near the pin of the spoke

ALMOND BOAT

Love & harmony are the spring of song

murmured the little holm oak

near the pin of the spoke

& sanction of same, she sapped along;

so I task you, febrile Henry Hobo,

tiny A-grade acorn, flow.

So down to Gulf of Mexico

adrifted on the current, shady Penny-O

& me.  Time was an arc of aquamarine,

with cloud-ships for dreaming;

transumptive Ocean, circuiting

the galaxies, checkmating history (unseen,

almost).  Our boat was an ovoid ovum

chicken-coop (Rhode Island

Red) ruddered by hand –

she wove you liberty & welcome

for your immersive infancy of joy –

sails belling with sweet air

of solidarity & friendly care,

infinity of each one in our eye.

& Penny dreamt alongside, inside me

in the same language, dark

& light – Lady of the Ark

closer than whisper, vaster than sea.

Like Beatrice or Eurydice or Mary,

she’s Iris in her almond boat –

shimmering beyond this moat

gripped by the Minotaur, to set us free.

2.7.20

in the acorn dome

GREEN HOME

This August light is equal everywhere

& tender in its knowingness

of time & our faiblesse.

Impartial good is manifest to share.

The little boy with yellow gyroscope

hugged tight by Giuliana

on a sidestreet in Ravenna

sketches balance, equilibrium – her hope

the son grows like a sunflower

to soar into some wide

limpid Italian countryside

(gold into golden sunshower).

A rooted pine on point of land

or evergreen holm oak,

each invisible spoke

of living soul is regal, understand –

an incognito King or Queen

en masque as servant

on this earth, blent

in a bond of I with You (unseen,

but felt).  Substance of the sole command

of natural law (to love,

to love, to love) – above,

below – from Providence, Rhode Island

to an anchored grandeur on Pacific strand.

Whispered from acorn dome –

cherished green home

whose restoration here is promised (planned).

8.29.17

peregrinations of a chair

EQUAL SIGN

That blazing Paradisal throne

at apex of the Rose –

for lucky Henry, Dante’s

messianic king (whose arbitration

disinterested, just & fair

may foster restoration

for acerbic nation)

is not much like this baby chair

Sophie brought from Providence

its bright red plastic beached

in Minneapolis (porched

beneath a cedar octagon of silence,

anonymity).  Vertiginous

encompassing domain

of spiritual Zion...

that firmament Moses, Aquinas,

Aristotle wrought in brazen

ineradicable raven-

ink (the prophet’s organ-

groan, the scribe’s deep acumen)

out of the ghetto of Venetian

copper foundry, lifting

moss-green Liberty (sing,

Lazarus, your stormy consummation)

into wave-bent infinite prairie –

a horizontal plate

caressed by grassland fate

beneath high snowmelt of Persephone

                *

& Evening Star (ineffable complete

coniferous oak tree

whose almond amie

très jolie spreads acorns at her feet

into an ancient corn-maze wheel)

– O Henry, where’s

the seat of these empires?

Your throne’s only an acorn peel –

your realm a plastic kiddy chair.

Raven zigzags the gazebo –

traces Incan shadow

aslant cornices inscrutable (& bare).

Eagle or condor even higher.

Pure air (transparent)

laves the fundament.

An equal sign grounds every choir

in Lincoln-logos (quipu-fire).

Chaste diamond of snow

& Black Elk’s slow

Wakan Tanka (Vallejo-spire)

turning every way.  You’ll see

the back of me, until

you recognize Good Will

I Am.  In Red Wing country,

where grey Thunderbird came down

to meet his Galilean

twin – the two-in-one

Tom-Tom, guest-dancing (holy clown).

7.5.17

cradle of rain

RUDE EYE

Grey cradle of April rain.

Your riverine Nazir

or holy fool was here,

rounding his moat with a vision

of metaphysical hope.  Song

like Mendelssohn mandala.

Smallest coign (voilà!)

of the realm – just one among

many, Penny, to kingdom come.

