That Salt Adheres
for Karthik
that salt adheres to the palm
proclaiming only this
that purchase requires both
sweat and the one hidden pearl
of scraped touch
much there is in the hand
bequeathed;
beneath the thigh the grit
burns smooth the groove
where you lay
tapered fingers flame
that these lips may chaff/
chafe more the love
from the grain which
skin frames from
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Words Of A Dying Farmer
For W.C.F.
Beat the fields in furrows home.
Hoe a row of young shoots of corn.
To be born anew push three fingers
into the ground. Drop, every other step,
three seeds, then five from the hand.
The earth's alive still with tender things.
Please god and sun the sky will not
harry boys home from school,
will not rule them as cruel fathers do,
their boiling fever for work till weary knees bow,
fingernails tearing on rocks lifted from
red rows behind a redder plow.
Now is the time to say I hated the work of fields,
and I am old. No more to fold the earth.
No more to pull stalks from frost
but to lift this last rock and hurry home.
poem by Warren Falcon
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The Case For Love As Storm
for Crimson Love
This can only go well.
I hold your hand
throughout the storm.
We swell together.
Two seeds break open.
I day your arbor.
You arbor my need.
Let us not plead our
case for love as storm.
Here we are warm in the park after
dark beneath the newspaper wet.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Poetry As Constellation
for Karthik,
'...descend, and of the curveship lend a myth to God.'
You hear
'consolation'
as 'constellation'
when I explain
a poem is a
consolation
work that I
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poem by Warren Falcon
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But That's Not It On A Hartford Train
Riding backwards
each brick is
surprise peripheral.
Gaze shapes itself
solidly
a moment then to movement
succumbs.
Again.
And I am dumb.
Strike no pose
that a poem
could love
much less linger
petulant in a
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Of Humans The Stains They Leave
Angels without knees
aprons spotless starched
as beards of saints
complain of humans
the stains they leave
Overheard
between the fork
and spoon obscenely
crossed
one angel to another:
They call it love
what we are supposed
sublimely to sing of
but frankly all that
pushing and shoving
faces in agony the
cries and curses all
that pulling at flesh
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Brittle Goes the Bone
for Ocean
The animal we are
reserves just rights
to complain -
empty bellies,
encroached territories,
crotch urgencies,
skin withers,
fur falls -
brittle goes the bone,
so small the gathered human corners,
so great the needed mercies.
We must not dishonor
the animal we are.
We fight for blood right,
birth right, some bread,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Minimalist Death Cyphers, A Meditation In Nine Rounds
.
for Mooky,
not even two hearts
could contain your
great spirit
1
Blue cornflowers
lean forward
Reach again
One hand
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poem by Warren Falcon
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For All The Words Dished Up - Two For Emily Dickinson
1
For all the words dished up,
A plate without meat. Maybe, bone.
No love fattened you,
never used your flesh.
Green as grass you stayed.
Dauntless, no narrow fellow passed.
2
This talk of death, dear Emily,
I know it intimately - plain talk
describes it best, as you know,
this Mystery grotesque -
concreteness like tombs hard in
the eye or that slant of light
obscured by a fly.
OK. It's done now. And ever will be,
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poem by Warren Falcon
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Anunciación - Una canción para César Vallejo y Hart Crane
Llegar tarde para amar
la torre rota
llora su ruina a sonar.
Larga sequía del aire
una vez acallado el badajo.
Sin embargo, una respiración, Trémulo,
grietas metal.
Mutismo cae.
Dispersión de palomas miedo.
Anunciación de vigas:
Venir.
Recuerdo la alegría,
la forma de dominio.
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poem by Warren Falcon
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