to look fear in the face

ROSE BATEAU

March trudges wearily this year

toward April.  The robins

tremolo their violins

with plaintive warbling.  The end is near

for many.  Gaunt doctors, nurses

wait upon the Emperor…

his unrelenting petty terror

carts off families in makeshift hearses.

Now courage & compassion race ahead

to look fear in the face –

offer to stand in place

for fainting visitants, among the dead.

Is life a dream, or mere nightmare?

Behold her profile, bent

over the bed… his silent

fellowship… the grieving watch they share

with every tremulous shocked sufferer

(who must foresee the end

as lungs contract… distend).

Is life a dream?  We wonder, wonder.

I see a silent servant of servants,

across whose labors galaxies

& all their glory graze

in circles (up above our sacraments

& merry games).  I see her figure

shine like sunlight on brown river;

glance at Rabbi Live-Forever;

smile from rose bateau (Dream-Builder).

3.30.20

beneath Corona Borealis

BLUE CANOE

While boy-o Henry skipped down Arthur St.

in birdsong Mendelssohn

a few miles up the trolley line

J. Buried-Man lingered on Arthur Ave (complete

Dream Song lament, at 57).  In Paris now

they’ll have to reconstruct the nave,

restore each curving architrave.

This knave goes drifting to St. Lou – his blue

canoe, beached crosswise (by Cahokia)

a kind of compass needle

aimed straight up.  Will weedy

Hobo ever stand erect himself?  Selah,

Ezekiel, Isaiah.  At San Vitale in Ravenna

or at Notre Dame, pilgrims

still stamp across the lurking limbs

of Lucifer – ravel a penitential way

by grace of Mary’s Ariadne-avatar.

It was her love for Theseus

(like Maggie Miriam’s for Jesus)

reeled him out, dis-mazèd – free & clear.

Lone Henry looks straight up, to Pole Star.

Ariadne’s Crown.  The toxic night

a donnybrook for his distraught

Columbia – his ark battered by Minotaur,

his Constitution of chaste liberty

suborned (sat on by Putin’s man).

Look, pilgrim, to the heights again –

whence cometh Thunderbird.  Dove… see?

3.29.20

like a gouache by David Jones

LITTLE GROTTO

Day like a gouache by David Jones.

Diaphanous vision, muted

by sea-wind, raincloud.

Mountain, meadow, rust (earth tones).

The nightmare of the Great War

like sulphur tuning fork

or buried line in Eden Park

commingles its dilemma in a metaphor

like rose in steel dust (Roger’s compass,

pointing NNW).

& Image of the Beast is

emblem for the matrix of that enterprise

encrypted at the center of a corn maze

where Satan & his Minotaur

(ICE-bound, possessed) are

snared (handcuffed in their own cold glaze).

The Man of Lawlessness, like Terrible

Ivan – he makes his own desire

the absolute measure;

he’s lost to caritas (in his own bubble).

Imagine Ghiberti’s golden doors

at the Baptistery in Florence

with angels forced to dance

to the lash of demonic matadors…

imagine Eugenio, alongside Clizia

locked in the library

with Mussolini – her sturdy

sun-glance, over the chessboard… ah,

*

bright wings!  When Everyman & Woman

breathe in the heartland

of their living temple… &

Joachim’s eagle plummets through the Plan

of Ages!  Providential restoration, O

downglide of Holy Ghost!

Multitudinous host

of human happiness – blue emerald glow

of soft & silent cat’s-eye revolutions,

roll!  & be the planetary

hearthland, wide prairie…

deep swell of Thunderbird flute sessions!

Because all the world’s a stage, coach;

the play’s the salty verse

for catching Eddy the Perverse,

who suckles his Corona like a roach

out of the Minotaur’s bleak heart –

rotten as… who can say?

God knows.  Only way

’s to pinwheel back where we start,

Pocahontas – up to the swirling

origin of springs.

A little grotto brings

its whisper of clear water.  Everything

draws near.  Pleroma for Fisher King

(little lad in oak tree)

shines, golden, leafy.  His

mother smiles… rainbows from nothing.

3.28.20

searching the pipeline

GREEN FLEURETTE

With a guttering cigarette-stub candelabra

planted on his tin pan rim

old Hobo H., yea verily him,

sets off, vagrant pilgrim, on his last hurrah.

& recalls that fond octagonal gazebo

where many a summer

found him (quizzical plumber)

searching the pipeline for Cy Manitou.

