dream song for Mardi Gras

WIDE SWINGS

In the remote silence of your dream

little Ojibwa cowboy,

every word, every sigh

your lips would bend to the birch beam.

Each syllable would lift up smoothly

like wing or wave, to join

the sarabande procession

flashing tiny stars in their night-cloud sky.

The piety of Aeneas or of Abraham

is tinctured with the same

topaz humility; the fame

of Black Elk flares no different requiem;

& Hobo’s yearning in the Bottomland

& Henry’s striving at the source

obey the same bone-flute discourse –

to verify one sweet-tempered command.

& like a low B-flat trombone bass line

out of some Delta funeral-song

the aura of her Don’t-be-long

with magnetism of her Love, B-mine

goes rippling counter-clockwise, from St.-J

to D.C. piles of masonry

& back to Lake Itasca –

& like mustard monarch or viceroy

lifts tender, glancing & reflective wings

to meet your own, brave

Jessie-Isis – clear sea-wave.

Peace pipes over the Golden Gate, wide swings.

2.25.20

eye in the level

replica of Roger Williams' compass, pocket sundial

SURVEY LINE

The pilgrim in the wilderness

like young George Washington

will draw a survey line

in order to project his progress

straight ahead, from point to point.

Primordial Providence

the paradisal focus –

your pen’s first instance.  Appoint

your 2nd Adam, then, Most High

to be the gold eye

in the level – bead the way

with your Accordion of earth & sky,

dream-song of host & guest alike.

My Christianity

is primitive, really.

This nazir chanting by the lake

was also Elohim; we sponged the vinegary

wine together, soaked

the dry bread – smoked

the peace pipe in his company.

My Providence is primitive as well.

Young Roger at the river’s

edge, his seekers, strivers –

welcomed, welcoming – a lunar shell

for pattern of a little government

upon her shoulder (Ocean

State).  Mirroring Sine

of Wave... rinsing tomorrow’s present.

9.14.18

elephant fig tree

TWISTY CALUMET

The grey matter beneath the gray dome

over the elephant’s

great brow.  Intelligent

murmur through muted horn, become

flute-sound of turtledove – a rose-

gray granite labyrinth

in miniature (by mouth

of elephant-gate) whose lid will close

this casket blossoming with images.

A concordance of old & new,

the synagogue-ecclesia

of you & me (through corny stages

of a mystery play).  Tall gnomon

of a totem pole (Raven

shadow in the grim ravine,

the wooden idol in its barren

cul-de-sac) points toward the sun.

It is Cautantowwit,

testing your trickster-wit,

lifting his twisty calumet (smoke, son).

Ineffable infinity of Manitou

embodied now – made

manifest in mode

of neighbor Nazarene, addressing you.

Come into my garden, urges he;

the Magdalen has found me,

so shall thee –

her almond eye’s polarity

    *

seeps Providential clarity

as clear as spring rain,

clear as tears.  Enter

my garden, friend – you’ll see.

My Providence was like a field

where Hobo limped through

wildflowers, bumbled into

common day – let childhood yield

to manhood, womanhood – O bright

ripe liberty to keep

sweet civil peace (a steep

ascension to the morning light).

The message of the good grey elephant

is like an invitation,

then – to taste Creation

as a gift of vine & wheat... sent

from grey clouds like rain, or as

a green palm spokes its wheel

with light.  Let it reveal

itself – ultramarine, topaz,

gold, diamond.  In articulate shade

of elephant fig tree

cresting azure Sydney,

reckon the pattern starlight made –

an octahedral Southern Cross

lifts through your heart

transporting human light

to everlasting dwelling-place.

6.22.17

sleights of memory

MOSAIC SEA

Calm bronze serpent zigzags through

November Indian summer.

The northern light is clear

in smoky autumn – mirrors you.

What you cherish will remain

in sleights of memory.

A wheeled mosaic sea

en masque – galactic Halloween

as out of Egypt swam the sun

of Man (Apollinaire

with calumet, plein air)

& left his tempered wrath, his sunken

jealousy behind (dark backward

bones, full fathom five).

Ikhnaton’s beehive,

a honeyed hexagon – God

being pure agape (Manitou,

magnanimous & kind).

Sleepwalking blind

only the dream revives you –

only a breath of homely air

(smoke lifting gracefully,

light’s equanimity).

Chaste akme of the meteor –

a Lincoln logos, omnipresent;

curving profile of a brow

figuring Noah’s prow –

tender basilica to dancing bent.

11.2.16

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)

One golden witchetty grub

Once again, I countermand my own resolution... the urge to share is hard to resist.

FINAL ACT

They’ve found a fracture in the stone

unnoticed before.

The Holy Sepulchre

is buckling beneath the weight of its own

chapel.  & the confessions have

at last made common vow –

the alpha & omega

of restorations.  Centuries of

soot from votive candles must

be wiped clean; the vault

shored with titanium bolts

& stabilizing mortar, all the dust

blown free – for a strange energy

is here.  The Holy One

has set his seal upon

Jerusalem – the seal of a kiss (hey

ey yo).  Blind King Oedipus

is pharmakon – both

curse & cure; an oath

of the Aranda limns a sacred circus

for the Origin beyond hunger

& prey.  Man is both Man

& Grub; one handspan

joins them, sacred totem-pair

distinct without division, separation

or confusion.  Would

you return to the Wood

where, riven-branching, all began?

                      *

All the world’s a stage.  The Totem

glimmers in earth-cavern

like a mémoire of perfection;

handprint of omni-profundum,

quiet & invisible as wind.

The hand carves a circle

over gray sea, pearl

of adamantine quiddity – your mind

& heart, your soul, my wounded Psyche.

What will they find then,

beneath the slab?  One

golden Witchetty Grub?  One Nike,

linen, soiled by jogging Time?

I think they might unveil

a lost fresco – pale

replica (by Piero) of the same

design that, through the Ice Age,

lifts the crocus.  Stubborn,

indomitable baton,

both crozier & calumet – rage

will not overwhelm your calm beauty.

I think of Late Romances

revolving into dances

all around the Globe... O, we

have not yet seen the final act!

Ineffable victory

of meekness... it shall be,

because it is, always.  O blooming Fact!

6.26.16

the cube of Everyman

LAST CALUMET

The Big Sky we all inherited

glows in the subway light.

Glimpsed through the Reflector-

Net (right thro’ the Western Gate).

Like rays focused on a beam

in Apollinaire’s eye,

mass merged in energy

enough to die – you joined the stream

of unknown soldiers (Harry Poilu,

Joe Middleman) fusing

with bronze sea-gong

(tall, serpentine).  It boomed for you.

A copper coin, at the bottom of a well

with Choctaw profile, Roman

grin.  The cube of Everyman

only squint of salt – a dry seashell.

Roger the Seeker seeks his soul

in that upper air (a wind

so free).  Love pinned

him to the still-life door – oak bole

of union, preternatural;

a chrysos-oil in old

dry woods (cold

boughs, so late-imperial).

Gold thread, gold hair.  Apollinaire

smokes his last Calumet.

Salt breeze, dockyard, fishnet.

Doves in grey clouds disappear.

3.23.16