A prosaic poem from the collection ‘Loam of Leaves‘.

Sonnet to a Mockingbird.     (1971)

I’m on the trail
Of the mockingbird
That tells, in melody,
A hand-me-down,
Like folklore;

A bird of sing-song
And rhythms,
That sings a sweet song
To its’ mother
And trumpets taps
In the dusk
To its’ father;

 A bird of worships’ chants
That versed to Bach
And Gregorian munks
In the early days,
Just before the crusades,
When Christ forfeited
The church to man;

That pitches sweet sharps
To oriental intricacies
And throats the timbered beat
Of Polynesian drums;
A bird who clutched his roost
Outside the window of David
And slept to the pricked harp
And psalm;

that rested on the hedges
And watched lovers
Bare pale skin in the grass.

I’m on the trail of an old bird.
One who sings from memory

Like Homer;
Who ventured to the wilderness
And tenured to Christ
At his return from hell
And lullabied Moses
In his basket ship;

Who spent long days
In the meadow
On a good limb
Of the apple tree
Sending vibrations over crowds
Of sage grass;

A bird that loved,
Oh yes, loved,
In a young pine tree
Atop a flint-stone bluff
And chased flies
In the bison herd
In its’ younger days.

I’m looking for a
Fantailed Messiah,
A feathered Solomon,
A fencepost Homer
That puts a tune to history.

Clay (The Universal Infidel)

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