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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Erotic Lullaby For Bedding, After Roethke

Belly belly the hard boiled egg.
I map out of a dream.
Love a long necked boy.

Dance lips! Leaves of legion.
Jelly, yard dog! Leap to June.

Suckle me, honey,
long necked, boney onion.
Why cry when peeled?

Count the rings of a tree,
the circles of a breath.
The nose is a love.
Press me, press me.
Iron me soft.

A breath leans,
nape of jeans falling.

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poem by Warren Falcon
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Your Throat Oddly Fish-Shaped - Making Amends

I return to you, a parenthesis in the sea of loneliness.

Each star, each breast, you have removed
in my absence, mourning made permanent,
scars upon your throat oddly fish-shaped.

Astonished, my voice returns, curses, then caresses,
withered left hand free to unravel regret nerve for
nerve, the only net worth mending.

I reserve this one strange act from a year of orthodoxy,

to anoint your feet with tears.

I dry them with my hair, your outstretched arms
a beseeching beyond emptiness, your chest barren
but for my hands remembering the uses of prayer,
kisses but murmurs, rumored stars where swollen sails had been.

poem by Warren Falcon
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Poem For Caravaggio - Contemplating 'The Conversion of St. Paul' At 4 a.m.

to George Elder

In the shorter light, the extended
night of cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast clumsy net forward into
what it all might mean to fretted you,
to me, stretched canvas, though I will
not thrust these words upon your paint
or palette but make offering for your
own work to feed us through the eyes;
perhaps time to remount the horse
and soldier on, or to fall again, gain
Damascus perspective, from one's
back watch vision distort massive
horse into a God receding into necessary
darkness foregoing image,

see what may form in the spreading dirt,

what resurrection there is in the smell of paint.

poem by Warren Falcon
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Upon reading Naseer Ahmed Nasir's 'Don't Ever Come, O December

'Deserts unnumbered have expanded in me.' - Naseer Ahmed Nasir'

A slight sigh moves sand
though a complete desert
may not notice being fluid
as a river yet static as the
Milky Way where your words pray,

'Fill distance with light. Make me limitless..'

Deserts, limitless, too, each grain a star,
each-as-One, refer to Referring Fire.

We must quarrel with December,
enumerate our grievances to angels
of every month,

'Who will knit dreamlike sweaters?
Who will pick snowflakes falling in the soul? '

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poem by Warren Falcon
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