Gemstone of Paradise

NEVA-LAND

The poem is for lonely you

amidships (I-&-Thou

nailed coign to prow) –

& for that grubby neighbor too

next door (George or Georgina

with the garden hoe).

A solitary lamp-glow

lingers in the old cantina –

in William Blackstone’s study (man

who went to live with...)

– uphill, on the forest path

to Middy Wewe’s blithe fountain.

George Washington spins in his grave

to see how we behave

without a mind to save

us from ourselves.  Thee must be brave,

& true, & kind, & dedicated

to the perfect good –

that global neighborhood

that shines, wid’ green & delicate

kiwi-glow, beneath the rind

of blind & brutal night.

A callow grail-knight

stumbled on it once, near Samarkand –

spry Wolfram rings the tale – &

like an unknown soldier

leapt – O soulman Prospero! –

from here to Skye (in Neva-land).

5.20.16

There are orioles in the woods

EARTH-GATE

They’re casting another bridge across

the River; saws whine,

a tug toots, the cranes

lift high & gawky, like red-rose

giraffes.  There are orioles in the woods...

My long-drawn notes

shore up a span that floats

on vague bleu Gulf streams – moods

& swings; you have to walk between

the strands of frayed thread

looped onto gravity (dead

reckoning)... O plum-colored has-been,

warped by Magdalenian

& riverine diffraction!

Yet one stone section

lifts the key.  Giuliana

limns it, with her simple pottery –

the old grey painter

in his deserted corner

emanates intransigent asperity

like mud-splashed cast-off prophecy.

Only the rough rind

of some green kiwi-mind...

her catenary rainbow bend (sea-

sown, high-flown).  Yon Earth-Gate

shines at earliest dawn –

solemn mandorla-keystone,

freedom-sign (gioia incarnate).

5.19.16