with Grace (in memory)

MANUSCRIPT ILLUMINATION

                  i.m. Grace Tagliabue (1922-2018)

In that heavenly kingdom of Como, or Maine,

his ready bird-feather

will already be there

with you, Grace – to bring peace, to make plain

the origin of the Cosmos in love & joy –

his valiant light-heart

casting out fear with an art

like child’s play.  & you (his chief toy,

rest, dream) would be there, too –

answering love with love

from the deep, from above,

tracing that birdsong in robin’s egg blue

& loops of moss-green watercolor.

Since poetry – imagination –

is manuscript illumination,

you chose to let John’s words flower

like parchment flesh in a bath of rebirth –

& as time slowly waltzes us

toward our last contra dances

you help wash our feet on Earth

& ready us for that elfin circle-dance

in the kingdom of children &

animals & grains of sand

all sparkling in the galaxies... entrancing

Entrance to Eternity (your linen

wheel of emerald palm-

prints... infant calm

babble of Phoebe)... heaven’s amen, amen.

    with grace, from Grace, by grace 

                                3.29.18

hope is the anchor of the soul

DRY THICKET

The salty bread & wine of commonweal

is not a partisan domain;

it came before Abel & Cain,

magnanimous magma of the real.

Like these green palm-prints in a ring

my daughter planted on a square

of Grace’s linen, whirling there

like burning wings of seraphim (wheeling,

wheeling)... the Power of the universe

flames through a hearth-fire

(undermining empire

with compassionate adhesiveness).

I watched this morning as a lone

bald eagle, gliding quickly

in great catenary

arcs (like Guillem de Gellone

or Joachim, the hermit of Fiore)

mimed curvature of bridge

along that autumn ridge

like a daguerrotype from Civil War –

the process signifying Liberty

teeters twin wings

an unknown soldier brings

to bear (O turtledove of solidarity).

The downward angle of the bird

that signifies nekuia

& kenosis (ah,

bright wings!) so anchoring the word

                    *

she flies – & radiates upward (selah)

that Shekinah you heard

wailing in Ramah (sword

rotating every way)... hey ey

yo, Ma!  Your motherland the Earth

is calling you, Hobo.

Only primordial blue

clay, replicating Ocean birth

can shape the high ship of the whole.

Those human ribs, breathing

from Galilee to Sing-Sing

slip the galley through a needle –

bear Arcturus to the North Pole

via waltz of galaxies –

salve memories

of lost sailors, & reconcile them all.

Hope is the anchor of the soul.

Light seed, planted in soil

of churnagogue, still

twirling on your milky way... scroll

out your almond gospel alms,

Melchizedek... your ray

through aquiline papyrus

lens, through Gilead pine-balms.

The clay awaits your bread & wine.

The heart yearns for it,

through dry thicket

retina of Man – your sappy pine.

10.26.17

The one who got away

TRAIN-HORNS

The raven-message in the ink gets blurred

in the dark.  Signal fades

over badlands.  Wade’s

gone upstream, Charlie – overheard

her talking about the telephone.

One with the wheel-dial

we used to use.  I’ll

call you in three days, Persephone.

Grace made this little linen hanging

with palm greenery, with

red specks for eyes.  So Phoebe

set to compass-pointing in a painting –

hand-prints, fingerprints, green

dolphins breaching in

a fling... theremin

flute-song – ghost dance for Iowa

maiden (midden remains).  400 years

in Utah, seems like,

they danced.  A snake

coppered up in a trance – cheers

for the livid buffalo (the one

who got away)!  I

don’t know, Charlie –

she’s pretty mad.  The whole corn

crop is blown to smithereens.

Hazel threw her whistle

in the purple thistle –

thorns crown hills.  Train-horns...

10.2.15