finger & thumb.  Henry

thought of mossy Giuliana

walking away from her pottery

shop, entering the gloom of Sant’Apollinari –

high frieze of majestic virgin martyrs

carrying their crowns.

The photo from Ballets Russes,

Paris, 1913 – spring maids, en fleurs...

& the black dot of Juliet in the distance

crossing the tensile spine 

of orange tiger-dragon

one last time (beneath frost-cobalt silence).

Strange oak, epileptic, near the shore.

Bent like a lyre before

a cluster of cottonwoods – your

humble servant, it seems.  Kingly no more.

Hobo eyed it.  Washing their leaves

with hers, maybe, he said.

Like San Francesco & his bride,

his sister, Povertà.  Humility cleaves

to the pivot of this world, the matrix –

to the crossroad, to the tree

of life.  I look into you, Henri –

to your salty heart.  I read the asterisk

                        *

you scribble for a star, approximately –

I scan the fresco-sketch

you offer for a spirit-potlatch

replica of New World Galilee.  It’s funny.

Earth is in its birth-pang death-throes,

Hobo.  Hope is hard to find.

Yet... the kingdom’s in your mind.

Your heart, my friend.  The Shadow knows.

& you were right to shape the Southern Cross

surrounded by Sydney fig trees

into a diamond-figure Paradise –

to stem four rivers from St. Louis

like emerald casket for the Eucharist;

for Micòl in her black canoe

& MLK in Memphis too

sustain that central martyrdom of Mars

just as Dante foresaw, in his basilica –

where little sylvan J

circumferences her almond tree

delightfully... & the grail of tears (Ephphatha)

opens broken hearts across the globe

to each one’s almond Argo

Isis-eyed Hagia Sophia...

see, Henry Church?  & like a strobe

light suddenly unfolded, Henry felt

what Osip felt – accompanied

the rapture of the universe (sighed

with bold Marian... watched iron melt).

8.8.19

throned upon dignity

MY GROUND

The muse of my Ravenna poem

is secret & silent, hidden

in quiet like that Belgian

Isis – adamant black Mom

throned upon dignity in West Branch

shaded by old oaks

& the whisper of spokes

on a windmill (over limitless green avalanche

of cornfields).  She is my implicit

First Mower – my ground

of whispering midwestern sound;

Hobo, curled by his sprung rivulet,

her loving servant & factotum

& my bosom pal;

we three walk out of Hell

by the glow of one sole lux humanum –

an eye-in-hand, like that manifest

benign donation of a palm

opening from the cosmic realm

above Transfiguration of St. Apollinaris

in Classe.  & as we are three-in-one

in the mode of deification

we mirror that diamond Everyone

dwelling in the well of supernal Union

before, within, beyond Creation –

in the heart of the dream-songe

& the rêve-vision, we plunge

toward Restoration like a green acorn

                       *

& rise like ancient Osiris or Lone Ranger

through the climbing limbs

of an emerald Okean Stream

glowing more human (richer, stranger)

& more alive, as we lift toward that

light cross-tree of stars

where gentle Dante stares

& time & space availeth not

& where the marriage of true minds

is blessedness of spiritual grace

as we become one Falcon-

Ace, or Jeanne-eaglet – who finds

her microscopic lamb-lamp in the grass

just as Maggie spied Jesus

composting the flowers

there, in Resurrection Cemetery... Rise,

Sister-Dove!  Walk, Jonah-Lazarus!

& thus the reunion of the universe

is now our interstellar fire-house –

Maggie a tower of almonds (brown eyes

shaken up to smiling Milky Way

between Jerusalem & Athens)

& my dry diagram begins

to melt into a double Tiger-Lily –

like this one (Hobo showed me)

peeking from the shade-weeds

by the Mississippi – beads

of green, black, orange... a flag (you see?).

8.7.19

the stubborn Acmeist

AMERICAN THING

The way a stream flows around a piece of granite

rough gray in the water, winking

with rose quartz, mica (splintering).

So the stubborn Acmeist would honor that

which is, that which exists.  & Osip

would agree with Oscar Cullmann

as to the meaning of Redemption –

it’s already happened.  So right worship

is a thing of joy – ample gratitude

for being, & the hope

of Restoration (its full scope

a celebration, braiding bread & wine).  You’d

barely sense the almost-infinitely distant

echoes of a first Thanksgiving...

everyone hoisting something

to that scrawny picnic table (ancient

light).  So as we J-stroke forward

let’s return to New Orleans

with B. Latrobe, who kens

the old French buildings there (mired

in mosquito nets & drainage swamps);

where he will follow his own son

to his malarial grave (one

body, bread & wine).  Under yellow lamps

like fireflies in the harbor (swaying,

soaring).  Scintillant mosaic

for one lugubrious Republic

(hopeful, Creole).  Clay American thing.

8.6.19

on six directions

CLAY CUP

I will not rival Dante’s double

spiral (from depth of Hell

to heart of Love) but spell

a complementary bubble-

rêve, mapped on the horizontal.

Infernos of damnation,

sparks of elation

harbor here – my guide no Virgil,

only turtle-speed Hobo;

not Beatrice now

but one blithe ocean-dew

rainbow (her smiling Jonah-brow).

Like that mercurial Micòl in Ferrara

she lights my imagination

with X-S creation,

aslant from Providence to Frisco –

a river, crossing at the Gateway Arch

like some switchback, Pawnee

Missouri – molding a key-

stone at Cahokia (ten fingers’ kiln-torch).

Where slowly, slowly, the potter’s wheel

with shaping eye-in-hand

rotates the whole land

counter-clockwise – churns against the keel;

casting her clay cup on six directions

like Black Elk diamond –

firing her mandala-almond

amid each human hearth-rose (Hobo reckons).

8.5.19