through Narragansett smokehole

AGATE LAMP

A peaceful evening in late April

the trees barely budding

in mild light   while brooding

darkness rings   the besieged people

& this dissonance of visible   invisible

an indivisible fire   smoldering

criminals & saints   revealing

callous inhumanity    with humble

solidarity   courageous   all-compassionate

& in my flimsy gazebo

octagonal coracle or   Argo

with Sophie’s wind-chime   over the gate

delicate oak-leaf butter-knife design

tingling in the calm air   O

here in my Ariadne-lair   where

a Chartres J coils  toward her Eschaton

& my whisper follows Cautantowwit

through Narragansett smokehole 

southwest, southwest   while a soul-

hart sails back   to her monarch nest –

that circling square dance of Ocean beams

where the spirit of Jessie Ophelia

& Juliet Ravlin   abide in Thee   &

Eternity, O Eternity! cries Roger Williams

& you lift your agate lamp, Psyche

like a fiddlehead   in Holy-Land

& the soeur-coulombe of the Son

of Man   swerves   with a shining eye

4.27.20

it begins w'Thou

ROSE ISLAND

If I had a mind like Aristotle

Augustine or Aquinas

able with calm patience

to unfold the metaphysical

origami of the whole

rose-petalled ensemble

of creation, mon semblable...

– shimmering Ocean River, roll!

Everything hinges on a little tree

– willow or almond,

sycamore, elm –

transmuted into living body;

tall ash, strong oak of poetry

spilling Imago Dei

(with verbal carpentry)

into an Argo-trimmed Horus-eye

of Providence.  It begins w’Thou.

Psyche’s agate lamp

winking through the swamp

of live-oak garlands signals true

(one if by land, two if by sea)

– leads on to victory

over my own frailty –

out of buried man, a new Henry!

Where the rose Venn diagram

of departed lips whispers

through golden calipers

a reconciliation of I am

              *

& ever shall be (simple psalm

adrift over clay towers)

cloisters the eye’s powers

in immaculate seaworthy emblem –

mandorla (your birchbark canoe).

O light of knowledge

from beyond knowledge,

heart’s mystic bridge mirrored below

at River’s edge!  Whose Jonah lifts

dove-light from deeps,

& as a dolphin leaps

beyond Atlantic hieroglyphs

the figure of an infant Son of Man

bobs in her coracle

newborn – primordial

origin, eye of hurricane!

The free conscience, soul liberty

subsists within your peace

which passeth, Golden Fleece –

lamb of the Lammas loaf, mercy

& flame of lambent fellowship;

stone mosaics in Ravenna

& the tomb of Alighieri

radiate the scent... lambs skip

there, in the cradle of our limbs,

beneath the opening flower

of your glance!  O bower

& rose island – spring of river-hymns!

3.12.19

mysteries of the oval garage

BENIGN SPECTACLES

Those benign spectacles of the Franklin Bridge

were long frozen over.

Inside & outside were

captured in a mickle mirror (garage

at the edge of Ferrara).  It wasn’t a map

of America, so much;

only Hobo’s tender clutch

(Falstaff) of Henry’s hand (old chap).

He wants to show you something.  Opens

one puffy palm, and there

tattooed in coppery-red scar

– soft oval eye, mandorla lens.

America sleeps in her own green fields.

Feminine Hamlet croons

to her, lit by Hobo-moons...

Turn back to thy La Paix, Ophelia.

That Egyptian Art-Deco monolith

of Roger, stepping off

the cliff – out of his skiff

into a void of air, the whole dream-myth...

– & it was underfoot all the time.

Like a grail-dish, or agate

eye; a lamp on a frigate

or arc of a torch, Lazarus-rhyme

or Jonah-wing.  The harbor’s safety-net

for flowery Juliet –

buoyant, incarnate

Normandie (gilding Henry’s Mayflower signet).

2.26.19

I'm only thinking of you

SIMPLE MUTTER

Snow-canyons decorate the streets

of staid Minneapolis;

sparkling crystals

coagulate in mountains, glacier sheets.

Ripe grain of whole, deep faith,

murmured epileptic

Osip – stamping his shtick

of shaman-Pushkinite (limpid wraith).

Tiny hexagons of Siberian ice.

The glowing eyes of thief-

wolves, killing for life.

Vast evanescent Paradise

in an infinite complexity

of human innocence

destroyed by violence –

Patmos St.-Vitus peripety

of mangled lambs.  I’m only

thinking of you, dear

spark (unknown Shakespeare

pebble-soldier... yearning mystery).

Gemstones of civilization glitter

through the drab darkness.

You are only weakness

squeezed into clay – a simple mutter,

oscillating like a reddish agate

in a muddy kid’s palm

(copper reunion-psalm).

Jamie discovered it – I won’t forget.

2.24.19

in the grave of the Griffin Warrior

SERPENT THREADS

A stone in the grave of the Griffin Warrior.

