wheezing in an iron lung

PATIENT BURRO

Utterly subjective universe

of the poet, Hamlet

dreaming action... what

was I thinking?  A serious nurse

stood by my cradle (Abbott Hospital).

I was four years old,

wheezing in a cold

iron lung.  Paralysis (total).

1956.  Guillain-Barré.

Dr. Pohl – I

don’t remember (sigh).

Osiris in his casket, hey

ey yo.  The photo in the Star-

Tribune – toothy Henry

hugs his scarlet monkey

in a wheelchair.  Recovery! (Bizarre.)

Like the slight son of Giuliana

in a clinic in Ravenna.

Watch her parabola –

purple violet (or cypripedium

reginae) fringes the pottery;

congregate, massive

unguent jar, evocative

lure (hand of Lippo Memmi)

harboring anointment oil.

Milk, sap, honey,

wine, blood...  See

the star-eye riding the sea-roil

                  *

on her prow, lancing the Black Sea!

Magnet of gold foil,

handle for plow-soil –

wave of personae-galaxy!

As if the searching character of Isis

were encapsulated in

this matryoshka-queen.

Vierge Ouvrante (Hagia Sophia’s

magnifying glass, or Henry Church)

sums up significance

of eucharist – each instance

in a suffering kenosis, the human lurch

(from safe beatitude to surf

beat attitude)

leading to passionate

étude (H. Gorecki... – it is enough).

Prow like a beak, eye like star,

the solidarity of Polar

Bear – it is our

birthright, people everywhere!

Metaphysical, incomprehensible

Love, that finds an echo

in the infinitely patient burro

suffering everything.  Your fable

inches toward the human heart

on light footsteps...

so Nora’s rose keeps

Eros innocent (sweet garden violet).

1.25.19

the public good is an intellectual thing

WHATEVER HAPPENS

                                                      i.m. Sister Pat DeMoully

Hobo, that disintegrating Henry

sank into Mississippi

bottomland.  Big Muddy.

Like Lucius with his wayward donkey

rescued (finally) by Isis-Psyche.

The mule wanders Badlands.

Civic twilight (all hands

off deck).  Some refusenik-refugee.

Henry recalls the Brown & Sharpe

machinery complex

where young Rex

mingled with VISTA volunteers, harp

tuned to Dionysian thunder drum.

Green genius JFK

chanted (head all bloody)

Camelot concept.  Whole sum

of common good (an intellectual thing)

for young collegians,

braving their joy-dance

from campus triangle to iron ring;

the commonwealth is worth defending

whatever happens to me

(beam, solidarity).

Like Sister Pat in Jonestown, bending

from Minneapolis to Mississippi’s

veritable excess poverty.

To be there, every day...

a live-oak Galahad, touching the keys.

1.22.19

radical carrot

PACIFIC GATES

All the dry seeds go back

into the clay, like these

on their wand of wheatgrass

(like a gold cattail against a black

park bench).  A nut curves over the sky

for this brown recluse (Hobo

on his own West Branch).  So

a midnight Isis took her milky way –

a stone skipped into Petersburg to say

all things are equally beloved

in the chaste eye (earth-

shaked adamant Columbiad of Liberté).

The hungry crowd rages for opportune

justice – the pumpkin man

bugling Promised Land –

& like the ravenous orange trumpet-vine

we cling to dreams of Mendelssohn

& good old days...  So let

the radical carrot

root deep in Galilee – a love so alien

& corny, only Beats & donkeys

out on Frisco Bay can see;

for you just as for me –

as for Akhmed, Aunt Bea & Weldon Kees,

each everyone – this equity applies.

Let go the superflux!

yawps Lear, & let the buck

stop here – behold Pacific Gates arise.

11.10.16

Center of the earth

COCOON-SHADE

We were scrambling through an endless cave,

Mark Trail & I, in the

cartoon – wait – uh...

that was a dream!  Mind, now – behave!

There was an independent chap with spear

all gold, atop a globe-

sized turtleshell, adobe –

yodeling (with shimmering lyre)

Good Will I am Good Will...

There was a lowly, sketchy

mule, named Eeyore, following

his master, Donkey Haute, until

they reached the center of the earth

– a vernal O, encompassing

an M, a W (whelmelding

vertiblur upon a sunlit hearth

all rosorangled in Pacific dawn).

& then I felt wings purring

in my sleep... a chirring

flutter-by of monarch (milky-spun

cocoon-shade of the teeming soil);

a turtledove was crooning

too, for old George – leaning

on his scythe, worn with grave toil. 

The axle of the earth, the axle...

muttered he – of rusty

us the icon, see.

Light waves from Chartres pinnacle.

4.22.16