The innuendo woven not so much in the fantastic,
But in experience, a living witness within a precocious cloud,
A view to forward motion, counterfeit because in itself it is allowed
To be but never adequately traced: inertia has no station; static, elastic,
Yes, but to no greater purpose. These, the chords of oneness in righteous bond
Cannot be but bastard confirmations of the spirit’s sparse but potent
Progress, motion, goal’s, the irritating “now” but well beyond the quotient
Of “then again…..” But there’s not it. There is no special wand
Nor spirit guiding, none the precious gift beyond simple accident in bands
Of language, maudlin to the ear which is to say we may embrace not knowledge, but the inordinate love of what the ear may be gifted to hear;
We may glory in what the tongue speaks, and its wonders to suspend the fear
Of dwelling on the absolute, mere ciphers written ingloriously on the sand.
And if, by chance, there is a point to these sentiments and if pernicious—these
Fine words—it is the soul and not the author who penned such thoughts with ease. These, my words, will not endure; they dwell
Within the canvas stretched taut by hand, commingled with my blood
That has no patience in its present station. The cud
Is there, perhaps, and what is felt
May be forgiven its fibres: thatched roofs and hives
Yield similitudes, some passions, a slight nod,
Perhaps at best, a stay of execution but sans lightning rod,
A tool, a catalyst with which its throne and queen survives
Their moments of glory ere the day they find themselves alone.
Something ever lacking in the honey. Transitory needs reveal their secrets
In the rough draft, as natural tides recede in time in egress
From the scene; but what? What remains in the station of a drone?
No progress is forthcoming in the champions of an age
Where the presence of the tides means the turning of a page.
Posted in Accident, Achievement, Affirmation, All or nothing, Apostrophes, Appearances, Audience, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Striking images pass muster swiftly at evensong, prehensile joys recall that
Memories linger as cinders, shadows, sorrows of the previous, which is to say
That what begins in joy must have an end. Would that the daily execution’s stay
Made sense beyond the dream, the diagram of calculated error in the flat
Of one man’s palm so that intrinsic to the finest fabric’s slightest flaw, within
The stitch’s realm materials might negotiate what only an apostrophe
Can define in this fine weave-space or that sublimity of tapestry;
Skeins and lots, souls and families suffice but to begin
Again or with not even common license elude what will or will not last.
Sadly, even they who know themselves sit quietly as accidents upon the shore
Of evermore and know forever that what they know they only borrow.
So, too, it seems for fireflies and dragonflies worn
Loosely by horizons of a world so few if any ever see. They merely cast
Aspersions for the dead and doubtless: Ask them, then, who folds the seas
And what will be, and what they find so wondrous in eternities.
Posted in Accident, Achievement, Affirmation, Aging, All or nothing, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
She’d doubted little but that she’d seen
The years erode her apathy; her reticence,
The lofty presage of an onslaught of age and common sense.
Few could guess, of course. They’d cauterized intentions
and but for the rising of the occasional dream
In time might well have known her fear but then she’d met herself
And found the chance encounter oddly pleasant.
He’s elevated loneliness–a badge of honour in youth–an essence
Among the many rites to be stacked neatly on the shelf,
And in time finds no lasting nights, no respites sealed; revealed prayer’s the thing
Retained between the shadows, stale, perhaps, at times like flowers
Pressed between a journal’s soulless leaves, natural powers
Collapsed within a hidden room where only sunbeams and dustbunnies sing
Anywhere but in the rain.
Banalities whispered endlessly, axioms, hesitation,
Then, between the beads, metered patience dwells to the side of resignation.
Patterns, tedious to the casual connoisseur of callow circuses,
Whose aunts and uncles–convalescent cynosures–apply the appliqué
That bests all daily bread but adds nothing to the liquor save signatures
That serve as ligatures and borders between circumstance
And disingenuous serendipity, floral blooms of in between,
And on the other side of propinquity and wider welding weeds
And creeping things visible for moments past the age of puberty. Seeds
Of adolescence are careless where they land, despondent with obscene
Displays of natural righteous rage at opportunities of eternity and propagation.
It is just so with common inmates as well those in military congregation:
Universal laws claim exclusive rights to the infinitive in subjugation
To principles set down by God-knows-what the conjugation.
We witness, then, in every accident a circumlocution of the spheres
What flowers, tadpoles, insects, and the whole of mankind fears.