the rooster crows at dawn

EARLY ARIA

Moss-green & rusty brown, the shades

of veritable November.

Carapace for a fire

of leathery hearts, when autumn fades –

hopelessly stained & cracked, like

little nations stewed

in sour grapes – each rude

philosopher of One-&-Many stuck

on stiff prongs of mutual destruction

(as if our differences

were so many instances

of envious violence).  Someone

disconsolate, like moody Hobo,

comes to his dead end

sans lover nor friend.

The bridge beckons, the river flow...

it’s then that her grey shadow

curves to be with him –

grace of the seraphim,

milk of galactic commingling Rio.

A yellow-black monarch skims south

like nature, figuring rebirth;

her beryl-fiddlehead of mirth

lifts Hobo to the vernal mouth –

where dark Sophia & the turtledove

gather in Providence again.

The rooster crows at dawn

on city walls... an early aria, up above.

11.14.16

Minneapolis in purple light

UNIVERSAL AUTUMN

Beatrice at the vanishing point

or Juliet on the bridge

mark infinite edge

to Alighieri goat-trails (figure 8).

The leaves of universal autumn

rain like parchment tears

from planetary spheres

& sea-grey eyes (too close to home)

to say goodbye, to wander streets

vacant & desolate

& drift   (disconsolate

refugee)   where only fleets

of shadows meet   (lonely nightmare)

& still the yearning heavens

wheel   manna leavens

their deep imperturbable desire

rooted in unfathomable joy

– Eternity, O Eternity!

he crowed (with penny-

whistle, raven-quill) – meek Roy

nestled in evergreen holm oak

like Ariadne’s emerald

corona... like straw-gold

Acorn Maid, among the little folk.

The drowsy King of Love bowed

his trompette marine –

umbilical fountain

of spiral clay (Galilean mode).

10.7.16

bronze mood of river

MAGNANIMOUS WING

The crickets’ eerie premonition.

The bronze mood of snaking

river, mirrored in

cottonwood’s heart-shaped fallen

shield.  Identity’s an equal sign

in autumn – twin banks

the Mississippi makes

to fringe the tender almonds of a span

darken toward evening, of a year.

That wavy, sooty smudge

afloat below the bridge

no raven now, but King-bird, here –

old Balder Will, majestic, serene

sailing with the wind

downstream.  You’ll find

his imago, dispersed, unseen –

scattered in brown eddies, copper jags...

the soft green lichen

of anonymous kin-

folk.  King Who-He-Who-She brags

like Pharaoh, but it’s all a masque –

autumnal Shakespeare,

smiling through the year-

dregs... tears toward Phoenix-Pasque.

Chaste vision is an equal sign.

Justice like rain – drifting

magnanimous wing

from Cosmosphere, where all things shine.

9.21.16

bald eagle in flight, reflected below bridge

Le Pont Mirabeau

BLUE PLANES

Autumn already in the air.  The lace

net lifts slightly in the window

breeze.  Down the road

a train thunders steadily across

the iron bridge.  Eads, in St. Louis

same river in St. Paul

ebullient waterfall

descends into incessant sluice-

ways.  At Fond du Lac, Guillaume

will wave his pipe   the smoke

floats in blue planes   OK.

Autumnal, your pellucid tomb.

Under a beautiful water-mirror

flows the safety net.

My waif on the parapet,

my Juliet... little evergreen spear

crowning a rangy monarch span –

my songe, my sign, my Seine.

Cloverleaf Corn Maiden

twirls her blue-green mist of pine

on heron-foot again   Sophia

skips through the basilica

like Liberté-Columbia

her grey eyes scan geomatria

here twin circles merge, twin shores

align omega points

&   Maggie Galilee anoints

her Galileo with the milk of stars

8.26.16

Today is the birthday of poet Guillaume Apollinaire (1880-1918)

Life's unwritten history

BRUEGEL SCENE

Summer loses weight, becomes

translucent at the end.

Sunlight slants graveward

with a farewell glance, & autumn’s

trumpet-call is barely audible

amid hilarious

alarums in the circuits

of the starlings (swarming, risible).

& so you wonder where you are

on earth.  John Berryman’s

in jasper, John’s in grey;

Man’s in a graveyard green (so far

from here).  Splat in a corner

one cloud-turtle (from

Iona) lifts her drum-

shell from the sea – almost another

comber, very salt & watery.

I’ll join the starling circus,

friends – I’ll whistle us

to Minneapolis, SE of Rimini.

That raven’s in the Bruegel scene.

His glance is like one

wintry oeuil upon

her apron – by the deep tureen,

at dawn, in the spare refectory;

feathered in soft silence

on a wall of remembrance.

What’s up, Dad?  Unwritten history.

9.21.15

September 21