Transitions, troughs and floodgates
Swell before the crops are in;
Appointments rough-hewn begin
From centuries’ wealth in soils. He hesitates.
Lamentations of the classic farmer’s touch
Bestowed on something that was expected
Neither to outlast the seed nor tip the balance but once elected
Audit landscapes from the past and serve the sudden rush as much
As circumstance permits a well to gush and choose another path.
He was a teacher; was, and no doubt
Will continue to apply the torch to oils of souls
Whose mission is to lance the boils of youthful wrath
And freely prime the wells of mass miscalculation of the myths,
The babbling and cursive powers of hubris and its shibboleths.
Posted in Centuries, Crops, Farmer's touch, Floodgates, Hubris, Lamentations, landscapes, Miscalculation, Myth, Oils, Past, Poetry, Seed, Shibboleths, Soils, Teacher, Terrorism, Transitions, Troughs, Wealth, Well, Wrath
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Youthful wrath
I am still staring in disbelief at the news of what they’ve planned for changes of SU. For those who are not familiar with Stumbleupon. com, this short rant is neither here nor there and the following sonnet is rendered “obscure,” but for those who are familiar with it, another major change has been announced for the end of October and it’s “out with the blogs and themes” and in with whatever it is that will be “in” . In short, they are gutting SU! This particular sonnet is dedicated to “them” one and all, and as usual, I express something of my feelings in yet another fourteen lines:
of the Day”
A scintilla of the day is gleaned while Polyphemus
Dreams, so blind to what he does and what he’s just about to do;
The hours’ weights roll like barrels set loose within the wagon. Through
This abyss, time’s indecision tractors in the slipstream
Posing questions now:
In whose bailiwick does this homily reside when the season
To apply the blossoms of incremental decide for whom this bell must toll?
…To push the envelope
That inch or two the other side of honesty and just beyond all present hopes,
Who falls further to the left or right from blind faith now
to what amounts to treason
Plastered on the whitewashed billboard signs that stretch
for miles along the highway
Leading from all former warmer smiles
to far beyond a full-blown nemesis. Clowns
Direct the traffic back and forth so many times
that no one sticks around
To point the way back home; The Zephyr’s bridled breezes softly say,
“No one’s home; drive on!…” but leave distinctions blank,
…and yes, of course the rinds
Behind that rhyme with nothing but a waste of time?
So easy, then, to love you, seamlessly. Effortlessly,
Heavy waters own what sufficient gravitas they preach
Where sycophants in inches, feet or miles vie equally to beach
Upon some mother lode; what clear cobalt ceilings cloudless
Welcome, nay, what pray for majesty in misty patterns,
Traverse easily, from sapphire heights to emerald gorges; Matterhorn
To hollows in the Roman Sea, the hidden Andes to the Atacama; born
And reborn again from single molecules seeking redress, closing rank, scatter
Inward on themselves until at last their chorus drowns images and senses
From the might of peculiars to sacrifice whole dominions and ancient shores.
Does the sun not reign? This fiery sphere enriches immolation from his core
To seek another fate than the inevitable,
extinction clearly prophesies.. Light will bend
And weaknesses eternally suspend all hapless bystanders, witnesses
that covet advantage and the finer seat to ease the view;
So it is that you and I aspire to consummate stations:
we are seen as are trunk and tree as are the moon
And Helios who are themselves alone.
Weigh the matter closely and respond
Beyond the pale and promise of thought
once dark decisions have solidified.
Possibilities, then, seem infinite and circumstances modified
Without so much as an ethereal “Please!” beyond
The moment this least Thespis knows his playwright.
Muddled motley scripts and vague interpretations absorb
The bested plan while linear events, the stuff of gods, abort
Their unabashed distortions. Machineries rush to climax and suicide.
Fruition is the head that rises; weather, the author of the mountain.
Every passing storm, all seismic protestation cries for more;
Each rude circumstance hurls its bruising insults from the core
Of continents and all will pass into oblivion
no matter from what natural fountain.
While here below the slipstream we must flounder, the missive:
As we breathe: to know death’s consolation to be that we live.
“Take a Number”
“Take a number,” someone whispered in the night,” any one
Will do!” and come to think of it, it happened to be true..
They’ll dine in or out or perhaps linger in that long blue
Moment in the atrium, or then again, they’ll take the sun
At midnight or take the stairs and skip the banister. They’ll taste
The wine gone flat; and why not? That is, of course, unless they’ve read the signs
In time to outwit the posse just a little forward in the line
From where they are to where they’re surely going. The race
Is on, you see, to falter willy nilly at the altar, to settle the bill,
Unzip the lining of the thing, pick up the ball
And run like hell through the side booth in the kitchen, down the hall,
Turn and cash in their chips on the spot. The cogent thrill
Is gone, perhaps, but not the will, and if they’ve read the bulbs correctly,
They’ll never reach the pantry door directly.
Posted in Altar, Atrium, Ball, Banister, Bill, Booth, Bulbs, Chips, Kitchen, Lining, Long blue line, Midnight, Numbers, Pantry, Poetry, Race, Stairs, Sun, Thrill, Whispers, Will, Willy nilly, Wine
Tagged Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
Remembrances of that morning in 2001…
“My Eyes Looked Up”
My eyes looked up and what I saw was more
Than they could bear; a rushing through the halls
With the roar of sorrow in the ears; I heard the call,
A warning, a deafening “Danger! Be reminded here before
The fact that what’s been said will never
Be unuttered; fractures in the zeitgeist, ciphers of a shrine
To endless days of contemplation, meditation in the marrow, brine
And bitter herbs will be the fare from this day until the day of rest; if ever
Was a day of mourning this one is!” Students
In the classroom all abuzz and even verging on a levity
–They had so little to employ their hours–proclivity
To expect experience on a screen or in the rubrics
Of the media, always in the past and never present in the sixes and the sevens.
