“Well Of Course!”

“Well Of Course!”

Well, of course, we’ll share our horrors and all their cousins’ pains,
But can we share our joys? Oh, yes, the many, greater
Number know full well what burdens rise; satyrs
Know that all the world’s a virgin field, and plenteous the rains,
And who is truly satisfied or fit to live
From dawn to dusk and through meagre hours
To taste the bluest morning’s minute, winter’s darkest musks, and flowers
Abused or strewn about as summer’s dying sparks. Yes, pity all abandoned hives
Whence sweetest nectar gathered at the once with steaming strength adored
And more than once again purloined, transforms as healing to a thief, a man
Whose struggling embers in the hearth’s become so very disappointing, fanned
By autumn’s chill and left to smoulder, breath subdued, and blotted out, ignored.
Yes! And veins of midnights’ disaffection line the walls of all travellers’ miles,
But are we there when all there is of us are wreathes and simple smiles?

“They Linger”

“They Linger”

They linger by the window; they seek
What’s just beyond not so much from desire but punctuation.
Souls in single file grant noteworthy unction
To the slightest glance howsoever intently; no more than a peek,
And as it happens simply walk on by. Innocuous.  The poet says
That passion will consume its fruits,
And I believe him as the notion suits
The age in which I live or the page I read; but if he seeks a “Yes!”
doubts evaporate like myrrh as she’s quite forgot
When she airs her rooms and threads her loom as if the purpose
in his witness were merely ballast for pain–
All her earthbound joys share the momentary respite
of a rural mailbox, at best a little shelter from the rain
For those who still receive their letters with the circulars. Caught
In fantasies defined in galaxies that disappear at sunrise
there remains the death knell of all wounds and worlds,
A poverty of nouns and adjectives that obfuscate reality
beyond the pale of words.

“There Is Little Here”

“There Is Little Here”

There is little here to think on, nothing left to do.
I’ve chosen rooms to rent, nothing owned. I have no roots to nurture
Through to darkest nights nor reservations booked for future days, nothing sure
To last beyond what only looks to be horizons; feet but join no queue;
No driving passions, nothing held in escrow while wandering in the wings
That cries for flight; no bonds, no everlasting melodies, no kiss
To seal an hour of centuries, nothing in the mix to further bliss
Beyond a single breath. There is no truck with imagination here, no ring
Of brass to share the crucible with other alloys.  I simply know and master miles
Between the loaves and fishes of endless hills, or, closer to the truth, hold
Court to witness visions that I see within my cold
And cobalt midnights, amber mornings, the sepia afternoons that smile
And bid me solace in congratulations in as many confirmations
Noted in the margins of my silent walks through fields of affirmation.

…painting above by Ariel Gulluni

“Strident Moments”

“Strident Moments”

Strident moments come as uninvited as
The telephone―those halting motions―stop.
Listen. But, must it ring?  He stands among the pines atop
What Easterners call their mountains, a willing witness held fast
By what he it is he sees and aware, somehow, of cold
Hard knowledge locked in granite thoughts. Awake, there is no place,
No haste when he is here. Here it is, the smell and taste
Of elusive space joined naturally with old
Odd familiar feelings that have no business
Being here. Hearing everything, he negotiates no streets
No alleyways, no place to park; no pavement meets
His feet, but there’s a kind of dizziness
In all this air that almost laughs at breathing.
He’s nowhere in particular and has no plans for  leaving.
He’s made the miles and truck stops all across the state
To feel the blessing of the eyes, the risen voice
Of one who cannot be moved; the choice
Is always his, oh yes, of course, and he’s arrived, and late
Enough each time to bear the weights of witnesses that his
Are not the eyes, nor his the sacred words
That anyone can use. He’s created nothing here and so he’s turned
The car around and while it may be circumspect, he’s heading home.
Then comes the once again, the call
Is always there, that Tennyson and Frost in all the walls,
That albatross of restlessness that bleaches clarity in tones
Of sepia and bronze and clothes the nakedness of all
Past memories perfumed in ancient rhyme. Silences make every room
A canyon trussed by random thoughts of
“Yes?” “Tonight?” or “Soon?”
His dreams define the miles within his skies, but goals
Are drowned within the pits, the bottoms, deadly dregs
Of what this world seeks to meet the eye; the festered eggs
To what in nature all become; foals
To what dark stallions then are bred?
He need not strain himself to know the truth of this,
And in his several steps he leaves no trace
Of what he’s become to mark his leaving of  the place.
Specialties and exhibits, the inner lining of the kiss
That one day brings up bubbles from the depths of every cauldron;
Progeny and circumstance, my friend! Mortality confirms in
No uncertain terms a many-hidden hydra and remorse
For what a man must abdicate when incident has run its course.

 

 

…what’s this?  Yet another image [the one just above and not the pinecone...] filtched from Louvain95…?  Yes, it is, and yet again, an expression of admiration and thanks to this lady and her site for visual experiences. 