Lowly agate (rough

exterior).  What

unknown soldier, pebble on the shore

flung from what Cretan Argo-prow

lay crypted here?

His name’s no more.

Near-sighted magnifying glasses show

how microscopic serpent-threads

wound round the pommel

of a vanquished blade – whorl-

vortex of a maze from Hell (where heads

will roll).  The Minotaur is in –

will see you now.  He’s you.

A stone makes hearty stew,

you know (a wilderness of sin).

The kilty boys are losers here,

for once – the codpiece wins,

his dagger thrusting in... so

war defines its atmosphere.

The agate labyrinth congeals,

like threads of matière

Bretagne.  Lodged somewhere

in the brain – with royal seals

& white election... Hamlet’s pause

(like Abraham’s)... the sword

held back by muttered word

to brand an emerald chimp’s impasse

                  *

with emblems of a lost accord.

‘Tis way of the world, alas –

each fence a sacrifice

for peace (a chain-link, scored

for Queequeg scar).  That little cap

of Mithras-happiness...

that victor’s haughty prance

over the bleeding bull (himself, mayhap)...

As if an intricate expensive ship

– Mayflower? Monitor? –

long-sunk to Black Sea floor

drifted to shore.  The salty lip

of Ocean whispered her afloat again.

The Norway of the year

gave way to Danish cheer

when Hamlet’s amulet (against the grain)

pressed echoes of a gentle man

into the oaken captain’s

table (so that crimson

icon sped a providential plan).

Ah, Psyche, lift your agate lamp!

& Ariadne, thread

my path... open the dead

tomb for your spider-tramp!

There is an agon for the soul

of man – relinquish force

or buy it with remorse.

You choose.  Sweep, safety net; seas, roll.

11.7.17

a line in the road

GREY BIRD

Sarah found a baby turtle

this morning, inching along

a line in the road.  My song-

salience, or green volcano-yurt

on slow horizontal too... toward

her thorny rose-matrix;

my scrambled pick-up-sticks,

snarled with gold poncho thread

in limpid greys of dawn twilight.

This mutter-dome of whisper-

leaves, of zephyr-vespers

veils an agate lamp (magnet

for Blue Morpho & monarch flight)

pendant amid cedars –

like black-yellow flickers

gathered into marigold (O milky knight).

My abstract worming through its raving

scribble-babble, cartoon

peacock incarnation...

a myriad glancing-whorl becoming

the figure for your beaming face.

O the clear air of this

metaphysical silence!

Whose pause released one Finnish race

to lift her soaring steel mandorla

into lofty grace

planted in pivot-place

of riverine & prairie space – ah,

Psyche!  Sister Persephone!

I feel your sunny smile

now – lifting lilacs mile

on mile into an octave-harmony

                *

of active commonality –

Joy’s hero-trial!

Path P – Indian file –

thread-thin tattoo to Liberty!

So the little tree of J

is ever-living.  So

Jonah bee surfacing

tuned to your buzzing play,

high Sophie – through the fallen timbers

west of gray Verdun,

the world’s war-passion

settled in destruction.  Embers

from a wraith of spring, the sack of Prince

Henry’s royal oak...

one ashen acorn spoke

welded to purple wheel of Providence.

The crayon trembles in my hand.

The palm curves green

circumference – Iona

ray, from Ocean State (to every land);

the grey bird murmurs through the surf;

the Camelot of JFK

& blessedness of MLK

merge in the spray, resolve to turf.

So Thunderbird ruffles the stream.

The turtle is a Phoenix

swelling at the matrix –

agate child skipping (on waves of dream).

5.18.17

from Agate Rock

WHITMAN BREEZE

A pink drift of crabapple petals

lights the rust-brown bricks.

Hobo sniffs lilacs

through your gazebo’s flimsy walls

of ragged cedar.  Transparent air

& Saturday quiet;

a tiny spider’s lucid net

shines like platinum from here to there.

His soul’s invisible as God.

His heart beats slowly.

Time in the Family

of Man sways over Land of Nod.

His hammock is a green hummock

where hummingbirds & robins

warble, strum... Someone’s

calling you, Hobo (from Agate Rock).

You loved the looming sweep of limbs,

the creaky oaks in autumn

storms... quick, winter’s come.

The columbarium of paper hymns,

a windy wasp’s nest in your heart,

the melancholia

of sentimental sigh,

chilly memorial... you play the part,

poet.  These lilacs will not last.

Odysseus, in the Sirens’

grip, resists – sharpens

his ears – clings to the swaying mast

                  *

shuts eyes against his blinded sense.

Light tiptoes through, at last.

The shrouded cosmos (vast,

remote) circles a pilot’s evidence;

the pole star of his meditation

lifts into incarnation

(ark of a nation

anchored to her own grave station).

So Hobo’s apple petals scatter

in a spring chaos.

The Minotaur lurks close.

Greed splits matter from anti-matter,

rigid red from angry blue.

