Holy Incantations --


we begin at the beginning, there
where time stops
and beggars Relapse; it
is here, in Our Eyes, that
we find
Relief; these, the Solemn days
resounding Full and Glorious -- What
manner
of Speaking is at your Command, you
who would spark
the Divine in a minute, the
vestigial
forms adhering to the Sky, a palate
Cleft awaiting surgery?

These days arrive with thunderous Appeal, our
hearts out and pulsing
through the Wound, there, where
we least expect it, there,
where scattered
icons are Supremely Felt; We,
the unpaid
Justices of an
intimate Night reflecting Purity or Waste
with Our incision must
count the days out on our Fingertips these
tipsy beings affording
us a Window
into Wine, our sullen Shadows
hoping for glimpses
of his narrow shoulders
and upheld arch:  He is

the Master Puppet here in our Surprising
brevity, our
handheld Terror one
of a quiet Child
basking in the fountain Wants
to know
your Name, you
who handled guns and bombs Now
kneeling to
the Earth to scratch the kittens' Ears -- all

laid in Precise implication of our lungs
heaving in
a lacquered breath, Replete --

Rima the bird girl –

Watch carefully as we tumble into the woods

our eyes Searching her out -- She, this

Sudden sister glued to the wind who

whispers in your Ear unspeakable things

must be some kind of Priestess, holy

as She is --  Her mind is diamond-cut

and quiet We see her skittering

between  elms, hiding her face with

her hands, smiling, there, beneath

 the leaves, this, prayerful heroine here

 to lift us through our Pain – She

must make the most of her

delicate Step to save us from Ourselves

      We the rootless

and abandoned Ones who glimpsed her there,

knees bared, sitting

by the branch humming a tune

unsettled in breathless green Mansions --

For My Mother

First the Morning Came

billowing the Sails upon

which she Danced, lithe

in Motion twirling

in Synch with her Breathing

this Young Woman

grown in Brooklyn, born

of immigrants

from Palestine, land

of Refugees, her Father

a quiet Carpenter

of gentle Patience and

sure Hand her Mother

teacher and Guide she

aimed at the Stars who

showed her the way into

Medicine healer of

wounds and aches with

a quiet Grace singer of

Gretchen at the spinning Wheel

and the Queen of the Night -- I see

her now in her hospital bed

breathing slowly now

she could not swallow she faded

into death with peace

and gentle forbearance my Mother

who bore me up when I

was down, whose compassion

of great depth

kept me afloat through difficult times, whose

love for me reminded me

of the beauty in the world the

neverending cycle of

birth and demise whose memories

will only grow with

Time this my Mother may

you rest in peace.

Intrusions --

we stand about the corner store

wondering what

will come; our hearts

are out and pounding

Now; alacrity, at this, our

own invasion -- they

Come and go

They bounce off each other

like otters swimming

in an Arctic Sea -- Why

should we Scream, doubtful, amazed

at this pushing force

overcoming our Minds with

guile and hate? -- thoughts

not called for

from the bottom of our brains

seek havoc with our

ordered lives, our clay structures

demolished

and rampant with remorse --

A City of Moving Parts --

Under the table, tabula rasa, we

seek Justice with an iron fist; Our

hearts are home for our Hearth -- Every

one of Us belongs in Time, sacrosanct; the

Air is resonant with Surprise and We, who

glance past the fog, can Adhere

to our Intent -- this

Scent emanates from Cadavers

left rotting in the Sun as We struggle,

backs against the plow,

our Inclusion here in Your Eyes -- What

dove circles slowly

in an amber mist? How

are we to Remember when we have Learned

to Forget, or so the Singer

said -- Pearls, there, at the junction

of hate and misuse, accumulate with

a pounding Terror; We outnumber

our foreign Selves here

with a hacksaw

and a Vise to hammer in those Nails

that boldly fasten

our Souls

together --

Sweet Lemon --

destitute here on the crags of the shore our humbled Selves

reconnoitering with grace and lemons the Truth

an icon glistening in the Wind; What

have we to do

with our differences, our heavings

of dry Flesh

uncovered by some Diety these

our Inchoate longings

burned on Sight

these Urges our delineation of

salt and Sky what would

You wear

to the Ball this year, would you Uncover

the dry desert

as some arid Oasis this the pining for

a lost Sister

standing Firm and resolute?

Gemini

Polarity, the Twin Giants --

resounding in

a bottomless Well, I stumble

boldly in

the dark, my Home, my Hearth, my

health -- Wheels

spin wildly in Autumn's dust

so many leaves

who grieve with Us

there, on

a bleak Horizon, these Masts

broken

at Will drowning our Hearts to say, "Yes,

I meant that," or

"No, that isn't it, at all" -- We

wield Axes

at our thin bodies, recalcitrant with Hate, Envy, Love -- this, Our

Center Stage

where craggy Men in Cobblers' Shirts bleed

silently and with Vigor -- Incensed

by a slim Altitude which

will not Abate here in our tepid Fall -- What

is it

that Creates a Force against itself? Every

action has

an equal and opposite reaction So we think, these

pallid days exploding in

Splendor

the Twin Giant wrestling with itself Our

Union

and desire conflated with the Pain

of a broken hip our Mothers wise

with acute

foreboding those veiny hands which Caress

Us

in a quiet Supplication of tenderness

and Remorse --

"I thought I saw a Cloud display in Orange

and Yellow; it was the

backlash of Some dark Reckoning, an

inch closer

to our Intent," or so We said -- Green

Rivers laced with foam Curdle

about mossbitten rocks -- the

Canopy that once was green now

prismatic in a fine Mist -- How can

we Hate who

we Love? --

Our minds are acrobats tumbling Sore in

the great Tent -- the Clowns'

Wise bones stamp

across the Arena, horses trailing

stirring up

powder and Mirth for young Spirits ghosts

of an Urge forsaken

and Alone -- What

Mirror reflects duality, a Skewered Self, victim-

less? -- We have

wandered white corridors tobacco

in our minds, the

heavings of lungs long lost

against a

Starry backdrop now Uncovered

by Masquerading puppets Comic

in their Pain, these

knaves our

would-be Saviours pushing Us out to

Arch our

Arms like the whitewinged Crow who

Scorns Us, We

the interloper

in his fields, the Avatar

of a weary Sage counting backwards

to his beginnings -- What

Once was an Instant

is now a Year -- We battle each

other for

the chosen Perch; We

undercut

our intentions with a Sword

of Spanish Steel -- We

remind Ourselves of Ourselves,

mute Now and attenuated; Why

do we Cry, here, un-

derstanding that We will no longer

be when

the clock strikes Twelve?

We have entered the realm of Our Duality,

our give-and-take, our

frustration and coercion,

theories of wool

and lavender beside our loom

these Opposites

our Conjugal rite -- backpressure

pushes against our Will bending

Us lithe and knowing in a fight

that will

resolve itself in a quiet light,

there, on

our glowing Precipice, stilled

by Fate --