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Whats left standing in the Garden?
69th year.
Water,
turned soil.
Bright and full.
Stiffened and crooked
fingers bowing vines
nestle in abundance,
like a flock of
heavens angels
waiting for god
to break bread.
Give us this day.
Dry flakes fall
as
juices melt between
thumb and first.
Tiny specks
disperse like a
street gang.
Rising from one
knee,
in possession.
Turning like a troubadour
facing toward kitchen.
Olive oil waiting.
Sweet the virgin.
Lips accustomed
to
My menu
Do not open.
She does not move.
From stiffened and
crooked vines
a Violin Sonata,
carefully bowed
across her cheek,
feed her 69 years of harvest.
N. Ippoliti 2/26/03
The Return of Song
Waiting on a hillside rhythm
like asphalt yearning for the plough.
Lush, V-shaped valley
weeps like a siren
missing her forest muse.
Disappearing darkened cave
removed like lucid eyed ear
listen for negative space.
In between the pelt
Of the windowed sleet
And the crack
of the crows back,
A union of feather;
high pitched, sound the
cluck of a war drum
every tip, a sky warrior.
Paired lips
echo baritone and tenor.
Feeble concrete
sharpen bass and alto.
A stringed perfection
Spun from spider
Trace all I love
Back 1500 miles.
The birth of 5000 nations,
Unionize this anti-mission,
Bathing nude under the
Damp of this season.
I fertilized the eternal
spirit
of your earth.
It does not exist
before this.
Ghost town
Laden in white
Write verse in
Hardened rain
Poets Cadenza
I
The citys last
of the great poets
wait
on an elevator,
anxious for light
of next year
to raise a voice of praise.
Poets Hotel
empties echoed
song,
purging
thin skinned
arias
onto the
shallow
swallowing
wake of
Fame Street.
Off beat one
time,
one six-string chord,
heavy handed
returns
no applause
and the stardust
weighs as heavy as a
nine to five.
II
Fingers pretend
to desire print,
picture as picture
of haired Stars.
She wins them
with her bow tied
brown boots,
knee high skirt
twisting a
smile.
Tallest smile.
I step in
she steps on
floor four.
I wonder if shell keep
a light on.
I bet shes home in Springland,
hearts the shape of clouds
-
I kiss this cloud myself
In Ireland,
Scotland
and Italy.
And there she
goes -
remember the poet
of the sunrise of wine;
singing
as hurried
starred elbows
elbow stars
bashful.
III
Poets write not
this time:
express-less,
belief belly up
in craters.
Crowd thins
Voice soars
like a crow,
steady,
faithful
IV
Hanging
hip fringe
whips her upper
thigh as a
lava scarf
necks a delicious
tune.
Tallest smile
kissing me.
Talk would settle
my five curl layered crumb;
pinpricks of hair
raised by
this melodious caress.
V
Even in it
I am apart from,
Glass down
apart from.
Turn
apart from.
Words
apart from.
Dinner resting on
the sill of applause,
throwing its crumbs
to mouthing audience.
Simple.
Diamond
after diamond,
arched;
Tallest smile.
VI
Culture divided like
a slip knot;
bark chaffing tree,
hanging hills
like one hundred pregnant
mommas -
missed.
Boned away
boy - charm -
cowboy - rides
the sorrow train.
This nights prelude
opened with
three chairs surrounding,
I am in this one.
Six hour waltz,
One-two-three
Two-two-three
Three-three-three.
I am left only this voiceless
chair.
I am left only this star-less night;
how short the smile appears
through
words.
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