Warren Falcon

Rookie - 245 Points (04/23/52 - xxxx / Spartanburg, South Carolina, USA)

Still Life With Coffee Can, Father, River, Bell, Mouse, Lover Fled

[poet's note to the reader:
read the 'x's' as the word
'times' as in multiplication]


just to
reintroduce some

for we (loves)
were many day-ed

x merry

we merrily played
harming no one,
not even the
mouse unmoved

perhaps, watching
perhaps, still,
still, from beneath
the god you insisted
be excluded from
all our nakedness

x 1 too many breaths

exchanged, groped

x many ropes all our


I stand behind
them the curtained
dancer entranced
entered into/
upon a mystery
how one could
be so, well,
swell, so
marvelous &
so cruel upon
one silver stem
hangs the metal
tin top jags
tears at
memory edge
opens facts

now you, love
are new memory
hands emptier
sensitive finger-
tips filigreed
prints your
body hairs
sifted imprinted
touching softly
x all the x's
here accounted
for, listed,
besos as kisses
scribbles, notes,
no matter
the black or
blue tide

of thee
O lover

slips out
ebbs black
back into lapis

lapses into what
self is

scored trans-
parent upon

faces which are
even eyes which
now glaze with

beside the flue

glaze upon the

mouse remains

is many,
a multitude
of petals

x 3

the jasmine
at last

at last/least
O return
soft Junes
the lips of
which are
pink, of
swollen, as if
to kiss

x memory

x 3

the antinomies

a string

of pearls


& thee O lover

bring all them

back, so many,

to me now



into soft






said window

(and torsos)

said prints

views obscured

of nothing

in particular

or special,



troubles only

of passing birds


(their lighter


are they

cloud and shadow,

merely the steep

sun declining ashen

into New Jersey?



contra ils

glyphs &

Maxwell House sign

'Good To The Last Drop'

cup for decades
tips &




x 0 suspends

O suspends trembling
reflected in the water
river made of the many

countless drops

x (again) infinity

x (surprised) my
father there
(memento mori)
opening the
can all blue with
the same cup tilted
spilling that dark
brown dropp imprinted

x (the

to recall,
brown, shaped like
said drop, now
flown, or)
spilled into water,
river currents
downward, to bottom
pulled sort/sift
my father always
complaining of grift,
a weather man by trade,
a cloud man once a
pilotWW2 drifting
often since enough
into sky

he turns
the silver opener
round and round

with effort his
arthritic com-
plaints upon the
ridged silver top
of the can blue
with coffee
'course grind'
the better to drip
with within that
satisfying hiss
compacted air
hissing out
from compression
now released
the smell
then of coffee
fresh not yet
brewed in the

the twist of
the edge jagged
silver metal
carefully turned
with fingers to
break the remain-
ing stem of metal
holding the round
to the can entire
unsealed now try
without spilling
the grounds

x at least 100 thousand

to guess having no
acumen with numbers
and math but father's
there in the cup tilted
spilling into
o endlessly
it's seams,
it seems from
river bank
into memory
which is,

as river
and time,

this one
now recalled
to mind,


the cloud drift
and the flows
the tides beside
the city

(both sides)

is as ancient
as it always was
& is

as 'in the beginning
was darkness over deep
water & a word, '
any word really
would do it,
out of deep,
of dark,
of water
which shapes
itself only
by outer
in this case
a word
leading up to
this -

Palisades cliffs
above bridge

allude perhaps
to river at
city's start
up from water

the silver bay
capped, remembering
centuries' frigates

x countless

ferries torn

and Tories be-
tween seas
vast to
the east

x duplicating

waves, stretches

the narrows

the necks with
rocks strewn,

the lonely buoyless
waves over depths

their vespers

once was laughter

seeking out
between bodies

valleys eternally

shifting eluding

x 1 whisper

of sentinel
bells against
each of each


x 2,

the clappers

x 20,000

(of bells
anatomy there
is much to
(of the
zinc, copper,
tin, & more
while not for-
getting brass
more commonly
of infusion
into cuppolas

the beating
the shaping
heat also to
be given account
amounts much into
bells conformed
gracefully out
in the end,

but only
as metal,
sharp tongues
blunted can of
bells then speak

tonally only

overtones inviolate

in violent swings
side to side the
hard knock shocks
into quakes into
belfry beyond
dance of iron
bronze overtaking
& annunciate
round of hammers)

so many dawns

x so many goings

down of the sun

x fortune the lips

x myriad ones gone

before of murmurers

O lover

of thee

I adore

in timbre

thru the

window rings

(the bells)

the arms

of which


wring out

breath to


x no more


into indolence





just to
reintroduce some

for we


were many day-ed

x merry we

merrily played
harming no one,
not even the
mouse unmoved

perhaps, watching
perhaps, still,

still, from beneath
the god you insisted
be excluded from
all our nakedness

Submitted: Thursday, October 11, 2012
Edited: Sunday, October 14, 2012


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Comments about this poem (Still Life With Coffee Can, Father, River, Bell, Mouse, Lover Fled by Warren Falcon )

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  • Rookie - 245 Points Warren Falcon (10/11/2012 4:07:00 PM)

    Thanks for the patient read through, Dave. I've been dicking and dickering with this unwieldy poem for over a year now and have published variations of it, butchered, remembered, dismembered, chunks placed hither and yon as the damned unwieldy thing falls iiritatingly down down cascades down the damned screen-page (who would wanna work that hard to read the damned thing?) ...but it still rings out to me, taps me on the shoulder and says, Yo...Wassup with me n you? and then I'm back at it charmed then throwing it all in the waste can/coffee can of effortful memory/folder/file for later or never...this is the latest attempt...I don't know if you know New York City at all or remember the large Maxwell House Coffee Sign on the Jersey side of the Hudson River as seen from Riverside Drive or Park (Manhattan side of the river) at night one big cup tilting and spilling one red/brown dropp of coffee into the black and shining water silently rushing toward the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, under it and into the Atlantic Ocean? ...in 1980 when I moved here (NYC) from the Blue Ridge Mountains to Harlem, West 142nd Street, I'd sit on the old stone wall by the river and see the Coffee Sign bright against backdrops of Hoboken lights and surface river reflections of discolored city sky...now all memory by the by....and one poem as restless and current-driven as the Hudson...but such is memory which is never, or rarely, linear but associative thus the associative (Freud would say loose associations) cadence of the poem...

    Again, thanx for the patience to scroll down down down and spill one hopes out into grand Atlantics of mind and muse.

    Warren Falcon (Report) Reply

  • Rookie Dave Edward Stringer (10/11/2012 3:28:00 PM)

    I find the long-winded lack of objective to be troublesome-nevertheless I enjoyed the LANGUAGE aesthetic idea of this poem nearly to the last drop. (Report) Reply

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