by John Gould's oak

ANCIENT MELODY

The air so clear, & the evening moon

a bright silver penny

as in the children’s story

walking along my mother’s old lane

(River Road).  Looking back through time

toward rust-bronze Penny

glinting in the well… you & me,

sweet riverbend friend (Rose I. William).

On middle C, in common time, imperfect

we will tap the ivories –

some Memphis honey blues

for Milkman, gone today (perfect

in charity).  I remember how we clung together

in the greenhouse, long time gone.

Now distance is the quarantine… yet

only temporary, Pen.  We’ll meet somewhere

by snowflake relativity – that Providence

where every soul has dignity,

disintegrated from the sea

of Ocean River (Osip’s salience – a

wee raznochinets bubble of pure silvery glee).

The sky.  So clear tonight.

Transparent memory.  A light

chord lingers in the heart (soul liberty

the ancient melody).  Freedom, equality,

respect… humanity.

Like Newport’s Jeremy – buried by

John Gould’s oak, in Hemel Hempstead (age 90).

4.4.20

O for a muse of fire

YOUR VALENTINE

From your Valentine, scratched the prisoner

in Rome, young martyr-to-be.

To daughter of Asterius – maybe

a Morning Star? – love to configure

with philosophy, so (269 a.d.).

Skull crowned with flowers

along with more & divers

relics (Santa Maria in Cosmedin)

– & some of them in Dublin, too

(Whitefriar St.).  Ante-

dating troubadours & Dante

with his severed head & body (rue

the day with smoke of juniper, acacia)

he died young, for liberty

of conscience – thought is free;

fled upon wind, Asterius (Astraea).

The epileptic heart dances offbeat.

Dante & Beatrice

found simplest way

to unity – their cosmos whole, complete

in charity.  So ran my Yeatsian effusion

from the green island;

these pipes, my steely friend

summon her countertop restoration

in the green night of Dante’s neighborhood

where phosphorus gleams

amid Franciscan tombs

like camouflaged green acorn (woo’d

                        *

from wood) to be kingdom come

in your creaky dreambed

Ophelia (Juliet, Cordelia…)

– O rondure of love’s gentle realm!

& poetry burbles of it night & day

to multitudes in their sleep

compartments, while the creep

of despotism creeps from sordid victory

to victory (absolutism corrupts

& empowered absolutism

corrupts with most extreme

prejudice).  So the public servant sups

alone in his cold cell, & the journalist

languishes for speaking truth

in cellars of Pharaoh Badnooth

& enemies of human happiness request

your presence in the Furious Throne Room

where kids die miserably

every day, for lack of liberty

& prison sing-song will pronounce your doom.

O for a muse of fire, cried Hen’s herald –

who solders every soul

with mettle from the molten

whole.  Who clears the air, to yield

a solidarity of understanding

in the sheepfolds of Jerusalem

& Greece… Gregorian hymn

with ocarina harmony (Cahokian thing).

2.14.20

poem in memory of Mark Baumer

DOVE’S FEET

                             i.m. Mark Baumer

The poem’s wobbly orrery

of airy ore is self-

correcting, like an elf

inside a gyroscope.  Unwary

cheerful troubadour, he walked

barefoot across these states

joking at potentates

to heal a hurt planet – balked

by Mammon, Moloch (vanity,

acedia).  The white van,

an indifference machine

in seething Florida... such petty

wreckage snaps a sapling tree.

The jungle broods, silent.

Her gentle ape’s extinct.

Minotaur mutters his poetry.

We have not learned the lesson of

the golden bowl.  We tread

the fractures on a head

of Incan stone (grey mourning dove).

Coatlicue is raging at

her funeral.  Splinters

of daylight almost pierce

the warped crossweave – chariot-

spokes of angry Manitou.

Thunder comes soon.

The light’s deep green.

The land is ripe for tornado

                  *

when Francis ambles right past you.

A river of pink peonies

surges through cities...

salty labyrinth in Dallas blue.

Her pillbox hat, his scattered bran.

Unnatural shocks (that flesh

is air, too).  Gold mesh

of tangled fleece... your Ariadne-

champion.  All-suffering rabbi

who declares : the violent

bear it away   rent

robes of kind Melchizedek   mild

eye of Isis   throned in adamant

warm heart of Magdalen

at almond gate   Open...

