“This You Chose”
This you chose, you know, the lethal wound, eternal fire,
The final cut, the cleanest and the choice was never mine.
This you chose; your arms, your scent defined
The borders, walls, the floors, the exposure. Your desires
Say nothing past the yesterdays of the pre-dawn, and glad
I am to rest the while, and glad you are that I am gone.
But nothing’s rendered in the late night’s song,
The me in you, and yes! You know the sad
Result: that moon’s pain can not know a sequel.
The senses, these you know , with no contempt,
But radiant resignation in the hours of heat and pure idolatry. Spent,
The sentence stands within this world. These final sentiments rule;
The veil, the truths we’ve always known; the hourglass, the idols of our nights,
Its sands, a closing hush of breath at daybreak when all our meteors take flight.
Posted in Age, Certitude, Death, Delusion, Detachment, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Idolatry, Illusion, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Immortality, Infinitity, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Patience, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Reality, Relativity, Samsara, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Art, Death, Delusion, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Illusion, Imagery, Imagism, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
“The Finite Question”
The finite question, thank you very much,
Will do me fine, my friend, and nothing more.
Not “Why?” But rather “Who?” or “What?” The core
Is well within my reach within a lifetime. Touch
A heart within my range, and ask me “When?”
Or “Where?” or even “How?” and I am whole,
No more than any man must be, for when I troll
The deeps for useful answers to finite human ends,
I come equipped as any in the crowd
Because I walk the earth, and from the mind,
From human blindness come all answers to the blind,
And be assured we are all blind. The infinite, the “Why?”a loud
And brash defiance in defense within me roars, “I am no fool,
Nor prophet! I speak nothing from divinity,
but from a simple earthly rule.
Posted in Existence, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Infinitity, Lyric Poetry, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Questions, Reality, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Existence, Imagism, Infinity, Lyric Poetry, Nature, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet
“Sad You Say”
Sad you say; I knew you meant it;
Yes, my sadness drained through your fingers
Leaving little more than moisture. Something of me lingers
With you that you own is yours. Summits
Of either joy or pain remain to bruise the heart, the limits
Of the body, anywhere from head to toe; singers
Intone its presence, equations flatter integers
Enough to satisfy themselves in exclusive in finite intimates
And variations for the sake of form. That melancholy
You mistook for yours as your joys I imagined in the mirror
Mine, and neither of us were the wiser in the final calculation.
If one of us is right, we’ll see our satisfaction and salvation
In what little time remains to us in life; the eternal holy
Light is never long in coming. If one of us is wrong,
…there is no deliverer.
Posted in Detachment, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Hope, Illusion, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Patience, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Illusion, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Pain, Patience, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
The cul-de sac within a maze does not wait
For introductions from the chair but bends the warp in time
To suit the labyrinth of audience, tempo and the rhyme
No greater than space required for one more trophy, a gilded plate
Or just another knickknack on the shelf; the current season’s wake
Allows so little time to plan for sudden guests whose line-up
At the door’s so crudely cumbersome and misaligned
That any gust of wind or shallow breeze contemplates
An exodus and the elevation of a queue to the rank of stampede.
No, we need no fire to raise alarms and no petrels to sing
The hourly anthem. Still it’s not so much what is, but what’s developing
That throws all order to the winds and what’s believed
Trumps what’s been gained upstaging all former rectitude
And satisfaction, leaving grace disgraced and little left but certitude.
Posted in Age, Aging, Certitude, Detachment, Existence, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Patience, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Emotion, Existence, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Patience, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet