“Comes a Lion’s Sacrifice”
Comes a lion’s sacrifice, his eyes
Now fixed, the gaze, the ageing body’s shadow taut
Upon the juggernaught, a rolling form, yesterday’s intention caught
In matted threads of crimson sweat in beads lean against the thighs’
Redeeming, screaming declamation, all or nothing broadcast
Erect in silent swollen majesty, volition in the brow abolished;
An emotion’s glow, the goal of fear astonished, patina polished,
The hemlock drained in haste as thoughtless
Epimetheus breathes in and out with such a blast
As casts its lots in nothing less than seconds
that renders even natural disease the kinder. One now last
But never least in lines of endless consequence in unnatural rhyme
Between the cat and prey with justice at the feast designed
To kill or not to kill and thence to take one’s fill or fast.
And so it is with consummations great and small,
The climax of potential in the meaning of it all.
“Seek a Lighter Hue”
Seek a lighter hue in pastel conversation,
Hoards of daily mass conversion
Of the every act to some point in time, a little light diversion;
The mirage, the art a while, and for the mind a choice illusion,
An arbitrary sunset clause for replenishing, the flag unfurled
In the early hours of mint and red carnations and the dawn’s early munch
To satisfy the need to fill a shallow hour’s shadow till we lunch.
She knows she needs but say the word–
I’m gone–with no one near enough to hear her scream
While in the downshift here fickle seasons deem
It time to shrink that auspicious moment to a tight knot. If the Gorgon stays
She’ll have her way with nothing left to say.
Did she really think it wise to mitigate the circumstance of every rule
With aphorisms stitched on store-bought linens primed for workmanship on
Cloth, the only real estate, the final use for all those golden spools?
Posted in Art, Carnations, Conversation, Diversion, Downshift, Flag, Gorgon, Hue, Illusion, Knot, Lunch, Mass conversion, Mint, Mirage, Need, Poetry, Scream, Shallow hour, Sunset clause
Attention spans are short, fuses,
Matchless dangers; no matter–the need for caution
Is the norm in the middling run of things–en masse, a daily auction
In the race and sibling competition trumps the general purpose. Muses
Ancient, gracious and inviable so often are ignored
In favour of what’s been seen and stored.
In youth, some future use; in age, necessity itself takes the floor
While invention’s mother’s lost and no one knows what for
Except to say that something in the wind’s
Brought something else again and when
The dusts are sifted and settled—so they say—the prairie hen,
The swallow and the bee no longer know where they fit in.
Capistrano weighs its greatest losses, hives their Zen
As power lines and cell phones sunder intercourse to the very end.
Posted in Age, Attention span, Bee, Capistrano, Cell phones, Competition, Danger, Fuse, Hives, Intercourse, Invention, Muses, Poetry, Power lines, Prairie hen, Swallow, Wind, Youth, Zen
Tagged Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Because I Am”
Because I am I cannot doubt;
Because I asked the Muses much too much,
I found their questions only came when answers touch
The one who’d truly asked, a sudden thrall, another bout
Of wonderful, indeed as are they all, but not from inside out
But more than likely from a shirt I’d borrowed, shoes, and such
Accoutrements as pleased them all, my ëgo’s crutch,
Evasion and a sense of powers dark and sinister with clout
Enough to raise a summer’s gnats as armies in profusion
Reigning at the meadow’s edge no longer than the lightning lasts but flashes.
Yes, I always ran but found my way back home again for more–
In time, of course I found no one knocking at my door or keeping score,
Although these doubts I found to be the food of courage, yes; and fusion,
When it came left nothing but the need for rain to cool the coals and ashes.
“Messages of Reticence”
Messages of reticence arrive in pedestrian flocks
With evidence of gridlock in the lives
Of more than just the few on line. Knives
And cutlery reign in token motherboards locked
Away with spoons and forks within the ease of metaphor;
They declare that all that can be done is done, the instruments are clean–
Spots, deposits, postings long removed, and still the cleaver gleams.
Iconic algorithms, “Who and what are we?”
Aid raining progenies, the soothing axioms, “But for; what for?”
Provide the loaves that all feed ferial days
of domestic castration timed at regular intervals at the buffet
When terror in the news does not suffice and consequences soar
To targets in some brief auspicious moment but stand ignored,
Pre-empted, no doubt, in favour of a soccer match
or just another day, or worse, a yesterday
Become a siren’s voice of vague regret and ostentatious sorrow
In the wake of an endless rendering moot the cauldrons of the morrow.