Copper wrung with fire,

like Cassini in pyre

of saturnine canons – Love’s hum

somehow redeeming them, each little

statuette of soul 

freedom (the cosmic equal

sign).  A dab of mud & spittle

might reveal the night garden –

snowflake octavo

revolving over Buffalo

(holm oak to acorn, evergreen);

the whole note of the Nazarene

squared & shaved round

like some lost-&-found

locked-room problem – Tom the Twin

tying twine into a knot-cradle

of human & divine,

of Jew & Syrian

(or Greco-Roman republican).  Ladle

                  *

of Milky Way – the Twin Bear Cube

softly circling,

a tiny light unmoving

(port for Magi-King & rube).

The light strengthens as you climb.

Climb toward the broken

seal, the torn silken

veil, the split seed of our primal crime...

ecclesia & synagogue divided

in the keystone arch

as airy lark from larch

(twin siblings from earth-shaded

sky).  The seed is the salty word.

Out of the undivided

Ocean-Jonah glided

magnanimous eagle-wings – soared

into Benedictine Aesop-cells

from Africa to Memphis,

Iowa to Mississip –

aerie of equality, wells

of everlasting life.  That vermhurl

knot, spliced by an outcast –

Pushkin-slips so fast

the prophet scatters into whorl

of matrix-hurricane.  Rude eye

on Zion, Washington...

Heartbroken Hart (one

eggshell mason’s crooning sigh).

4.27.17

in the still life

OKIE CHAIR

In the still life, when the sun goes dark

the absinthe green on the old

wooden door (color of mold

or holm-oak acorn).  In the park

by the lake, the sparse grass wakens

to an April sun;

& you remember someone

battling the ice (forsaken

minstrel-king, nazir).  A buried man.

Some twiggy unknown soldier –

stranded black-gold heir

thread-spun beneath Stalin hardpan.

The butterfly’s a Morpho blue.

Blue as Siberia

in winter, da (selah).

Listen : Quartet 15.  For you,

Nadezhda.  You, Natasha.  Through

& through.  A nature morte

très fort et dur.  Part

rags, part soft shoe, Corporal Goo;

part forever, like Francesco

dropping all his duds.

Back to his father (odds

even he’ll marry her, you know).

There was a war in heaven, in

your heart, your mind.  Jesus

the Rabbi snowballed thus –

blackballed in Memphis – sharkfin

                  *

razor between Hell & Paradise.

They call it history –

a dime store mystery

(Elsie in profile, in an oval vise).

It’s only poetry.  Someone will pay

for it, eventually

(Harry Hawk, maybe –

Our American Cousin).  A splayed play-

stub (Miss Understanding

Under Study) stuck

on a crossbar (Buck

Stops Here).  Eagle Has Landing.

Davy in the Detail.  Film roles

for everyone – all which is

inheres... Macbeth, Cortez....

Universe is empty (full of holes).

Must be that woodpecker, prying

for a worm – the dry mast

puckering (will never last)

to kiss the lightning (scrying

from a crow’s nest now, Cautantowwit).

Whittling toward Arthur Street

in Mendelssohn (complete

symphony to be determined).  Sit

down, Henry, in your Okie chair –

the nave is full of light.

Acorn shines bright.

The Rite (à Paris) is a sweet nightmare.

4.14.17 

shade of fig trees

OAKEN ARK

I remember the tall shade of fig trees

on Observatory Hill

in Sydney, their colossal

spread feet lifting leafy memories.

The diamond hologram glinting

upstairs – the Southern Cross

a silver doubleness,

a micro-mirror (winking, hinting).

Dante in Ravenna, on the coast

of swamps & tamaracks

the scars of Whites & Blacks

scorching his palm (a sulfur-host)

felt a light flute-breeze ruffle

his conch-shell ear

whispering draw near –

beheld Matilda waltz the Buffalo

(an aboriginal design

painted on granite

for Woodpecker-flight

framing two Thunder-twins benign)

& plumbed the gravity of clay

that wheels so slowly

through mortality

toward candescent kiln-fired Day

of Jubilee   the metamorphoses

of starfish realms to stars

the green & gold pillars

of corn & wheat   Georgina’s

laughter in the new-mown fields.

So her green-almond eyes

drew Alighieri to Vitale’s

arc of Paradise (welds

souls into an infant baptistery,

a fan of everlasting

life).  Interesting,

murmurs iconoclast Henry

Hobo   but I would bend the lens

slightly   enfold the ray

into a Bay of Biscay

alphabet soup   Beguine begin-agains

based on an anchored oaken ark

of milky bread & wine

the whole human communion

in the sun of mnWmn (spark

from a Galilean jewel of light).

