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

.
Or what man is there among you, of whom if his son
shall ask bread, will he reach him a stone? - Matthew 7: 9

*


No blame shall stain us now, father.


The heavy ball you hit to me is never caught.

A floppy glove always falls from a hesitant hand.

Mars in you still storms the makeshift diamond.

Each base of cardboard weighted with stone is still our house.

A bat, a ball, a mitt, hard rules of the game,

undo all lust for dark heaven shunning shining girls.



**


A lavender boy early
befriended by crows.

A softball between
the eyes guides.

Diamond thighs
everywhere waiting.


***


Before you, head down,
focused on 'Lion's Teeth'**,
I am a hard mystery,

and soft, not so fast for I
am fat and cannot round
the bases quick.

I, your inherited meek,
am a burden to shake,
a sliding man
furious for home.


*****


I pluck wild strawberries,
You, all authority and
accidental grace, reveal too much,
dew wet, still sticky to the touch.

Opening sourness deserves a frown.
Sweetness slowly yields
surprise for what always
unites father/son -

untended desire
gone to wildness
brought low
beneath branches,

slow embrace of
cradle-gentle boughs
entangling legs and
light between the
greater shadows.

And shadows shall win the day.


******


Planets arc
and comets rare
trail lovers.

Meteors are
not appointed
permanent stars
allowed to some
men's hands,

and never to the fallen

caught for mostly
wasted days.


*******


That wild sweetness is a stolen base.

That the tongue is an untended garden.

That there is a burning soft hands can know.


********


Finally runs something headlong

sliding for home

inheriting circles latter-day.


Glad sons (are)

berries from

shadows gathered.



**Dandelion