hidden by Ocean in an oak

BLITHE MONARCH

Henry’s troubled mind sends him in search

of Hobo, down by the riverbank

as usual.  He’d never think

of working on the Sabbath, in a church

or anywhere else, or any other day,

either.  Tarries by the stream

Espiritu Santo – off-beam,

at ease.  & murmurs thus to Henry –

Born to trouble like the moth flies upward;

like my uncle Zack – bartender

in Pig’s Eye.  Took a gander

from a sycamore – & suddenly soared

up tippy-top, full of T-total joy!

Clambered down, & followed

that young’un, Jay – he’d

never be the same again.  & I say,

ol’ Hen, the comfort’s hidden in your mind –

an equanimity & rest

that plummets to your birdnest

straight from yonder Pole Star, friend.

Love’s quicker than muscle, nerve.

Is there already, waiting on you –

wing-form, wave-form, arrow-

true.  But – such a swerve she gave me,

Hobo!  Bed empty, whole place cleaned out

on Sycamore!  Off to D.C.!

Take it from me Henry,

was all deservedly, you woolly lout.

Grace gave you a reprieve – your whole

lamentable life.  Coiled

at the source, like a cockle-

shell of plenty – to restore your soul

& the whole damn world.  Some morn you’ll wake

like that blithe monarch

hidden by Ocean in an oak,

& see the Restoration – like an earthquake

coming with the Child of Woman.

You will no longer pine

lovesick as lamb (in cotton-

wood, or buttonwood) but rise & stand

like Abraham, by them great trees

in Mamre, or Ogygia –

& watch that little acacia

of Jessie reach on up to Paradise.

& then Henry saw his shadow on the path

blend with the branching shadows

of the cottonwoods.  He goes

as it is determined, through sluiceways

of wrath, up to the blazing Southern Cross;

faces jangled music

of a Minotaur’s acrostic

(all this New World torment) – at a loss;

& yet he feels the light breeze of that grace

Hobo made plain as trees,

American as any poetry’s –

dark gold fleshtone foundation, keeping pace.

7.26.19

by the long slow delta-mouth

BRIGHT FLASH

That line of poplars in the Corot distance

like on the way to Ravenna

or along the Seine, Papa

– no, only the topmost branches

of a simple sycamore in Providence

– no, just a maple

in Minneapolis.  O ample,

inexpressible, tongue-tied inheritance!

In the heart of the heart of the country

maybe.  Where anguish lives

alongside hope – conceives

the origin of time-&-space, Henry –

this wilderness of unfound, foundered

land.  This knotted maze

where a wood casket will blaze

(portable grail, marine crossroad)

the suddenly articulate harmony

of an integral universe

like that scene on a vase

when Isaac, Ishmael & Melpomene

leave town together, shaking tambourines

a procession to seashore

on the blind side of Minotaur

throwing down scimitars, carbines

for their Thanksgiving celebration

by the long slow delta-

mouth   at the seething O

& ah   bright flash   of seraph exultation

6.24.18

begin the Beguine

MINOR 7TH

There’s a baby high chair in the river

made of sycamore wood

(from Sycamore St., in old

Providence) – you could flip it over

& make a little car of it.

But the Miss is frozen solid –

can’t break the mold,

flow thru, maybe.  Love-seat

slung low.  The mood’s on Henry

sometimes, to be sittin’ there

– like Neptune, or Great Hare

the Leapin’ Dauphin (Huckleberry?) –

beyond the marina, where all the waters

congregate.  With Jeanne-

So-Dark of New Orleans,

the Cedar Queen (through the main door,

là.  La-la).  Her Rio never ends,

her rain is circulating

even now, hump King –

no matter which boar hounds, pretends.

Henry’s babble splinters echoes

down the ice.  Yet the flute

welds sheepskin & galoot

into a chord both Greeks & Hebrews

play (sustained diminished minor

7th, maybe, on

Ojibwan theremin).

Siddown – begin the Beguine, sailor.

2.3.17