Truck

                                                                    Henry Gould  

                                                                    henryhgould@gmail.com

        

         CRICKET REALM

         A surf of starry clematis

         foaming once again

         over the Roman iron

         lozenges of chain-link fence.

         The crickets of late summer

         fiddling their plaintive

         airs... intuitive

         premonition, seasonal no more.

         The wild sway of Jerusalem

         artichokes, abandoned

         citadels of rotund

         bumblebees (careless flotsam)

         while an enfeebled sun tends

         toward foundering – sinks

         into galactic night-talk

         (millennial egg mintings, bends).

         I whisper this out of nowhere;

         only a declining garden

         buried in provincial town.

         The blind touch of a wheeling Bear

         signals North Star somewhere.

         It is near : as thought

         of Guinevere for Lancelot,

         as Galla Augusta’s anxious care

         for her boy’s soft crown of hair

         in the decadence of Empire.

         It is nigh... near as the fire

         that welds my rusty eye to golden air.

                                                    9.9.13

                                                    

         CHIPPEWA FALLS

         Friday night.  Rosh Hashanah.

         New Year’s eve.  A milky moon,

         gibbous (bulbous doubloon)

         beams down... bright guest (selah).

         Bimetallism, in itself

         cannot save the Republic;

         silver & gold won’t stick

         to the stomach (pelf

         a dead issue).  Hamiltonian

         guile, sleek Mississippian

         packing crate... insinuation

         of the serpentine (Mammon,

         rooted in cotton).  In the beginning

         gleamed the Dhaka kingdom

         of a coin (whose home’s

         nowhere) : spectacular ringing

         of strong selfish bells (bells

         from Hell).  Feed on this

         slick commodity : it’s

         an ideal-collapsible waterfall.

         Chippewa Falls.  Where they laid

         the railroad line, Grandpa.

         So you pursued your hero (baa-

         baa black sheep) in Rimini (a blade,

         of course). The Renaissance, man.

         America in your shoulders

         like yoke, or hearse... World

         mauled by haughty greed, fraud.  Mine.

                                                      9.12.13

                                                    

        

         AUTUMN RITE

         Crickets nibble summer’s leavings,

         their squeaky elegies

         buried in dogwood debris.

         A herd not seen (pale daylight sievings).

         Time’s growing old.  Apollinaire

         head swathed like a mummy

         fluting his pipe (fumant

         sa feuilles d’automne).  Debonair

         veteran (soldat anonyme).

         Time numbers her days.

         Old Tiamat, torn, crazed,

         nailed above Nineveh... beam

         of salt-light through bullet-holes

         in the ice.  Sun-bubble

         in the balance – Hubble-

         shot, right through that oak-bole’s

         honey-gal (apple of his eye).

         Some telling overture

         soon over, William, sir.

         29th, maybe (Champs Élysées?).

         The vacant chair, the lost ship...

         the broken bow-strings

         of the bowsprit (Noman sings

         in the rigging, having fallen asleep)

         ...evening’s quiet ark.  Only all hands

         might lift this mate from sea

         of tears, moon’s tendency

         to swell-time (swaddling bands).

                                                    9.18.13

                                                     

        

         CHINESE LANTERN

         October burnishes the oaks’

         unburied treasure; Asian

         maples, dogwood veins

         bleed Roman gold; Sir Edw. Coke’s

         uncommon ghost of commonweal

         lingers by Providence.

         That logos-diamond (sun-

         spangled claritas) will steal

         way back to local color (coal-

         dust gray).  November’s

         reign... spruce embers

         glimmering.  Time sobers up (well-

         seasoned now).  We go ghostly

         toward All Hallows, Eve –

         all folded ‘neath one eave’s

         projected Shades ‘r Us, are we.

         The nets of pauvre fishermen

         (Edessa, Glasgow, Galilee)

         seined with autumn bounty

         strain, slacken; one gilder thread

         angles from perihelion

         to wheel in a high room

         spoked with tongues aflame

         (rare pentecostal raven)

         & my chinese lantern (in buried

         furze-fest) gleams, octa-

         hedral : orange docta,

         Apollinaire-berry (international bird).

                                               10.29.13

                                                     

OLD HYMN

Somewhere out on the wide flatlands,

on a highway, on a prairie

where you are, lonely

Manitou (man, too – man-

woman)... beneath neon signals

through the rich gas fumes,

something threadbare looms –

a used-up catenary cradle’s

rag.  An old hymn, scored for coral

shell.  My coffee cup

out of Byzantium – wave-top

mosaic with a dolphin’s hurl

of blue-green (lofty ruby-diamond

star) – I’d set you down

upon a lake so round

like glass, in Galilee – let the almond

world, centripetal, converge,

surge into your matrix

grave.  These raven-tricks

the wind plays – Ishmael’s urge

to ride Q’s coffin-cup, to surface

near your lifeboat, Rachel...

left me alone to tell

the tale, Jonah.  This carapace

of turtleshell, this heavy salience

is near silence – closer yet

to your own ear, my pet.

Black Elk in Elkhart... life-sentence.

                                      10.8.15