He still had his subway pass, Too much iron in the field, The city fool He dynamited the outcrops, Mischievous kids staring at the fire, Trampled stalks in ancient designs Maybe they thought he meddled Never majoring in archeology, by corn, with Below the char, a stone base, Gem seizures dance him in steps, He prays casual quakes in angst A frenzied man can, more than straw, Into tall stalking corn, he took In rutty mud he grooved In faltering sun her arm lifted up, “Little boy blue “Flood the fields with whistles “Send the floating spirits’ keys,
city shoes, expired employee badge,
invalid railway ticket to former places.
or cyanide from gold mines.
with books and trinkets,
thought he’d escape explosions
through cows and pigs and many digs.
plowed the field,
yet weird corn
(twisted patterns)
plagued him. Met the locals.
mother with the welcome pie,
medallion on the mantelpiece,
kids with designs.
seemed the work of little minds,
the minor demons some
rural parents breed,
dirt bored,
intractable plowed-out
fallow follies.
in buried treasure
neglecting tradition:
the earnest mettle to toil,
to seed, to plant, to struggle,
to honor nature, and ancient maize.
he rode the stocks,
denied his destiny:
this farm his blunder retirement,
a vision quest, but now,
flocks of black cacophony
cawing his ears,
lightning strikes the scarecrow.
a Mother Goose book,
an amulet of Merlin, he finds,
not child’s play.
explosive, driven by visions:
flying bloody arms,
dove feathers scattered,
dust debris done in doom.
not release the lava of ancient
curses cast below the cinders.
babble incantations
bubble coherence of foam, oozed
below the stone with char,
entrance to caves, grave marker,
not for mere farmers.
coded words, spells,
mystical verses,
kicked an old soccerball
through poem-grown fields,
mocked an ancient wielded word
by plowing with a hockey stick,
looking for weapons,
supposed fiddle swords
reposed against planted wizards.
inscriptions before more floods
to conjure the sorceress gone.
silk to kernel, eternal mother.
Mother Goose stood in the corn field
a Statue of Liberty, commanding
come blow your oboe
the bleep’s in the meadow,
a Noah sings the blues.
my river-heart boy.
the nursery stymied rhymes to me;
if you will come into my harbor,
I will lift my lamp
beside the golden time.”
—- Douglas Gilbert
(Henry Le Châtelier)
-
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