Sunday, December 2, 2018

Warren Falcon's poetry at Poemhunter.com linked below

You may find my complete and ongoing oevre of poetry at this site online:

https://www.poemhunter.com/warren-falcon/biography/

Photos by Warren Falcon - Photographed in Keene, NY
[all rights reserved to him]

From childhood our song: 

Hurry awake sleepy bee 
Softly sings the breeze 

To sweetness we are called 
when the sun high shall be 
freshened with tears our departing 

behind the barred door wait 

a lock of wound hair 
silk pouch of my gated heart 
it will be a hard arrow to pierce it 


What Can This Day Be Said Of Remorse

I live at the bottom of a hill near a 

broken fence beside tracks of steel. 



On the other side a stream moves upon itself 

not confusing itself as ice for rocks alone. 



A memory in the sound of water, a dazzle of 

sky takes a silly surface tone from what runs 



beneath outrunning rocks because it can; 

desire that force which drives the sand. 



The movement of water too is undeniable, 

solid in its course though sand, as does water, 



knows nothing of remorse. 




At the fence I wait. No train yet 

which will be a movement, too, beside 

the wet, and these thoughts here. 



That you are tissue essential and fabric 

to my own particularity. 



I send you a sound wonder, a welcome again 

to that place you dwell here within, 



Time the only disparity. 




Snow on Telford gravestones, tall 

houses on cupped hills in squared 



parcels back lit with sunset's down-light, 

juxtapose a Wyeth isolation and beauty 



which is the dutiful image of you, heart 

breaking through remembering our first meeting. 



OR 



Which is the dutiful image of you? 

Heart broken remembering the first meeting, 



then the departing? 




The distant gazebo of that small 

town wears white lights garlanded 



round, and snow. A boy without 

gloves reads alone. 



He is no fool who takes his time and 

place to know. 




I rediscover you a gift here still as 

I have in good counsel curtsied and coughed 



often enough, my own hand to my own groin, 

to discover a fissure again, again to repeat, 



that you are tissue essential still and 

fabric to my own particularity upon a hill, 



a house, one fence above a stream and rails, 

a blinking boy turning wet pages knows that 



you or someone similar, only a few years 

ahead, already familiar, dwells inside, 



compels his reading just before sunset 

squinting at words beyond and past the 



fence and the stream, the train late, 

footprints dark blue in the patient drift. 
































Does not it all bear 
the familiar arc say 
of just-dawn color 
mauve-play at the liminal 
curve where sky beseeches 
bounded space to give 
its shapeless-nest a 
Cause, a nape conformed 
convex from Orbis what 
has been scored by breath 
pressed upon it? 

Who then falsely may decree 
any matted clot, spark-charged, 
blood engorged, who may not 
body-charge ahead and into 
'other' merge so must be flung 
expunged behind neglected Moon 
or plunged through the bruised 
ring of abjected Space? 

Hear me now 

Thrice trace 
an outline 
Give form to 
now dust me (I am)  
awakening surprise 

Here me how 
there 
and there 
and yet 

there again 
after hammers 
caressed 
aureoles 
and hosannas 
outward turn 




Warren Falcon November 24, 2018 - Keene, NY

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