Twelfth Night hullabaloo

OKLAHOMA COAT

I recall those Tudor trumpeters

fanfaring Henry 5th

at the old Guthrie.  Fife &

drum for Toby Falstaff – his theater’s

in the round, all right.  The sonic boom

of a real cannon shook

us out of our seats.  Look!

that’s Jessica T., with the broom –

playing Cesario! – or is she

Queen of Twelfth Night,

planting a silver bullet

in her wedding cake?  Most probably.

I remember reading The King Must Die.

The rites of succession

were crude by comparison

with today.  His finger in every pie,

the Prince had a plum job – lasted

one whole year.  Then

he fell for the Star-Queen

& they found another sacred bastard.

Today we have the Electoral College.

You must be gerrymandered

in order to graduate her;

everybody obeys the original Pledge

of Allergic, with His 12 Dependments.

& one day Malvolio ate

the bean – it was so great!

Tasted like the Ten Commandments

                      *

wrapped in almond nougat, or agate –

Mal became President!

Chef beyond Precedent!

Crowds thundered – Lock up the Maggot!

The Queen fled into hiding, dragging

little Tom Thumb (her twin

brother) into the griffin-

wagon – where they belonged (Sing-Sing)...

Twin Cities was a refuge, then.

Blue heron, bald eagle...

Nothing felt so regal

in that rickety barn, where it all began –

yet somehow, through dread Minnesota

winters, yon honeycomb

tholos kept warm.

In her threadbare Oklahoma coat

bees nested, Woodpecker feasted,

Thunderbird broke the tree;

a little acorn Charlie-

horse became a baby Easter-

chick.  Her Royal Henress brooded

over all the shady dealings

stumping the common wailings

of the groundlings – trampled by hooded

Midas moony-men (roundheads

of Malvolio’s pale clan).

It was just a party plan.  &

Wise Men had their own (not Herod’s).

1.5.17

Une Saison en Fever

SUNDAY PALM

The muted still-gray river

slides past cottonwoods

& snow, makes hay towards

New Orleans.  Fevered février –

saison de décision.  Party

of the partisans puts up

game faces – trumpets

bray wide, nosing opportunity –

battle flags ahoist, strong words

spray sound (Spartan array).

She moseys on her way,

accompanied by big black birds.

My soul, you tap your Sunday palm.

Must carve down, serpentine,

through plated clay – shed skin

to utmost bone.  A Lenten hymn –

let it all go.  Beneath gray stone

lies diamond – the fiery

akme of the maker,

kamen of Cape Horn (cross-thorn).

The Rio flows toward the Gulf

into the center of the earth.

Where molten rock gives birth

to metamorphs of sheep & wolf –

of black & white, of red & gold.

This alchemy’s a Union

sparked before the sun –

along still waters (as of old).

2.18.16