The moment’s gladiators honour heinous horrors in the hour;
Lamentations for the righteous who themselves are lost and having lost,
Remove themselves from grief, their leaflets tossed
About the fields in quires; unmitigated pathos, melons soured
Where victory’s sod is red and barren, gardens harbouring shoots
Or several stems grafted as one of station without deciding
What the sunlight, what the shade. Profits riding
High or low-mown in the fields must in the end take root
Beneath the gathering gaze made jaundiced, jaded, blinded
By constant grazing with no regard for moderation, the ears grown dull
With relentless noise that drowns both rhetoric and prayer. In the lull
Between the courses at Thanksgiving, the phatic lists leave no print
and tongues grow mute with issues undecided:
Action and the signs of truth are nothing
in the Coliseum’s oval offices;
Thumbs up or down, it matters little
for wizened mentors or callow novices.
Furtive futures, tokens of the late night flower
And as he smiles, a common thread of thought, some random
Virtue and its knee-jerk negative recusal form régimes, their regiments set neatly in tandem
Each day with time enough to feed the guests between the hours’
Harvests. Memories posit foibles calcified from past
Proposals of support and action in what was always just around
The corner. Patience, saddling his ass, object to wastes grown profound
In almost every instance with innocuous verses that running circuits last
In time while losing time defines itself in terms of time, itself, and nothing stops
The show unless a rare and casual kindness from a stranger to the flock,
Or simply not who or what must have a right to be. He views what’s on the dock’s
Consignment nd recalculates the costs of baggage and accessories; the rock,
Within remains the same, of course; witness, yes, but still he is both what he is
and as he was before he found his tests
To he the very meaning of his every breath; a gift, a bounty, an eternal yes
is there, but nothing closes close to closure. There is no subtle hint of rest,
And so he is what he remembers; the sum of mementoes of lifetimes
Dear to hearts long since gone beyond the seed. As to himself and memories
Once held close, there comes the need to memorize the many melodies
That in their day brought joy and lifelines
To the stuff of what it meant to be exactly who he was when he was there.
Sheer weight of anchors and ballast of the many ships in passing
Either in the stream or in the wake of vast expanding
Longer tides surpassing oceans’ borders meet, bring lingering care,
That strange and potent pause to think that once again his passions
Spent, he clings but lightly to the lining of a coat of many hidden thoughts.
These and more are eulogized in what remains for ought
He knows of paradise; some sweeter dream and certitude in eternity.
In the rusting hulks of yesterdays through accident and lust, will he be remembered in the libraries or buried in the piles of discards in the dust?
Posted in Adagio, Anchors, Ballast, Dust, Foibles, Futures, Internal clock, Joy, Libraries, Lifelines, Melodies, Memories, Momentoes, Passions, Poetry, Tests, Thread of thought, Time, Verses
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
In reply to a beautiful note sent to me…
“Lady P: Yes, Well…”
Yes, well, after all, at least for you and me
There’s everything and all and even more through truth and honesty;
We grope at times, yes! but never quite make or break the call
From perfection to perfection gaining ground then risking all.
But, there’s the rub, the same for everyone who breathes
To live and not the other way around: as boiling lava seethes
So, too, the will from time to time relieves itself, erupts and then must cool
To build tomorrow’s fortress in the season’s rut. Know that fools
And angels build as well on sand as on a known caldera
Seeing safety’s but a syllable, a symbol, chimera
Of the mind or possibly a maxim born of boredom
And nothing more than light conversation over hay or sorghum
With a denizen of Hell, itself, who’s merely waiting for a train,
And you with no umbrella to protect you from the evening rain.
Posted in Angels, Boredom, Breathe to live, Caldera, Denizen of Hell, Fools, Hay, Hell, Honesty, Lava, Maxim, Perfection, Poetry, Rain, Rub, Sand, Sorghum, Syllable, Symbol, Train, Truth, Umbrella
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Sound the Bugle”
Lyrics by Gavin Greenaway
Written for the soundtrack of
Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron
Sound the bugle now… play it just for me
As the seasons change… remember how I used to be
Now I can’t go on…I can’t even start
I’ve got nothing left… just an empty heart.
I’m a soldier… wounded so I must give up the fight
There’s nothing more for me… lead me away
Or leave me lying here
Sound the bugle now… tell them I don’t care
There’s not a road I know that leads to anywhere
Without a light, I fear that I will stumble in the dark
Lay right down and decide not to go on
Then from on high, somewhere in the distance There’s a voice that calls,
“Remember who you are… if you lose yourself,
Your courage soon will follow,
So be strong tonight… remember who you are”
Yeah, your a soldier now,
Fighting in a battle,
To be free once more.
Yeah, that’s worth fighting for.
The only way to deal with an unfair world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. –Albert Camus