American Dream

True to form, ol' Henrah keeps doin' whatever the heck he's doin'.  Finishing up another chapter (#3) in his latest irrepressible yawp - that is, Ravenna Diagram.  Just in in time for the 4th of July.

AMERICAN DREAM

The flag, lacquered with encaustic

in Greenville, S.C. –

like a sand story

in Queensland, or mosaic patchwork

quilt (outside Ravenna, OH).

Her palm inscribes a circle

as she chuckles out the tale.

We Walbiri live on the ground.  So

dry in California – only

the Bridge keeps orange in

her shroud, Florence (thrown

into fishnet soon, my little tree).

Love is the criterion.

Your only manly mistake

was pride – it is to take

power as entitlement, my son.

E pluribus unum – tears fall

as rain from Manitou,

Black Elk whistles.  You

see the Mandan dancing – Jubilee

a joint venture, people.  American

Dream.  Not to be tarnished

by malice, nor the fish-

mash fables of the shellfish.  Someone

turtles through the brazen image...

flutes across my tables

of thanksgiving.  Seven Gables?

Stephen’s Gate?  Iris, in sage.

 7.4.15

Flag on Orange Field, Jasper Johns

Dreamsong scrapbook

Drawing near the end of another chapter in Ravenna Diagram.  This is the penultimate entry.  As  usual with my ancient habits of poetry-masonry, when I get near a finishing-point, the occasional, "found" synchronicity aspect seems to come to the fore.  For better & worse, I guess - you will have to be the judge.  (One explanatory note : my grandmother Florence was born on the 4th of July 1900.)

ATTIC SCRAPBOOK

  i.m. Sir Nicholas Winton, 1909-2015

The wonder of such strange & serpentine

inversions – the fugitive figure

of a mote-motif (Apollinaire

in pipesmoke, say) turned adamantine

ground-bass.  Children of Nicholas

trained by tomb-cocoon

back to civilization –

little seedling-waifs to distant witness

stand for a hero’s welcome, basketed

in attic scrapbook (almost

lost).  So inside-out

(a Chaplin’s chaplaincy).  O helmeted

spouse of almond biosphere,

whose pergola or grape-

vine lattice lifted up

one speckled shadow, brazen spear –

sere monarch-leaf... to re-appear!

Wave-shield for life arrested –

lacquered, casketed

sybil of Sibelius, flown clear

in V-formation, still alive...

So Dante’s Florence, my

grand motherland, might be

a molting rhyme, prairie beehive

as forth from Juliet or Maggie’s den

Earth arcs one Saarinen

cat-grin – fireworks begin

to boom at dusk (Frisco, Ravenn).

    7.2.15

the late Nicholas Winton, with one of his lambs

Grace Ravlin

GRACE RAVLIN

The summer’s Sky-Reflector-Net

is replicated in a gentle

eye : matrix of the spindle,

mote where lattice angles meet.

From Providence to Paradise

a simple triple-step,

sideways & back.  Steep

recapitulation – say, Toulouse

to Matilda, Queensland to Provence –

by cavern candlelight;

those hallowed aliens might

be us; San Vitale’s green silence

the dawn of some Franciscan renaissance.

She is the tender sphere’s

orbit... her love inheres

in eggshell domes, the garden’s permanence

Apollinaire after the war

ash in his peace pipe

Georgina with ripe

plum   to hand   so far

from feral death’s-head   pride   spite

the nations sleep   their rage

assuaged   hate in its cage

for now   low flute   bonsoir, bonne nuit

Grace Ravlin sets her easel there

Overlooking George Washington’s

Garden   good evening, Cyrus

greetings, Rose   O somersault   sweet air

6.26.15

Grace Ravlin : Overlooking George Washington's Garden, 1922

Tin Mirror

All my poems are local, parochial, topical, occasional, & universal.  I can't resist the temptation to hawk & honk them from the rooftop, hot off the grill.  Por favor, please share if you like.  Xerox them.  Paste them on your mirror.  Gracias!

TIN MIRROR

The color of those clouds, above

that soaring pine (her arms

flung wide, green Miriam

bedecked with cones) – vague echo of

El Greco, Michelangelo –

a bit marmoreal.

Disconsolate King of Coal,

Concrete... former Numero Uno,

about to send tears stumbling down

again...  So we sketch the local

monarch.  Him we all

know (Only-Two-Well).  Then someone

in Michoacán – Rosario Ocampo,

maybe – fashions a fine

tin mirror, sealed with twin

doves on double doors (closed, now)

& mails it to a mountaintop

in Galilee (just north

of El Grotto). The earth

is in travail, he murmurs – ope

mi puerta – up periscope, Jésus!

Stormclouds part for a flint

moment (lightning) – slate,

smile!  El rey ha muerto, vivez

le rêve!  From grassland salience

(Tower Hill, or Mount

Zion) her milkweed font

purls into sylvan stream (pine-sense).

    6.25.15