Inside the delicate crystal

gently circling... still

potter’s whirl from infinite night

around the whisper gallery

Twine Monastery

pregnant humble glory

of Francesca (Piero’s poverty)

leaves mutter in the sea-breeze

just beyond the orange

bridge   Georgina’s Grange

the dusty gardeners   Maria sees

1.24.17

his ping-pong twang

WINTER HARBOR

John Berryman, at the Guggenheim

with Robert Lowell

(twins of the groundswell

‘60s – gyrfalcons of the time)

relates a cutting parable

to illustrate poetic

speech.  Paternalistic

hot-shot banker plunks edible

& butler-polished gift-apple

into tot’s trick-or-treat

bag... You big shit!

yells kid – you crushed the crap

out of my cookie! (Guggenheim

giggles).  Jokes take place

in Minneapolis – this

much-derided mini-apple (rhymes

with Big).  Poet’s last home.

Dust-devils & tornadoes

fill his Oklahoma shoes.

His ping-pong twang off spiral womb

booms (sepulcher-recording)

up the ascending ramp

of modern art (Duchamp

is, Mr. Bones).  & there be something

weird ‘bout Henry – year-long

yearning in the yearling

lurching at spring –

light from Evening Star (so long!)

                  *

glancing toward Morning Star

across a black-iced

Mississippi (nice

Minnesota teeth, or solar flare).

The holm oak is an evergreen.

Turned inside-out, grief

lifted underleaf –

a pale moss-light, Nativity scene.

Like that Natasha veering toward

her lonesome labyrinth,

whose airy terebinth

fills sails of summer shade –

whose fluttering eyelids well up

with incomparable

change.  As in the parable

of viceroy in treetop –

evanescent black-&-yellow

wings’ twin semaphore

your sign-lingo, your

promise of new life (tomb-slow,

lentissimo).  The snarky raven

& the tremulous dove –

the starlings’ chatter-trove

amid bare, barren limbs... Olympian

Zeus rattling his thunder-oak

will never leave this winter

harbor – mangy splinter,

tuneful cove – spooky light-spoke.

12.22.16

rivers keep on rolling

BRIGHT SALT

A clear day toward Thanksgiving.

Light on slight mantling

of snow, along the slanting

Mississippi (wave of returning

gravity into the mouth, the Gulf).

There is a magnet

in the heights, a great

Pole Star, that rotates over Beowulf,

Black Elk; there is a matrix point

for all our muttering,

for crazy flotsam drifting

to the sea... a limestone font.

A child climbed from a light-lapped cave

along a spiral trail –

a thread from beryl-burial

to emerald grail (one sea-swell wave).

Beneath grey-wingèd clouds she rose,

called forth by whisper-smoke

of Earth’s holm-oak.

Her name is Imago, her echo flows

into the planetary sarabande –

stately processional

(spring, summer, fall)

to Morning Star, at seasons’ end.

Her name is Liberty, she rides the prow

of every soul – bright salt

of gaiety – the glistening vault

of Ariadne’s crown gracing her brow.

11.21.16

Mosey up the Nile

WAVY CUPOLA

The child in her acorn coracle

moseys up the Nile

flashing her light smile

every which way (infant oracle);

when you least expect, she’ll plant

her seedling joy – OK,

everything’s hunky-dory

now – with a fiddlehead stunt,

twirling up in a spiral over

empty space (green

island in the brain,

green almond, 4-leaf clover).

The red-gray desert stone

harbored an agate

lamp – uplifted late

into the night (sweet Psyche-zone);

under a wavy cupola of bark

a tepee-tripod braced

the buoyant mandorla...

O Hobo-Rube, not earthquake

nor volcano can displace

your cheery pine-lantern

whose handy facets perne

around one holm oak – chase

the quick naiad now, into the wood!

She cartwheels up ahead –

one skipping emerald,

one glancing Ariadne-tread.

11.3.16

Path P in six directions

ROSE CIRCLET

The immeasurable quiddity

of a point in spacetime.

