for National Poetry Day

DOVE-CANOE

America is the greatest poem,

Walter Whitman wrote.

After the gun, the vote

& gunboat diplomacy... hums home.

Beneath sea to shining sea

lies middle C : a note

on the grand baby boat

between red & blue (for harmony).

Purple mountains’ majesty,

inverted in a mirror

lake – not so Superior

this time, but simple, free.

So must our dream end in despair?

The first inhabitants

ordered the elements

on thankful tables – mysterious share

from Wakan Tanka (Thunderbird).

The greatest poem hums

beneath war drums,

discordant malice, noisy fraud;

it is the sound of the earth itself

awash with slow rivers,

where Jonah hovers

in her dove-canoe – a constant Alph

down to zydeco Cajun Zee.

America, l’âme

riche, la mer...

coo-cawing in cloud-thunder tree.

10.4.18

I am what I ham

NIGHT TRAIN

The night train rumbles like a ghost

of iron over the bridge

over the river.  Sage

Minnehaha, Hobo loves you most.

He’s lying by the muddy bank

trying to clear his head.

Everything he’s read

demands – who am I to thank?

The driftwood spines of shattered books

surge downstream, sink.

Think, Hobo, think –

a deadman’s glancing you posthumous looks.

Twin humps in winter refuse

under the lamp-green

of young leaves...  Scene :

pillars try an almond (Moses, Jesus).

Through teenage foliage coheres

the rust-brown iron magnet

of one (hold tight!)

modal mine of shifting gears –

the rocky profile of a personal friend,

who’s center’s nowhere

& who’s hairline is (look there,

Horatio!) nowhere near the end.

A sibyl croons from the ancient world

whose prince is dancing

naked by the prow.  Sing,

mickle dam... like slingshot hurled.

5.7.18

11 million light-years from Rhode Island

MORNING DEW

They’ve found another habitable planet

just in time for Thanksgiving –

around Ross 128, winking

only 11 million light-

years from Rhode Island (quiet

little red dwarf, dreaming

on its milky way).  Wing

me back to Pilgrim days... what

legend for a habitable continent

will do, now that we seem

to have gone off the beam

as human beings?  Erect a tent

for native & for refugee?

Bring in the gratitude

we understand is owed?

Who will say grace for grace?  Who, me?

The source of wonder is a mystery.

Great Rio del Espiritu

begins as wellspring too –

the stream itself is but a simile

for that invisible soul-smile

we sense, walking along

(like an unearthly song

or ghost of melody).  That aisle

of poplars on a shoreline trail...

the morris dance we trod

beneath your dome of gold

sunlight, O angel of Emanu-El...

                  *

– as when Natasha’s limping stride

befriended one forlorn

poet.  Teacher, librarian...

Philology’s sweet sister-bride...

a soul-companion, by your side.

Flowers are immortal,

& tomorrow... is for all –

Love’s welling fountain will abide.

Autumn is in the air.  Ides

of November, by the iron

Eads Bridge.  Low sun,

harsh crows.  Temperature slides.

That legend of Thanksgiving Day

(tables for everyone,

Pilgrim & Indian)

echoes via dream-song roundelay –

Henry, Hobo – Hart, John Berryman –

Dante, at Ravenn –

Black Elk, Martin...

reeling in Psyche-Restoration;

bright Rhodos-Imogen of Liberty

harbored in moss-green

robes of copper sheen;

the rippling well of Lincoln penny

radiating hopeful trust (humility).

An arc out of river water

sparkles like dancing laughter –

morning dew splashing basilica (for free).

11.16.17

from Agate Rock

WHITMAN BREEZE

A pink drift of crabapple petals

lights the rust-brown bricks.

Hobo sniffs lilacs

through your gazebo’s flimsy walls

of ragged cedar.  Transparent air

& Saturday quiet;

a tiny spider’s lucid net

shines like platinum from here to there.

His soul’s invisible as God.

His heart beats slowly.

Time in the Family

of Man sways over Land of Nod.

His hammock is a green hummock

where hummingbirds & robins

warble, strum... Someone’s

calling you, Hobo (from Agate Rock).

You loved the looming sweep of limbs,

the creaky oaks in autumn

storms... quick, winter’s come.

The columbarium of paper hymns,

a windy wasp’s nest in your heart,

the melancholia

of sentimental sigh,

chilly memorial... you play the part,

poet.  These lilacs will not last.

Odysseus, in the Sirens’

grip, resists – sharpens

his ears – clings to the swaying mast

                  *

shuts eyes against his blinded sense.

Light tiptoes through, at last.

The shrouded cosmos (vast,

remote) circles a pilot’s evidence;

the pole star of his meditation

lifts into incarnation

(ark of a nation

anchored to her own grave station).

So Hobo’s apple petals scatter

in a spring chaos.

The Minotaur lurks close.

Greed splits matter from anti-matter,

rigid red from angry blue.

These violet bowers

dangling sweet flowers

bend over you in vain, Hobo.

Your dark twin leans from Golden Gate.

Her black hair beckons toward

the deep.  Only my Word

is closer to your heart, shipmate –

your heart, & hers.  A violent order

is a knot of pain, a riddle

of ingratitude.  They fiddle

while my planet burns, smolder

in contemptuous hate (for neighbors

not their enemies).

Mauve Whitman breeze...

salt loveliness of tide’s martyrs.

5.13.17