These violet bowers

dangling sweet flowers

bend over you in vain, Hobo.

Your dark twin leans from Golden Gate.

Her black hair beckons toward

the deep.  Only my Word

is closer to your heart, shipmate –

your heart, & hers.  A violent order

is a knot of pain, a riddle

of ingratitude.  They fiddle

while my planet burns, smolder

in contemptuous hate (for neighbors

not their enemies).

Mauve Whitman breeze...

salt loveliness of tide’s martyrs.

5.13.17

paradise thirteen

ELEVATOR MATRIX

An eagle gliding motionless

& swift under the rain...

a message from the sun

outside my window.  Inverness

beyond the clouds, it says.  Dauntless

Dante beheld a double wheel

like Charlie’s Wain, meal-

sifting Hamlet’s dead-end eddies

into Ariadne’s crown of yellow

maize (Paradiso XIII)

at the center of the sun;

Dominican, Franciscan, we shall go

along with Beatrice too,

into that Minneapolis

where incognito Jesus

is a twin St. Paul (aboard canoe);

from White Bear Lake to Resurrection

Cemetery, we’ll unbury

Berryman & Mary

Magdalen right now – a Raven

intersection at Jonah & 4th,

a Jubilee bird-fest

out of the cosmic nest.

Jerusalem is raying mirth

from every corner of the universe;

the gray hide of a mule

hides one God-Jewel –

gold-sprinkled fiery agate-cosmos

      *

spiraling like fingerprint

of Everywoman, every

man.  The ordinary

ferris wheel begins to glint

with light most cosmopolitan –

green emerald of soul

freedom (personal

live-oak of Okeanos – constellation

of the Showy Lady’s-Slipper).

Be careful how you tread

this living woods of dead

leaves, sprouting crocuses – your

difficulties are not partisan,

your cures are neither red

nor blue.  The crownèd head

of King George, or the plowman

trampled underfoot by Mammon,

or the young stranger, mortally

undone by poverty,

her kids tossed into pauper’s prison

by our favorite mythologies...

we’ll mingle in the great

grain elevator matrix,

where the brightest of celebrities

& most anonymous of soldiers

meet.  Before the stars fall

through the vortex – Love

wingspans our last full measures.

4.18.17

only Ophelia remained

AGATE LEVIATHAN

A little Hamlet, on remote planet

in Denmark, was troubled

with Mors – he stumbled

as against a stone, to understand it.

Pebbles flung from anxious Hell

pinged against his helmet;

a pearl-toothed kismet

glimmered from the poisoned well.

It was a union greatly to be wished.

Its whorl unfathomable

shone... like Luna in a fable,

agate Leviathan (unfished).

A curse enclosed it, like a shell;

a nightmare of the sea –

a beast called Jealousy

clutched, rang it like a bell

from bottomlands.  It was his grail.

The angry Minotaur

grunted through Knossos-tar

in the crusted mirror – you must fail.

Denmark was full of hardened criminals.

Only Ophelia remained

to pluck the sweet Beltane

of innocence (from sordid halls).

Hamlet stepped up, to meet his fate.

He smiled into the teeth

of Sheol – sensed beneath

basalt of gladness, past debate.

11.24.16 

Mosey up the Nile

WAVY CUPOLA

The child in her acorn coracle

moseys up the Nile

flashing her light smile

every which way (infant oracle);

when you least expect, she’ll plant

her seedling joy – OK,

everything’s hunky-dory

now – with a fiddlehead stunt,

twirling up in a spiral over

empty space (green

island in the brain,

green almond, 4-leaf clover).

The red-gray desert stone

harbored an agate

lamp – uplifted late

into the night (sweet Psyche-zone);

under a wavy cupola of bark

a tepee-tripod braced

the buoyant mandorla...

O Hobo-Rube, not earthquake

nor volcano can displace

your cheery pine-lantern

whose handy facets perne

around one holm oak – chase

the quick naiad now, into the wood!

She cartwheels up ahead –

one skipping emerald,

one glancing Ariadne-tread.

11.3.16

down a river to the Keys

LIGHT RHYMES

End of summer on the river path.

Light almost plaintive

through cottonwood leaves,

a frieze of tall pillars.  A froth

of rambling wildflowers, tender lavender

nameless to me – it’s not

rhodora, in this woodlot

astride mud-coppery earth-bender...

So Hobo goes mumbling along.

A road of melancholy

adoration (holy

fool, remembering a door, a song-

agate)... rowing, rowing down

a river to the Keys.

Angling through trees,

light rhymes with breeze (a wind-sown

octave); a fleet bird whistles

through hearkening cedars.

Her labyrinth of tears

might be a simple maze of thistles –

a hobo circus of circumference

around the dense mast

of a coracle.  Its ballast

is adhesive mutuality – love-sense

smiling through some kid’s affection

for a friend... Mendelssohn

in harmony, one

ark out of many waters (milky lesson).

9.19.16