3 AM Kingfisher Sonata

for V.R.Cann, 'of the Serpent born'

I am, down to a man,
the most wrestled and
creased of seasons'
unceasing ardors.

I am established upon my worn and wagging throne.
I remain open all night. Preponderant sinners, their
mendicant amusements such are these fractured
pearls, are wanton for dark bottoms, sea bed renewals,
though for many here any bed will do;

no work on the morrow.

I suffer the happy travails of indigent whithers,
a later paramour whose eyes do what thighs
no longer can. Young men stray in the redder
door and, thank god, are easily distracted,

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Turning Thighs To Diamonds

Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9

No blame shall stain us now, father.

The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught,
a floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.
Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.
Each base of cardboard weighted with stone
is still our house; a bat, a ball, a mitt,
hard rules of the game, mean to undo all
lust for dark heaven which shuns shining girls.

I was reaching for god then - not your fault - a lavender
boy early befriended by crows, already resigned to what
was given and what was to come, a softball between the
eyes, your attempt to guide me toward those diamond
thighs which, you often repeated, were everywhere waiting.

I blink still before you, head down, focused on 'Lion's Teeth.' **

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poem by Warren Falcon
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The Vein Trace - Of Eros Deconstructionists At Work In Bed

1 Systole

to return to

the simplicity

of the body

that IS the body

filigree surface

of hairs

of skin

the mottled where

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poem by Warren Falcon
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The Year I Almost Became A Catholic by Raul Voz

(translated from the Spanish by Warren Falcon)

The year I almost became a Catholic
5 stars rose from your breasts in Spring.
My nest was a sudden disturbance in blue.

A veil

a floating head

bleeding thorns

adorned your white throat.

I fled from my boat after one
long night of fishing only to
arrive ashore with torn nets
and apparitions upon my knees.

Without will my cursing ceased.

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Upon Finding A Book Of John Berryman Poems On A Street Corner Manhattan Lower East - A Shabbos Poem

for Gerald & Shirah Kober Zeller

'Lord, lord...why are our finest always dead? ' - Louis Zukovsky

from traffic onto street corner
2nd Ave and St. Marks now here
Berryman is lifted up from a corner
not yet 'spiffied' the works gummed
up literally spit out for years
countless Chicklets spat
2-per-box-a-nickle a lover's
quarrel with the shoe-and-should
what good come of the chewing
masses hurrying home or to ferry
over river/bay to old brick
even the convent on the hill
just up from the undocking
crowd is dark for want of mercy

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poem by Warren Falcon
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from 'Ragas For Krishna

A little boy waking up at dawn, asking his dear mama for an omelet to eat:

'Sleepy Bee, ' she called to him. 'Go, my Sleepy Bee, to the garden and be sure to smell the jasmine there, touch softly the spices in trembling rows, fetch then some chilies of many colors and I will prepare for you a dish as you wish. When the teacher makes you sleepy by noon reach then your fingers to your face, smell the spices there, remember the touch of smooth skinned chilies whispering of lingering liaisons to come, and you will brighten my Sleepy Bee.'

A chili omelet she would make, a side of yogurt to soothe the burn, and milk from the cow drawn before dawn's first udder swelled against the press of distant hills where even the Temple soundly sleeps so very full and pleased with itself. Mother, each morning as he stumbles, rubbing his eyes, into the garden, tells him,

You may shout if you wish to wake

the Temple for the cow cannot speak -

Wake up! Awake! Make haste!

Lord Indra comes! Prepare the wicks,

the incense sticks for His Holy Fire!

Hasten! Hurry! Quicken!

There beside Lord Indra's captured fire in the little grate her Bee awakens watching her slow movements, the slicing of chilies, the removal of seeds, the washing again of plump hands, the cracking of eggs, beating them with the whisk, spreading ghee upon the hot flat stone, the enchantment of liquid whites and yokes becoming firm, becoming food. She turns them in round rhythms as she rhythmically prays.

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Beyond Blossoms, For James Wright

.
Old teacher,
consigned
to poems now -
another way
beyond blossoms
of which you
often spoke.

If you were here now I, too, would
speak of horses encountered on a
hill in the south of France, Monthaut,
its ruined church without knees,
sun low over foothills of the Pyrenees -

From shadowed trees downhill
at least 20 of them run to me.
I feel them before they fiercely
appear, hooves tearing dirt
and grass in their ecstatic

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poem by Warren Falcon
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O Mighty Beyond the Chimney Yet Under the Bed - One Address To the Lord After Berryman's 'Eleven' Astutter

for Andrew

'I don't try to reconcile anything' said the poet at eighty,
'This is a damned strange world.' - John Berryman*

I beg (as did Berryman as did
also Job) Do not give up on me
drag me (gently) pull me (tug
tenderly) gather me (dew me
softly cover) do not delay
Shepherding (O Numberless One,
Creator of the Majestic Zero
beyond all counting, that I may
be beyond 'the Ninety and the Nine'**
so) woo me (though a cold bed I
am and make, though human hand
pen/paw at Thee O Mighty beyond
the chimney yet under the bed

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Three For Cemetery Statues By The Atlantic, Falmouth, Massachusetts 1977

These three
being of stone
or steel...

Figure 1

An old woman, never married,
speaks among the dunes:

I am the older sister, and ugly.

I watch the sea by the wall,
yearn for each tide's return.

I walk the surf in all weather
and spend myself amidst

the sea wrack screaming
with the tern and the dove.

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poem by Warren Falcon
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From the Encampment Of Heart Strife, A Young Warrior's Journal - Fragments From an 11th Century Japanese Scroll

for Goodfew

'like unto like'
but do not say it
my forbidden simile

one is not immune
to jealous couriers
who would come
between lovers

Rice paper is thin

Tender words never
tear though ink and
tears fade sure
words to guesses

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poem by Warren Falcon
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