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
