Verbless
Every reflection, mirrors or otherwise, Whether in this moment or in another time, The visage of echoes upon wrinkled waves, Always , the mirage of the desert oases
Or last utterances at twilight And the giraffe-necked silence, Cornucopias in rainpools of blossoms In starry puddles of ink, Intimations as divine as zigzagging Fingers on charcoal windows at 4 A.M., Then, pursuant thunder, a note About the tight noose of failed principle And, likewise, the throats of tugboats, Cobwebs and fog, metal-footed clocks, The hum of insomniac mechanics And glib-tongued forked mouths, Well as the infant’s first full-flush squall, Falsetto lilts and death’s base rattle, Whether a brief or lengthy interlude, Crescendo and diminuendo of it all; Moreover, flags at half-mast, strewn feathers On doorsteps, teardrops of downtown mannequins, Chimneys homeless in untrodden woods, Hypotenuse of shadow and trees and angles of triangulation, Sounds of rats on rounds of vacant factory floors, Ghost towns and hieroglyphics, hailstones like bullets Through rattling corn, always the hypotheses of Gods, lovers, bridges, rainbows and crocks of gold; Plus, smell of gangrene in Nam paddies, turpentine- Tinted pine seabreezes, breeches in levees And the delta’s long-protracted anticipation, A full moon in the oak in the fullness of time; Furthermore, dust motes and cotton in the eyes Of newborns and that unsettling glob and buzz At last gasp, crepuscular wings of darkening, The grasp for the intangible and Ariel dawn, These poems in quest of verbs, spaces and unfilled blanks, Niche, cranny and nook, the cunning dotted line, Awestruck mystery and strangular explanation, Cracked pots, abandoned boots and perforated souls, And last, the possibility of maracas-jangling macaws And caterwauling cheetahs, imagination’s grope For the most revered and most powerful verbs, For voices in moss and in old stones, for elixirs of surprise.Conqistador
As a young hombre he pursued escapades beyond these distant mountain passes.Now summits and adventuresneither beckon nor summon himas no surprise or marvel kindles his heart.Chivalry died long before he was born.
When young , brave deeds he dreamed ,themes Spain’s troubadours sangwhile they traveled through his Andalusiaof men compelled to bear armsin defense of noble worthinessagainst the infidels at Alhambra’s gates.
Now, neither gold ingot nor silver bullionPlease the conquistador. A shadow has fallenacross his scarred and battered visorwhile he kneels like twilight kneelsto his evening vespers. It appears the picaresque has become the mere picayune.
Perhaps , he grieves for a much simpler timewhen vintner and vintage were entwinedas neighbor with neighbors stompedtheir vintages grapes and raised their flagonsand flasks to Bacchus- ah , to hear himsing such amorous serenades.
Or , maybe , old age and second thoughts
Such as the recollection of how he sethis almonds and olives in straight orderly rowsor the time he rode his frisky stallionto the sepulcher of St. James where vigilersspun yarns beneath night’s brilliant starswhile all the senoritas shook castanetsround the dancing campfire flames .
Oh, my weary conquistador your querulous eyeshang in the master’s painting likesome dangling participle .Your enigmatic teardrop smearsA question mark upon the canvasFor us to squint at to decipher.
Always, the explanations hide in a foreign
landscape beyond the boundaries ofthe master’s frame , buried in a land
beyond the setting sun , on horizons beyond the seayet some il Pensimoso beneath the surfacetugs and yanks for answers.
Tell me , did the unscrupulous el capitan gloat over the stones of Tenochitlanwhen the temple gods were toppled? Did you wince and look the other way when the gutted Sun King crawled from his extravagant throne?
Did you flinch when no sacred Quetzecoatil divinely intervened to spare the plumed emperor ? Did you condone all those who Hurriedly Christianized the maidens For slavery and intercourse ?
Who can ever decide what is truth? Your tarnished eyes speak volumes as if Velasquez abandoned you between sea cliff and incoming tide-the last knight amid a vanguard of cut-throat mercenaries.
Maurice Ferguson lives with a lovely wife and a menagerie of animals, mostly strays and adoptions from the Angels of Assisi, down a farm road that deadends in the middle of a cow pasture. He drives a yellow Volkswagen Beetle that he named the Yellow Submarine after a Beatles’ song. He retired from a career as a counselor with a kind ear and a generous heart. He is an old hippie from the 60s who has a peace symbol on his Yellow Submarine and will flash you the peace sign in a heartbeat. He has published in Artemis Journal, Foreword Magazine, Inlet, Metamophoses, Sow’s Ear and other journals. He has written book reviews of poetry for Foreword Magazine and has been the literary editor of Artemis Journal for many moons. He is fortunate to be a graduate of Roanoke College