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ContemplativeFrank Marshall Davis

Chicago Skyscrapers

Here in this fat city Men seventy-two inches short Have frozen their dreams Into steel and concrete Six hundred feet tall Thin fingers On the hard hand Of Chicago's loop Are these skyscrapers Rubbing bright sides Of rainbow stars Tearing the gray gauze Of low clouds Dipping in the sizzling pot Of a summer sun Passing the jeweled moon
ContemplativeFrank Marshall Davis

Midsummer Morn

A tom-tom sun awakens day's jungle with heat beats The moon was a white war canoe moored to the night Morning stars scurry to cover like shaking hares fearful of the Great Yellow Hunter Last night's tall hunchback fishing in a pool of raven's breasts is a green elm tree Thin wings of grass pound helplessly against hard ground And the robins are no longer afraid . . .
ContemplativeFrank Marshall Davis

What's a New Full Moon?

Through jail windows a new full moon is a round white door rendered useless by stout steel bars Frogs see a new full moon as a luminous toadstool sprouting from the black floor of a pond To the thief and the murderer it is a busy stoolpigeon tipping off cops and intended victims To a young man in love the new full moon is a priceless pearl he would tear from the sky . . . set in a ring woven from sparkling stars . . . place on the finger of his sweetheart's hand The new full moon is a beautiful woman . . . ageless . . . deathless . . . inaccessible . . . and infinitely mysteriously sad . . . who gazes in my window through a dark veil set with shimmering stars . . . the poet said
ContemplativeFrank Marshall Davis

Query

Who knows? Perhaps the cloudless night is a veil of dull black silk set with small white diamonds and one yellow pearl to cover the face of the infinite from the vulgar gaze of man.
ContemplativeFrank Marshall Davis

Kansas Winter

The moon pours liquid beams on hard white snow that hit with a splash then freeze to nothingness while the wind laughs at pines thoughtful shivering sighing for spring leaning on hills coldly defiant guarding bodies of dead streams in hard coffins

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