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Warren Falcon

(04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

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,
thank god, the erotic slights of hand, thank
god, the scented smoke, the velvet-covered
mirrors drooping unnoticed; they depart the
happier minds touched more than diminishing
crescents of flesh.

I remain a magician's
hat, hand and arm deep,
it's pit of cyphers ever
grasping, so desperate
for retrieval.

Still, dimming eyes skim shades, browns,
blacks, skin shine a wonder too long stared.
Love, yet, naps undisturbed at peace in my
admonished gaze; pastoral fold's redolent loam
in-breathes; such sleeping geography, it's spell,
its throat tenderly bared, is too great to disturb
with a hungry touch...

Eyes are wiser now to
allow breaths little swallows
overflying nippled minarets,
sinew and hair;

salt mines below
crystallize sweat
beckoning craven
tongues to aftertaste
rejoinders, sweet...

Life, dear Barcelona, is sweet..

One endures long enough to break through thunder,
a taut belly, a smooth place for lips to land.
One may reach a 'Pure Land' which has no logic,
the tedious seasons of long life endured.
Still, o ne gathers names of each joven**
prince passed beneath loving,
yes, arduous hands.

Again, upon Kingfisher's wings I blow these kisses,
this music, your patient ear awaiting the purist pearl,
for you were once the bequeathed, escaped girl
without fear of oceans, this one between us which
now must be overflown to reach you.

N. Nightingale, Empress of Contrails

**'young' in the Spanish tongue

Submitted: Thursday, June 23, 2011
Edited: Wednesday, January 02, 2013

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Comments about this poem (3 AM Kingfisher Sonata by Warren Falcon )

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  • Warren Falcon (7/7/2013 7:03:00 PM)

    Bri, The poem's voice is that of an aging gay man. It is a missive to a dear friend, a woman in Spain (Dear Barcelona) a gypsy woman dark, carved, desert valley and mountain, beads, bangles, old too but full of duende...the old man is giving account of Desire, still there, the way Desire is preserved in memory and eyes still capable of hunger and prayer, and of the stark realities of an aging body, the inward turn of beauty through gritted teeth and rock hard resolve to feed the roses in the neighbor's yard in honor of the faded looks, the body parts that no longer work which once drove the entire vehicle of a young man's life and what he thought to be love. Believe it or not it is a Buddhist poem in that Desire is the theme and the wisdom wrung from both requited and unrequited passion and love comes with brine and the green of spleen....there are allusions to sad young men turned into sad old men but not without laughter, not without wisdom, not without a hard grace arrived behind the eyes and the heart. He recalls the bodies, dark skinned, of the young jovens (young men) , the lovers, the landscape they became to discover secret aspects of himself and all men no matter their desires for whatever sex or part of the flower, the stamen or the petals. The emulsions, the liquids, the smells, tastes, the odors and the raw animal-human unrevealed in passion unveiling the depth of Nature and conscious homage-reverence of him/all ourselves as such.

    The Kingfisher bird is associated to resurrection...thus the old man makes his Sonata, late night,3 am, home from the bar, rising again in bittersweet flight: Watchman, what of the night? (Report) Reply

  • Bri Edwards (7/6/2013 10:00:00 PM)

    i was attracted to you because your name is Falcon (i just wrote a poem which mentioned falcons) . i was attracted to this poem because (i do like birds) it has a bird's name in the title. ok, now to read it!
    ok....i read. i THINK i get quite a bit of it though it is somewhat disguised. i especially liked:

    they depart the
    happier minds touched more than diminishing
    crescents of flesh.

    gotta go. dinner time! thanks for the spanish lesson. you (or poemhunter) left a space in the word.....o ne (sic) . thanks for sharing. (Report) Reply

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