signum of yearning

DOOM-BELL

The simple poem sets its seal on the day

(signum of yearning, lack

& bronze heartbreak).

It doesn’t create, but confirms, I say –

tacit equipoise of universe,

with roaring hearth

mirroring each heart

in Milky Way (our fiery nurse).

& of that translucent softest koinonia

the poem’s just a line.

Graven tattoo or riverine

El (whorled conscience of Columbia).

So when the Rabbi hums a restoration of all things

we understand what he means

& feel it in our bones –

sunlight in the kitchen supersedes all kings.

Liberty-tyranny-liberty; light-dark-light...

your Florentine chessboard

migrates its word-hoard

to Skye, & beyond (stern Ocean slate).

Your buoy rides the moiling salt

like a lucky pawn

become kingpin again;

Hamlet swings the doom-bell... halt,

who goes there? – solo Ophelia

hoovers up all Denmark

from her West Branch park,

& Evening Star glows like Astraea.

12.9.19

for washing Washington

GOLDEN MOSS

Before you can enter the realm of God

you must imagine it

& you can’t imagine it

until you turn & become a little child

again.  As a red-black monarch

dances over a mauve

milkweed cluster, like a hive

of honey – so the Ghost in her Ark

skims with light shadow wings

through unconscious nature,

& lifts, here & there

the heavy hearts of human beings.

Grace Truth is her name; Liberty

her gift; & the joy

that shines like equality

throughout the cosmos sets you free.

The Ghost courses through human veins

like shade of a rose,

like a prism of rainbows –

wherever Imago walks, listens, leans...

Like a Mississippi made of murmurs

or a clay flute molded

out of golden moss,

the Ghost in us surges toward a chorus –

a waterfall of sound, for washing

Washington – bringing

Vierge-Astraea, singing

from the Delta (milky monarch thing).

7.13.19

from Hecate came the Kali-Bear

GLOOMY RECESS

Brrr.  Encased in winter nadir.

A word stings like a burr

in my ear, grown morbider.

Out of California.  Excalibur.

Poe’s gloomy recess.  Ceiling

flickering with Neva-light

(limbeck of Hecate).

Ligeia, Solominka... cryptic feeling.

Juliet, embalmed upon a wounded,

senseless word, while

murder dogs each exile

in a stumbling Republic – hounded

refugees are coldly wrenched

from their own children.

What will you do, Hen?

Keep chanting mantra, teeth clenched.

From Hecate came the Kali-Bear,

Blake, Brown, Black –

stuffed Russian Monarch,

Cuffy from the Arctic (Polar) –

Crowned with the crown & splendor

– like Inẽs de Castro, here

in the casque of my ear,

my dear; of violence the silky daughter;

his banner over me was Love.

Your coming-forth, Psyche-

Persephone – out of the sea

in Frisco Bay – out of the starry cove

                     *

laving the Golden Gate, your destiny –

Old Glory Red, & Irish

Green, & Maple Sugar swish

your seal, ex-Californ– Aieeee...

– over the Bay.  Bears baring

every fang, & bearing

everything – boars goring

every Tarquin – innocence betraying!

So follow Hobo Henry’s burro

as he burrows through

her barrow – thorough

ravishing of hollow tumulo!

She’s flown, sweet Thunderbird.

& like Aurora Borealis

hovers above all this

flag-draped befuddlement (light-ward).

Ghost-haunted Morning Star,

Virgo-Astraea –

apotheosis of Sophia,

milky mosaic your dancing floor –

step your basilica sans fear;

the agate lamp atop

your Gate will not stop

raying back toward D.C., dear.

Columbia & Liberty will shine

their sister-lights within

your ark’s palladion;

Agape will this rage refine.

3.9.19

milk of Melchizedek

GUEST ROOM

The aftermath of Epiphany leaves a trace

on the phosphorus snowpath

to the river.  Wrath

versus innocence, my Falcon-Ace

overcome, once for all – in the grace

of a tumbledown guest room

south of Cairo.  (Khartoum,

Alabama?  Memphis?  Someplace.)

Milk of Melchizedek, from starry heights.

Flows through the stone

like Horus off his throne –

like that downward eagle (sights

set on Last Things, Illinois)

Joachim (Francisco boy)

daubed once (with joy)

on Dante’s lambskin rainbow eye.

Henry crawls to the riverbank,

with Hobo.  His numbers

match that Mediator-

Aviator’s, by the grace of Frank –

Tuscan Jesus-mime, Povertà-

swain – Hobo’s Frisco

fresco-twin (hey yo).

The word is cryptic in Columbia

(District)... flies back to mountains

overlooking Red Wing,

Galilee.  So sing,

old Rhody pioneer – Astraea understands.

1.7.19