Meditation on a funeral

HONOR GUARD

Soft muted early winter light

outside the National

Cathedral.  Great whorl

of reds & blues, at dazzling height

O rose window, still glowing bright.

The honor guard (Marines,

Army, Navy) forms lines

like intricate toy soldiers (boy’s delight) –

maneuvering, in wonderful coordination

powerful precision

beneath the boom of cannon,

brass band’s hopeful invocation.

The dignitaries have assembled.

Paired front aisles unveil

in allegorical detail

old icons of authority (kings trembled

once, when they beheld such signs 

of a succession crisis).

On the right, witness

the mourning son & heir – thin lines

of tears streak from his hawk’s eye,

flank his aquiline profile,

his anxious beak.  Meanwhile,

on his left, an accidental guy –

the crown-usurper (with a face

like a disgruntled frog).

Even Sully the dog

got more headlines than such disgrace,

the preacher said (speaking in tongues).

Haunted, defunct princes,

princesses acquiesce...

the fatal, dominant thug belongs

                 *

to us.  Chief executive,

or executioner?

Headsman (for our

gentler Republic)?  How can we live

in a democracy, ruled by despot?

We cannot.  Our choice

is clear, as once we faced

when Lincoln gave it voice – the violet

is trodden underfoot by hate.

What’s at the root

of all our discontent?

Man’s thirst for domination, set

in place since his umbilical was cut;

rage at the shrinking womb.

Like Jonah’s boat-turned-tomb

of alien Leviathan, the doors of Night

close, flooding, overhead... the child’s

unconscious & primordial

nightmare (abyssal

mystery).  Note each tyrant’s wild

psycho-disgust... the fluttering hands,

the flickering deceit

– detached from all sweet

reconciliations, lawful bonds.

The flag-draped casket of the patriarch

squares with the glowing rose

window.  Still hearth glows,

somehow – Wisdom’s scintillating ark.

12.6.18

OSIRIS-REx & the Bennu-bird

THUNDER-SPOKES

Quiet in the wintry Capitol.

Where father & son, in

the flag-draped coffin,

on the wooden catafalque, are still.

Where son (& father too)

sheds tears.  Innocence

belies its marble semblance.

Upright humility.  High over you,

at night, by day, Polaris glows;

not flags, but shrouded

origins – Bennu-bird

or Horus-ray (Icarus was

here); your ghostlier, spectral

interpretations – secret

resource identifications...

regal, lithic harbors, for a grail

of springy asteroids (boing

boing).  All that Libertà

of space, Lauretta

(almond muse, lithe dancing

branch of J) – inheritance

of every heaven-child

out of a kinder, gentler

Cosmopolis (to come).  Lance

of St. George or of Shakespeare

aiming magnetically toward

immovable light-word

beyond all temporary tyrants, here

                      *

on earth – ever-bright abode

reflected in the clear

Rio Espiritu Santo (where

we return, to be reborn, for good).

O muse of Jonah, in the maelstrom

of the Minotaur... your words

of the sea, rocking OSIRIS

toward... immaculate portals of home!

Your mild ray beaming from the prow

a living microcosm,

shining through the storm

of blinding dread – they do not know!

Mandorla of the sister-dove –

whose realm impends

beyond dead-ends

of Minotaur & twin-taboo... from above

your Dioscuri plant twin oaks,

whose lightning breaks

the chains Time makes –

prophets of the Thunder-spokes!

& from that gemstone casket

of the six directions,

whence four streams dance

breathing through each human heart

innocence & charity join hands

with strength & fortitude

& courage – score a prelude

for a planetful of promised lands.

12.4.18

ultra rich & strange

MILITARY CEMETERY

His leaden haze puts Hobo in mind

of his old pal Willie

(Wallace), in D.C. –

simple homeless vet, friend

of Feathered Eagle.  You could find 

him, of a morning

(borderline bored) leaning

against that sunny wall behind

the taco place.  Told me once

about the time he met

the President.  Let

me have a word, sir... since

you’re headed to church, will you pray for me?

& old Bush says – C’mon along

brother, we’ll sing a song

together.  Man-fest, I guess.  Destiny.

So they trooped on down to the Cathedral

hand in hand, them two

old hands.  You know

there’s lots of masonry in the capital.

Big maze of marble, curious flame-

&-turtleshell designs.

Defunctive tombstones,

mostly – but I was there when King came,

for the March, back in ’63.

Love that constancy

in his treble prophecy,

you know?  Beauty, truth & rarity

                     *

– rarin’ to go, that meek milkman.

Love has her reasons,

I reckon.  The season’s

colder now.  WW long flown –

but sometimes I see his ghost wing

past the tyrant’s house.

Or maybe that was Phoenix.

I do get confused.  Wish I could sing

with the Prez too – like Maid Marion

underneath Robby Lincoln’s eye,

so redbreast mild (sigh).

Pall-bearers’ props (sable, crimson)

& the trumpets & the drums... the boots

in the saddle, all backwards.

Buried bee buzzwords,

scribbled graphs, epitaphs.  Hoots

from the midnight owl – soft whisper

over dim cedars.

Her grey eye engenders

all this concrete into something... suffer

the little sea-change, children, croons

Columbia.  The statue

called La Paix (flew

out of Normandy, wounded) from dunes

of military cemetery, comes

to life... Hermione

her name, Queen for a Day.

Rich & strange now.  Sound the drums.

2.7.17

Sophie at the Raptor Center