An icon turns on a dime

flashing silver corona (so free)

– as green almond eyes shine

with smiles of recognition

a beloved face is one

whole star – 4-dimensional mine-

shaft to the planetary helm

or meteoric stone

no one can own

coming down from sea-grey realm

of milk & honey (Northern Lights

a mirror for a horn

of plenty).  So being born

thus, river-clay triangulates

Path P in six directions

diamond octahedron

finished in the sun

like plates my mother hexagons –

weathered oak-leaf hands (brown

in the round, rolled

out of clay, from old

dishevelments of tumble-down

autumn).  & where the tree-rings

circulate the marrow

spacetime’s arrow

coils into chestnut Sphinx

                  *

whose crumbled wine one drinks

out of the Nile-delta –

steps northeast  selah

toward the dome (when nobody thinks

one will) resembling a bronze acorn

of evergreen holm oak.

One ruddy spoke

upon a node of blinding sunshine –

ice-hewn clarity of Everyhon

beside the glowing hearth

of agape – the earth

in equilibrium – Son

& Father & the Holy Ghost

waltzing a crane-dance

to the drone of Magdalen’s

accordion (hale Mary’s host)...

& once the orgulous organ’s

dismantled, & the light

flows through violet

rose circlet (there in Jacqueline’s

seatown) – a naiad will emerge,

a sundance figure (on

the prow of Lincoln’s own

logos).  Sophie her demiurge,

love-waves her rite – La Paix

or Buffalo Woman,

Morning Star... pine-

green majestic Liberté.

10.19.16

Minneapolis in purple light

UNIVERSAL AUTUMN

Beatrice at the vanishing point

or Juliet on the bridge

mark infinite edge

to Alighieri goat-trails (figure 8).

The leaves of universal autumn

rain like parchment tears

from planetary spheres

& sea-grey eyes (too close to home)

to say goodbye, to wander streets

vacant & desolate

& drift   (disconsolate

refugee)   where only fleets

of shadows meet   (lonely nightmare)

& still the yearning heavens

wheel   manna leavens

their deep imperturbable desire

rooted in unfathomable joy

– Eternity, O Eternity!

he crowed (with penny-

whistle, raven-quill) – meek Roy

nestled in evergreen holm oak

like Ariadne’s emerald

corona... like straw-gold

Acorn Maid, among the little folk.

The drowsy King of Love bowed

his trompette marine –

umbilical fountain

of spiral clay (Galilean mode).

10.7.16

another blast from the Oak of Phenoque

CROWBAR TORCH

The poem might be a superconductor,

its topology so homespun,

threadbare, cold & thin –

a 1-dimensional egg-beater

jamming a needle’s eye in Denmark,

or Verona.  The capstan

spools the whole yawning

span – the wheel is made of holm oak,

evergreen & ancient, holy.

Argo is her name;

a million eyes flame

round her oaken rim, & Ariadne

anchors her from Ocean floor –

her catenary line

loops gracefully, from spine

of cedar mast to dark-green shore.

The old exotic matter of Bretagne

sleeps in her sybil’s leaves;

the lovelorn wind that grieves

through Dante’s cedars in Ravenna

carry G’ma’s freighter Gospel, too –

from Cape Ann out to Frisco

through the Gulf of Mexico.

Jessie, Ophelia... tarragon, rue...

her sleepy spells rise from the clay

& spin toward constellations

full of Okie calibrations –

a rain of acorns hits the hay

                   *

where long-abandoned train stations

sink back into the prairie

& a grey turtle (airy,

airiest) flew fluting through the nation’s

backwaters.  The love that moves

the Son & the moth-stars

goes raying through a potter’s

helm, the way an LP grooves

(Columbia).  Her ire will not last

forever – no, Iona

&/or Iowa have shown a

willingness to rise from lead ballast;

Do-Well, Do-Better & Do-Best

have joined hands in a wing –

a simple pleasant wedding,

thistle-burred (give red & blue a rest).

A century ago, the Meuse-Argonne

became a charnel house.

Grandpa Edward S.

was there, & shipped home (lucky one)...

– are Guillem’s muses all gone now?

An airplane lifts from Eiffel

to New York – the spell

takes hold – Liberty lifts her crow-

bar torch – ignites like acorn

from galactic hearth...

summons magnetic North...

O steadfast keel, O evergreen horn!

10.5.16