High & low, & up & down the river

led by that whistling flit

of Ray Caw-somuchwit (tight

Gansett smokehole, domed in Ravenna)

Hobo went on, a-glide like some water-bat

round that chartless labyrinth

amazed with gold, & crème

de menthe – a little green fleurette

upsprung ‘mid scattered fallen leaves

& spinning like a gyroscope

cross-threaded by Hope

so’s to balance what him heart conceives.

For that whisper-caw of Wakan Tanka

cries – all the temples of Solomon

& all the domes of Justinian

are but the models of a living Anchor,

planted ‘twixt the temples of your mind

beside the hearth-fire in your heart.

O speaking brook, where rivers start!

Handy RI aerie (in your eye to find).

3.26.20

on the North Shore of the North Star state

SOFT KISS

Not far from Berryman’s Witch’s Hat

in Prospect Park, off Arthur Ave

Henry beholds spring showers lave

his plague-burnt Vale of Josaphat

(in Minneapolis).  It is a hard Lent

& shrunken plain to see –

April trundling mournfully

to graveyards.  Brash head bent,

hobo Henry Hal recounts his crimes

(near Purgatory Chasm,

in Newport).  Hopes a chrism

helps redeem his own end times

along Humility Way – the icy treason

of a lodestone heart.

His mother’s art

pierces also, beyond reason –

those 4 unsoldered quarters of clay tile

where Henry & Francesca swim

below a swirling rim

of Gooseberry Falls (old Ravlin file)

in the blithe innocence of marriage

unbetrayed… unmade,

not yet.  Like Longfellow glade,

or negative of Dante’s personal stage

(Circle of Lust) the two of us

will splash, forever smiling

in that riverine, beguiling

clay lost Paradise of faithfulness

                   *

& O the hubris of Superior Prince Hal!

To think he’d play the alpha male

to Berryman, beyond the pale –

snow-bent J. Beerust, in his dream-corral!

My clay ticks slowly on its glitter-wheel

toward kiln of Judgement Day.

But you might take another way,

Kidron – follow the foamy V of keel

into that Ocean River of the galaxies;

gaze up into the Royal Arch

where smile-canoe arcs

over candescent happiness... frees

hearts & souls into the wholeness

they were meant to seize!

That Charity of charities,

that source of every brimming goodness...

the grace of Miriam-consent (to give)...

true North Star of the Sea!

Friend Berryman would be

beside me here, in this infinitive

to live – an evergreen, emerald

eternity of growth –

an exponential for a moth

(or butterfly) to find – New World

born from the Old, as wings from chrysalis

when Spirit strokes like Thunder

through clay rings… & under

your rose aye of Providence (soft kiss).

3.25.20

the continuum of life (i.m. Margaret Treuer)

MORNING STAR

                             i.m. Margaret Seelye Treuer

There is the fabric of the poem & there is

the continuum of life

as with Ojibwe mother & wife

& federal magistrate Margaret Treuer, otherwise

Giiwedinookwe (North Wind Woman) –

first American Indian

female judge in the country

(requiescat in pace, strong dancing one).

& I can’t always mesh the two threads

right – in poem, & with life

with my dull carving knife

rough-shaping sets of Minny-figureheads

for meanings I can’t quite project.

& in a one-room cabin she

grew up, ambitious to be

of service from the start – & heck,

she married a refugee from Nazi Germany

– Scattergood while you can

laboring man, & chairwoman

in labor.  Adamant to bring out of many

threads, & ivory husks of sister birch

one floatable resilient bark

or local replica of Ark…

wild rising, riding on waters of Ur-church

or paddling Churnagogue… to lift

the mournful tapestry

from scorn & travesty

to something like the glowing starry gift

                   *

it was meant to be, in the beginning

& she loved her Native ways

served as mentor & guide

teaching her children how to rice & sing

& hunt, tap maple, living off the land.

I was searching for a figure

like Pocahontas, Morning Star

stepping up to dance out of Gravesend

someone like starry Virgo or Corn Mother

to represent (in my rough-

sketchy way) just enough

for my own District of Columbia (another,

older coulombe, a deeper-down coo-coo). 

& as le printemps approaches

& spring tiptoes on lady’s

slippers through the forest, & you

sense the great symphony slowly expand

& breathe, toward end of May

a chord of Restoration Day

sounds in my heart & over the land –

when a glossolalia of babbling Pentecost

races glittering across

the coppery brook, & as

we rise in spirit toward that almost

ineffable perfection of the Everlasting

Thunder-life… we sing

of grace & thanks-giving;

our maypole wisdom-song we bring.

3.21.20