Marcabre Dance For A Dead Mouse, After Robert Burns and Theodore Roethke
.
O little mouse, why dost thou cry
While merry stars laugh in the sky? - Sarojini Naidu
Wee brisket.
Gray fodder.
Thou art today tossed down
fat with grain.
Teeth sing to poison,
paws dance behind walls
taunting cat's tongue and
my impatient demand
'gainst thy nightly
gnaw gnaw
gnawing
Now brace for leaves.
Tossed from back porch to woods
Thy ballet's done, bitter fey.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Alchemical Passes For Father and Son - Turning Thighs to Diamonds - Third Pass
THIRD PASS
Wild strawberries,
all authority and
accidental grace,
you reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky
to the touch.
Opening sourness
deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly
yields surprise for
what always unites -
untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Black Mouse Surveys A Village
...a
broken
gate.
One blind dog sleeps
curled.
Indifferent before all machinery
it moves only, curiously,
before burros gray,
their large eyes wet, shining;
the cooler shade and fields of hay
hang upon
the long lashes.
A redundant whip in a whipped boy's hand
loudly cracks.
Sway backs are unburdened by little cries
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Cracked Song For Dirty Boots
for Nimal Dunuhinga
This tree
grows still
a child's mind
a bedroom window
This house
this window
gone but for
frames crater
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poem by Warren Falcon
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I have some more thoughts about your dreams of late
The storm has passed.
Was beautiful but beauty
was ruined by the fact
that many there are a river
away without warmth still
or who finally got it then
lost it instantly in the
new storm without name.
Still, the gingko trees on
my block are golding up,
lost few leaves to snow
weight and wind; snow softly
sits accenting a white feather
boa between limb crotches,
winking through powder and
gold glitter over pedestrians
below who feel a sudden heat,
a flush of love,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Brief Prayer After Viewing Grunewald's 'Isenheim Christ
.
'Genuine knowing begins when sentimentality no longer bars the way.'
-Eugene Monick
I, too, have hung
on a cross, my own,
but nonetheless everyone's,
too often disowned,
denied,
decried as untrue,
unnecessary, that
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Annunciation - A Song for Cesar Vallejo & Hart Crane
Arriving late to love
the broken tower
mourns its ringing ruin.
Long drought of air
once stilled the clapper.
But one breath, Trembler,
cracks metal.
Muteness falls away.
Frightened doves scatter.
Annunciation of rafters:
Come.
Remember gaiety,
how to sway.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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What Is Revealed
the mouse in the hole who loves the hole,
how the serpent's tail shimmers as one has
tossed it with a very long stick out the door
shouting - the door shouts too - 'be gone!
no more! ' one has learned to shake the
sheets, the pants, the socks, the topsy
turvy heel-worn shoes before the getting
into because scorpions and spiders dwell
therein and even a snake loves a warm bed,
my pillow for its head, found once a skin
shed on a flower-patterned pillow case
where fleecy lambs forever pink silently
low as the cloth grows thin from head wear,
dream wear, because I was once a sleeping man
poem by Warren Falcon
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Dear Goodfew, Regarding the Poems I Sent
Don't worry about reading them.
If good enough they will keep.
If bad they will linger like old garbage
placed outside a neighbor's door
in the middle of the night only to
wrap tightly around when opening
a morning door to leave for work,
pushed back, turned off, sour,
5 flights of breathless descent
cursing the occupant in 5A.
The front door slams behind.
Stepping into sunlight and shadow
the day is won, has worn away the
mal-odors of morning. Burn now
instead to live, to leave a strong
rot when put out a lover's door
because of laziness,
a partial rejection hung upon a knob.
poem by Warren Falcon
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October Night of Divas, East Tenth Street, New York City
for Brandon
A night of divas
stretched out
in the dark on
slow sofa fade
look out window
city lights
some fly one
frame to another
dark space square
between what is seen
then seen again
scratching belly, head, think -
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poem by Warren Falcon
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