Another trumpet, another decade, and another word for it: ubiquitous now as “9/11″!
Posted in 9/11, Bitter herbs, Ciphers, Danger, Day of mourning, Fractures, Media, New York City, Poetry, Proclivity, Remembrance, Rubrics, Shrine, Sorrow, Warning, Zeitgeist
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Silversmiths retrace the fire; sweats
In rivulets down brawny arms, twin bushes
To the chin and through the valley of the pectorals; and he pushes
Fire in the waters; determination defeats defect, fatigue, frets
Along the instrument mould the shining of a gentle mind’s design,
Undone, the fist and fingers as hammers in the process
Till the thing that was not is and what little rest
In thought becomes the thing, itself, the line,
A cut above a cusp between inspiration
And its final destruction. Destination, oh! the beauty of the thing
Will guide his hands securely and the synthesis, the ring
Of something new or newer makes its run from mental registration
To obsession in the finishing and glories to polish a wondrous sign,
A medallion of conception, some fine image formed of inner space and time.
Posted in Conception, Cusp, Defects, Destination, Destruction, Determination, Fatigue, Fingers, Fire, Fist, Frets, Hammers, Hands, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Inner space, Inner time, Inspiration, Medallion, Mental registration, Mind, Pectorals, Poetry, Ring, Sign, Silversmiths, Space, Sweat, Synthesis, Time, Waters
Tagged Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Diversions mount, but decisions are determined
And timing in celestial spheres and signs
Are not paused for dilatory motives nor do the blind
So easily blot out the sun. Some there are who enter
Darkness seeking the mercurial stations of the tongue, the move
From where they are to where they divine they must
Be without so much as limb or wing but straight through the dust
To strike pavilions over what is not and never could be a truth. Note all who’ve
Owned a cause to glorify the effects of blows to obfuscate, to conceive a sure
Obstruction of all evidence, nothing more. “In My Father’s House
Are many mansions,” written plainly in orchestrated independent clauses;
The caveat in escrow, the final contract awaits the ink *and “If it were
Not so,” He would have writ the mystery of galaxies and stars
as when polemic balances mark the seasons’ endless cosmic scars.
* John 14-1-9
Posted in Apostrophes, Blind, Causes, Caveats, Celestial spheres, Cosmic scars, Darkness, Decisions, Detachment, Dilatory motives, Diversions, Dust, Effects, Erudition, Escrow, Ether, Evidence, Galaxies, Independent clauses, Ink, Journey, Midnight glory, Moon, Patience, Pavilions, Poetry, Ships, Signs, Stars, Stations, Stocks, Sun, Truth, Verisimilitude, Zenith
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Samsara, Sonnets
“The Changeling’s Off”
The changeling’s off degrees from centre stage;
Regrets but he neglects quitting early, spurns all but firm resolve
To be what he must be and in evasion and denial dissolves
In endless traction in the newborn age
That leaves him far behind,…or so he dreams.
He is the less for it; it’s true, but greater in the breach,
He leaps or lunges toward such goals as were never his, the reach
Beyond what was intended only days ago. Hours, he deems
His monumental costs delayed as what amount to pearls strung, displayed–
Themselves but miniatures, schemes so grandiose that rival truest choice
In actions innocuously exposed as are his works that cannot find a voice–
The either side of which are more commanding than the plays,
Themselves, no more nor less demanding on the patronage of audience:
Such bubble baths of bathos spawn endless hopes, awash in incidental arrogance
and to within an inch of anger and doomed, perhaps, to decadence.
“The child’s fallen through the cracks,”
They say, and sure, he knows it! Neither factions
Nor an infinity of purple lines, nor silence as a sanction
bring his thinking past the moment of attack,
The root, the centre of delight and gravitas
And at that age? Amazing! Teachers raise
Their hands and he applauds the praise
Of cause to no effect. He will salute the animas
Of every passing spark without a thought
To ground the notion. Lightning strikes
Inevitably–obverse of confirmation– to light
A path to pains that cannot be contained nor bought
And wonders how it is that others neither flatten nor allay
His ignorance and, leaving, lay to waste his salad days,.
The catalysts detached, and safe from harm and apathy
Reduce integrities to nothing more than sport. Liabilities, he earns; enjoined
Or praised: he treasures troubled space but only when purloined,
And, bowing low, he surgically removes the parasites of hosts. Relief
From all that’s supine trumps perception of the hand that’s dealt with deft
Disclosure hidden in the modus. Others merely operate and analyse;
The oil they seek is crude; his sensibilities refine the blatant lies,
And all those wisdoms as from boils are drained. The bereft
No longer fool the wwise, nor falsely warn the fool!
His simple confidence entrapped, he walks away, displays no sympathy
For maudlin sentiment, and, drowned–as was Voltaire!–
in trivial pursuit, antithesis, and antipathy,
He confidently scorns all suckers born upon A ferial day; the hours cooled
In cauldrons, the stench of raw indifference is masked in nosegay;
Satisfactions realized, the succubus smiles and simply steals away.
Posted in Animas, Arrogance, Audience, Centre stage, Changeling, Confidence, Confirmation, Decadence, Denial, Dreams, Evasion, Factions, Goals, Gravitas, Hours, Liabilities, Lightning, Maudlin sentiment, Newborn age, Pains, Parasites, Patronage, Pearls, Plays, Poetry, Schemes, Suckers, Teachers, Voltaire, Zeitgeist
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Pain, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets