Warren Falcon

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

From the Encampment Of Heart Strife, A Warrior's Journal - Fragments From an 11th Century Japanese Scroll


for Goodfew


'like unto like'
but do not say it
my forbidden simile


one is not immune
to jealous couriers
who would come
between lovers

Rice paper is thin

Tender words never
tear though ink

Wild tears fade
sure words to guesses

Distance reconciles
murmurers with desire

Duress strengthens
supple resolve

supple resolve
thickens skin

thickened skin
feels the better
when simple
loves caress



paper curtains
for ink yearn
their brush strokes
burning stories
to bear



a fly
strolls a realm
just on the other
side of light

only silhouettes
guesses too
thrills at motion so
slight framed in
window gray



in love with
small things
keep what
is seen where
hides the wind



Geese tell
of return and
so I will when the
burnt village
counts its embers
measured in hands

there are treaties

generals

gilded boxes
are exchanged
and the
Mongol spices



no milk for her
child the nipple
droops a sad
thing while dogs
run wildly about



Hold Fast
the greatest
among us

he knows
only war which
makes him great
in one thing
alone

I know
of waiting

what the horizon
safe keeps behind
its ear

of love, yes



your top knot my hand
unknotting
your long hair my
scented bedding

sudden
startled
wildness of laps

the vase
so very
still

a clutch of stamens



I dream again
of moonlight
of sewing
that work of
warriors naked
needling seams
In this dream
I know the pattern well
so near to hand
a blessing



let the dead bury
theirs

his face
sleeps upon my
belly

I do not breathe
do not wish to disturb



Dawn just

light fingers
trace in circles
each my
breasts

what tickles
but a sigh interrupted



In your dream

a gentle
boat slowly rising
with waves

the gentler subsiding

slides up
my torso
to keel
to kiss
Never again will I go to war

I lie

Already
the men are heavily gathering
new arrows hot for flesh
only for yours I am



From childhood our song

'Hurry awake sleepy bee
Softly sings the breeze
To sweetness we are called...'

When the sun
is high
shall be
freshened
with tears
our parting

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

Small boys
muddy feet
cheer
chase behind
innocent fists
raising threat

for them
such punctuation
I regret



only this

to take a quiet supper
to hear the dipper spilling
too full
the deep well
yielding

knowing a hand of dew
brings such sweetness wet, cool

wet

Submitted: Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Edited: Friday, January 25, 2013

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