the season is Lent

LEAD PENCIL

At the most infinitesimal quantum

precinct level, trouble

is unpredictable.

Dust gathers like snow… some

galactic thread-warp effect.

The season is desolate.

Apollinaire is not

Melchizedek (the line is indirect).

The season is Lent.  Everyman

leans on shriven bones,

shaken by groans.

What will rise from such desolation?

In the river of speech, a quintessence

of dust (mixed with rain).

Shapes a diamond again –

hopeful whisper of Providence.

The metaphysics of God’s mother

(Theotokos, Mary)

is an infinite query

for blind Hobo, Henry.  Some other

realm of irenic Siren smiles

blue San Francisco Bay

over slivers of hay,

into dark monarch cedar files…

& you don’t know what I’m talking about

since the Ferrara canoe

glints gray (lead pencil #2).

Since ash flutters down (lights out).

3.3.20

Garden of Gesthemane

the angry clown is not your father

HEAVY THINGS

If we look once more at your Topsfield

Aquinas-map, Dante –

that earthy horn of plenty

floored by starry sarabande (sealed

fan of luminous phenomena)

the heavy things of Time

rehearse the Salem crime

with simple weight of rigid clay –

ice-cold, stone-cold, bereft of life.

The line sags from the bridge;

the daughter of a lost age

droops, off-balancing (soul-grief).

Quantum quirks of spooky action

powder another image

for displaced rage

into the time-funnel... dissatisfaction

with oneself provokes a personal despair.

We do not know who’s there.

Halloween is in the air;

brown leaves congeal to pumpkin hair,

the angry clown is not your father

anymore.  O Juliet,

the phony craven despot

crafted no safety net... look further.

A rippling of seashore memory

brings grey gulls to sleep.

The peacock’s eyes gaze deep

as Argo... hold her now, Hagia Sophie.

10.21.16

Quantum integral

BLUE MIDWAY

In the drift of autumn distances

leaves sail their own Pacific

toward a blue midway

air-matrix.  Somewhere East

of Henry’s passionate history

(mercurial Möbius strip

or Klein bottle – just flip

one M to W).  Love’s mystery

refracts – deflected by the rage

for mastery, an infant

flummoxed by ambivalent

shrugs... until the splintered stage

is suddenly quiet, spooky as old age.

& so he takes Path P

(which intersects roughly

at X) to make a mirror-image

of her wounded face – the child

she was, and is, always

(beneath time-tears, nail-

scars... Hen’s self-betrayals, chilled

on wheels).  Meanwhile, in soft Atlantic

Delft, deft delvers deal

a double-diamond parallel –

quick Jackie-Joanie seesaw flick

like Leo flipped a Lei by 

Oahu Gal in Galilee.

Sol sighs, it’s only Me.

Love’s integral resolves in sky.

10.22.15

Gazebo at Swan Point Cemetery, Providence