Feathers of the First Kind

Some things are better hummed not said,
among them,
the birds, who do not know better.
How could they, beak-filled and feather proud?
Which was not all they could be.

They could be, it was thought,
dreamier, filled with silver water,
all ready to pour
and cooling down from the red hot river,
or they might be, it was denied,
a midsummer's forgetfulness.

How it was whispered through the forest
was not known.
But things rise at dawn
and are not seen again,
only their tufts falling down,
and falling to falling
and falling again.

And in their falling
they were all facelessness,
and not-ness and thing-ness
of the earth.
They were slivers that scented rocks,
which drooled into the streams,
until the roar commanded all who were nearby.

Gone and back;
gone and back;
All who were forgotten
are now thought.
All were unlost
Are now unfound.
Semiridae. Semiradea.
We will not forget.

Thoughts of the Megalith

I sing of things eternal;
glad dances all around
the voice of the ancient Saxon
as he contemplated Stonehenge’s rocky testimony;
how it bloomed from the ground
with an explosion of gritty pollen
and strange insects flew from granite pistol
to basalt stamen.

And it sang:
“Go forth.
Multiply thought;
Fertilize invention.”

It is the same
When we lie counting the distance
between the stars;
And grab the Milky Way by the handle
And swing it around with delight
Until it cannot but glow brighter
Liquidous
With splendicity
Filled with ever-lusting life.

Leonard

The dead pigeons flock
on the morning the poet died
How did he stay in the street
Dead!

Of course, not not-dead,
that would not do
would not yield to a bearded leer
and an upturned couch
in Lincoln's face.

With dead magazines
and newspapers
how best to start the day?
With the Danube flowing by
so not blue.

It is that voice
that bird,
all crazy
all filled with oranges
trotting back and forth twirping
"Walk on water
Walk on water.
It is a soft path.
There you will find truth"

Secondary Treatment

I saw you by the light through the shades
Of the sewer plant window.
What strange reverie brought your there
I did not know;
But your eyes were hot moons
Burning through the odor.

There was music,
Tchaikovsky?
Or a garbage can lid?
And there were druids—
There had to be druids, trees you know.

And I could not
Would not
Should not
Understand,
For on such nights
All mysteries are welcomed.