Warren Falcon Quotes
''What is all this singing bathed in tears born offrom 'Here's Breath For You - Upon Purchase & Buyer's Remorse - A Letter Poem To Lowery McClendon'
tremendous desire and fear? Whose arms would
hold fast and safe, embracement against the brace
of all us we fallen stars who do burn out brightly
or, more like me, privately in quarters counting
days as if each is the last until that dread thing
finally enters, after a life time of daily threats
and close escapes, with hopeful relief?
Hopefully there will be no buyer's remorse for purchase of Death.
''Here, '' I'll try to say 'ponst that day',
(one must become Shakespearean in such company,
last payment on the installment plan) ,
''Here's breath for you. I tried to use it well.''''
''I am the older sister, and ugly.from 'Three For Cemetery Statues By The Atlantic, Falmouth, Massachusetts 1977'
I watch the sea by the wall,
yearn for each tide's return.
I walk the surf in all weather
and spend myself amidst
the sea wrack screaming
with the tern and the dove.
I count my white hairs by the
sea weighing each for love.''
''Roses diminish before yourfrom ' The Year I Almost Became A Catholic'
bare feet treading upon a serpent,
a tourniquet of gold each ankle
Virgin stars minus 5 surround
your curved shape defiant of robes
meant to convey the holy restraining
in my groin.
Odd collections mount in the attic
where I retire to cloister and wait.
Leaden pilgrimage up and down pointless
stairs accumulate distance.
My beard becomes a convention of lepers and bells.
clumps of hair
bits of flesh
sacks of ears
all are relics in the making.''
''Admit you are no good at numbers.from ' Autumnal Math'
Admit you can only count to a certain sum,
or down to it. Reverse your life if you want to,
wind it down with a memory. Beef up the end.
Noble or not, you can fake it.
Planning is what counts for indemnity.
You can make it seem to make sense.
You can try a new line on every stranger you meet.
You've only begun to juggle Euclid anew under
white lids painted shut with mortician's abacus.
You know a new counting accounting for fainter signs,
new ground to flick numbers between your teeth.
What's left behind is now wrong.''
''I am right now to speakfrom 'Are You Hungry - A Poem For Departure'
of this, retrieving the soap
which clings one strand
your hair tangled there,
a cypher I read
with joy grown
long into cleaner
a leaf upon the
blown in through
the night window
I bring it to
you calling to
me from the
as you pack
'Are you hungry? '''
''All hurt now stings twilight quaked into being.from 'Archeology - What The Stele Says Upon Taking A Much Younger Lover'
Your breath falls upon me now, taut, sinew,
bruising hands, purple insides flare warrior nerves
to unknotting surprise.
Lines, veins, strung between Pole Star
and First River Mouth, an embedded ruin uncovers in milk floods.
Touch gently first what has been too long concealed.
Hard touch congeals once was telling mud remolded into
"Not again. Not yet the bleeding Centurion."
Wield roughly then through gates too long shut.
When I cry out, do not mind. Blindly ram. Do not stop.
Magpie, my keeper, is flying.''
''Scattering wind over bending blades,from ' The LoRuhamah Poems - Her Death Discordant'
I grieve still her leaving,
feel its weight as I see scattered ones
on benches in the park, asleep,
one wretched man huddling where
a band of young musicians tune
their instruments for song…
..It appears to be ended
but as grass shows there is
a forming wisdom and the same,
The fire in our house of living rages
and we cannot come out of our own accord.
The event of her going is a beckoning
to see the flame leaping so let's creep
toward the Green and be silent
but if we cannot be then let us be as she,
frail and tender, lifting voices up
in the greening shadow''
''In the shorter light,from 'Poem For Caravaggio - Contemplating 'Conversion On The Way To Damascus' At 4 A.M.'
in the extended night of
cold and star-bright questions,
may you cast
clumsy net forward
into what it all might mean
to fretted you,
to me, stretched
canvas, though I will
not thrust these
words upon your
paint or palette but
make offering for
your own work
to feed us through
''yet burns no desertfrom ' The Empress Of Contrails Writes Upon Darkness - Anxiety Of Influence'
impervious to heat of
all kinds, even human,
excepting the heart,
its capacities to startle''
''Punished flesh leans into ground.from 'The Nyro Poems - Majestic'
Our roots there
..I remain stuck in King James,
entangled in lyrical tongues,
Revelation's old virgin.''
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Even from my front porch
the rusted sewing machine
yearns for golden thread.
The ground assumes its portent.
The good of the season remains in what is left behind.
It takes what lays down or is laid down upon it.
You'd think it a kind of king of accountants.
You'd sink down an addition of arithmetics,
heartbeats, breaths, footings found and lost,
all the unintended landings of a life.
You'd think it wouldn't stop.