Joseph’s weathered rainbow-garment.

The poem’s just an ornery gray stone.

The slash of Cain that clouds

its brow irks human crowds –

has not been stitched til now.  Atone,

Adams.  Icons through unworthy

lips break into clay

rivulets & melt away –

your only balm is Charity,

sole antidote to Jealousy.

Spring comes on mild

dove’s feet... her wild

breeze from the open sea.

1.23.17

In the deep grain

BIG SHOES

In the deep grain, American

wood flows like river

darkness, Indian-giver

is your claim   start again

with a gamble, shepherd   desert

is your friend   when you

become a   sheep (who-

who, keens   Cyclops-owl).  My yurt

is yours, pilgrim   enunciates

Canonicus (to the dauntless

youth).  His confidence

in the common good   illustrates

the Second Table   of stone

outlines   everyone

understands   Turkmen

& Catholic   Quakers, even –

that the Good   is transparent

& rooted   a charity

branch   shading   the nitty-

gritty (hungry teeth)   your Parent-

Spirit, who is Heir Apparent

&   (apparently)

Ancient of Mondays

also   her name is Clement

or Clementine   she wears big shoes

she drowned   in the river

it was my mistake   her

name   is Jessie (almond   of the Jews)

5.17.16

South Carolina occasion

Every now & then (occasionally) my infinite knit-parade project (Ravenna Diagram) intersects with current events, and then we have an occasional poem.  This one has to do with the terrible sadness which took place at the Emanuel AME Church in Charleston.  I am deeply impressed with how that embattled congregation spoke with one voice of courage and forgiveness after what was done there.

But I say unto you, Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you; That ye may be the children of your Father which is in heaven: for he maketh his sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.

This poem, as with most things I come up with, has its obscurities.  I'm thinking of the "Old Glory" as opposed to the Confederate flag, and of Jasper Johns, who lived in South Carolina (where I once saw an exhibit of his work at the Greenville Art Museum).  Johns layered encaustic over his U.S. flag icons, and shrouded scraps of old newspaper columns and images under the paint.  His figures of hands, circles and seemingly drowning men (see Hart Crane's poetry) connect with the image (in this poem) of a deep whale-hum or humming bird (Jonah means "dove" in Hebrew) - sending a different, more substantial message (of love, not hate).

The poem was composed at my temporary work-station (see photo), on a ridge overlooking the Blackstone/Seekonk River (while my house is being painted).

OLD GLORY

The tiny whiz-bird hums & floats,

hovering over my rose

pontoon, her paradise.

A flint blade chimes bell-notes

out of Grime’s Graves (neolithic).

By the grey Blackstone

Hilario J. Robin

snake-charms knotty hillside oak –

dauntless redbreast, passionate

Guillem d’Orange.  Whose cell

is gathering mass (black

wholeful o’moss) in triplicate

like an Old Glory spun of Greenville

jasper – caustic wax

to burn each switchback’s

cussed fer-de-lance (eternal

jail) into a trillion spangle-tiers

of morning (milky spider-

barn).  Haul it down before

nightfall.  The soul in tatters

seeks a deeper, quieter call –

Jonah’s Pacific hum

from whale profundum – bee-

balm croon for Memphis Emanuel.

Will set you free.  Sweetly now

the offspring of the sun

are fielded, droning, into

one (farfalla-Gaspee... rain bough).

6.23.15

Spiritual Charity is the real motor of social change. Lovingkindness - unselfish, not proud, not greedy, based on pure natural supernatural affection & devotion - the spiritual force adumbrated most eloquently in Paul's epistle - this is the force behind the betterment of life everywhere on earth, in all its facets and modes.

Because spiritual Charity lends meaning to this familiar Gospel comment : "The greatest among you shall be your servant." That explains everything about both mercy and social justice.

Lookin fo de Day ob Jubilee.

James & John go up to Jesus privately & ask, politely, if they can, in his Kingdom, when it comes, sit at his right hand and his left.

Jesus tells them it's not for him to decide. But he says that although in the kingdoms of the world, men seek glory from one another, it won't be so in his kingdom. There, "the greatest amongst you shall be your servant." & he tells them to give alms only in secret, so that "the Father who sees in secret" will reward them.