Jimmy Warner's Wild Moon Transit
The flower nearly rising , always trying
Sun-driven air waits for dawn to break,
irritates the drake of an oil slick lagoon.
Unmated crickets continue chirping
as their sounds turn-tide on silver-blue
and slip seaward on the last moon-swells.
Birds wake before the gray light takes them,
long before the fishers break the smooth horizon.
Front-line trees with uncertain motion
start to fluff and prune their pink leaves,
each morning between first light and first thing.
DELTA LIGHT AND SILENCE
Around a brackish lagoon lie dead
and grotesque shapes of twisted search,
the vines that die while twisting for light.
The reeds and cat-tails pollinate me
while wondrous agents suck my toes,
and harvest the slow seed of the muck.
My head is bathed in lightheaded whorl
as I wander off inoculated by the swamp.
I take another drag of poisonous fluff
or swirl an exotic sip across the palette,
sample psychedelic mushroom spores
of earth and dust until a mental flavor,
a meaningful measure of musty breath
defines the lightness I am living for.
Scratches and redness make my addiction.
Body brushed by fever, thatch and burr,
the brambles and briars satisfy the ache
for earthbound potions and residues of rose.
I stumble and sway, or make my drunken lunge
and merge with bog as one infectious mirage.
Fading glimmer of sun excites an inner glow
that fills an instantaneous organ full
of a moldy bright elixir of recognition,
crashing all the barriers of my senses.
Out of silent search for seed and rays
of numinous light on gross lagoon,
its luminous gas like burning spirit
sick with urge and wandering,
roils out of carcass, lightly spinning.
Placid for the final twist, I leap by wing
and linger on a passionate lark of light.
kneeling before sky break
awkward night settles into puddles
and the long "ah" sound
over a continent carved and green
reaches with nerve ends
unprepared to touch,
though urgently, darkly shaped by mouth
it signals bravely
a new slant and spill
of desire's watery undercurrent
and a prophecy of flowers
hollowed from the winter ice.
I can promise you
a miracle with lace wings arising
from the starch of seasons,
and at least one new summer field
where the billowing daisy
will once again tease your breast.
Sunrise launches fire from a frozen vault
The leap of silverlicks from rosy brimstone
The forest throat on waking deepens her voice.
All this green and blue-brown
pouring down on cows and somehow
smells like clover find their way
through ripe peaches and horses.
Her words like a horde of lunatics,
and flocks of large meadow-loving birds,
or beautifully brocade toreadors
pull her down into wheat-tall grasses,
holding on to her bright black savior
where sex is just another breeze
rippling the next field like a flag.
Lying deep in her crop circle
of scattered thoughts and garments
lives the true nakedness of her love,
her warm earth and her whirlwind sky.