 

“The Innuendo”

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.

” Striking Images “

“Striking Images”

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.

“Their Comfort”

Willaim Shakespeare  [1564-1616]

Their comfort comes from stations on the bank
Of all great rivers—their trubutaries, benchmarks, watersheds
And monuments to past and present zeitgeists; their glories led
By strange humility in masters whose histories are blank
About whom generations cavil and invoke
In lesser moments of a meaner age that lean toward
More prosaïc goals, gilded frames made equal to the framed to ward
Off periodic national stagnation in swarms as guilds of artisans. They must evoke
A wonder in the people that makes them wondrous and close upon an awe
Amongst the gods.  In the end such suns disperse such light
As cannot be masked nor can the transitory might
Of kings suppress such eagles, neither nets nor censors, nor the law.
And here lies Shakespeare, Father of the modern text in torrents at the summit
Of tongues that roar so loud and thunder in the index. A moment, then, when
Pausing in the atrium, the job is done, and there’s no real choice
But rest and calibrate the immediate that cannot last; tasks, last of many, voiced
Throughout years of waste and work will one day send
A massive missive of relief, the wages of a single flaw with thanks
To weighty sentiments and fond farewells with perhaps a single sequel; cheer
And weathered pride allied to see me on beyond, and further than fear
To take a few steps–arrogantly, yes, perhaps–fresh tracks on paths that rank
Above all present trumps and peculiars of this earth:
I have the fewer moments through to the end,. Yes, I know
And will it so or else the hours devour the weekly flow
Of days and nights to prove life’s lavas’ heat and light  have spent their worth.
Yes, again, and what of miseries in days beyond this present strife,
Born within the darkness of the first, the energies of the present,  laced with beauties far beyond the simple dénouement and all heroïc gestures seen here
but dimly in the mirror of the diamond prism of that third and better life?

“I Tire”

“I Tire”

I tire because I am endlessly, or waking, dream
I’ve laboured to no end in the day and nightly tripped
Through doors whether in and out with nothing scripted,
Nothing tasted, a greater thing than gravity. Early minutes’ quiet’s gleaned
From what I see as patterns reckon ends bit off before
They leave the fingertips. Salutations to the daylight from the darkness
Knowing light my only threat and saviour cannot be denied; I seek no rest
But simply wave my rights before I hit the bathroom floor.
Another round of ritual in the matins and by the time I see the streets
My spirits rise to the invasion, papers purchased and there
I am while no one hears me enter. My exit’ll not be noted as no one’s left
Who remembers where I stood so tall before it all–the cleft
Between the morning after and the afternoon before–the air,
The pavement, strokes of something like a sidewalk drawing noted
That I arrived  before the elect but somehow never voted.
Devoted, yes, of course, I bear the scars that echo in my ear—
Thunder’s never altogether gone—
just as lyrics never cease, reprise to yet another song.
The stride is altered, yes, but never far from goals
I’ve set, and always from the “A” to the inevitable “B” the line
Is straight. It flows, it never fades. Consistency is there
And I am bound to find that certain place I’ve never really cared
To picture in my mind; the conspicuous Gate lies beyond the mines
And subtle traps I’ve laid, extensions of the singular;
Ignorance of pleasures life so egregiously proffers,
Simplicity of purpose wreathed in fine collective offers,
Boxed for public viewing, profits veiled within the insular.
The rock, itself, sees through all these aye’s
And knows its nay’s beyond the public gaze, disguised.

“Take Nothing”

“Take Nothing”

Take nothing from nothing lightly.

His own sprites, infants

Of Providence from voids, nurtured, cradled, reborn as instants

Above the need of time’s pieces, time beside itself, timed slightly

To the skyward―Fate and Destiny merely fashions, statements in spatial nights

Of fire.  Engines of the commonweal may not easily be ignored

As antipathy gainsays grace and sue the flowers of “Might”

And “Maybe” as with all other litigants in the pond.

The cultured and the coarse and those who are not born

In affirmation’s garlands are worthy vesitutures but wisely worn

For what and who they were not what they are, held well beyond

Distractions the eye; reality rarely takes a mistress.

All that is cannot be penned and has no vested interests.

“Solace in the Courtesies”

…just a note to say that about a year ago, I posted the following sonnet induced by having seen the Moon and Jupiter in their full glory together; they’re both back, and contrary to public opinion, so am I; for the mind, “the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to:; for the heart, time is conquered, thank God… —Once, 23 July 2011

Solace in the courtesies of the constellations, Jupiter
Surely there at sunrise, the brightest star,
Visible while the jealous moon, scarred,
The closest audience; apt, significant. The irony. Her
Dwarf, yet here in circumstance; the bond a quiet perpetuity.
The mighty planet rests for moments in the night,
And we regard the larger aegis the greater light
And think so little of her smaller celebrant; so great an inequity
In vision we’re wont to dote upon from such a station as this.
It is just so with all luminaries of perspicuous wisdom and guidance in the night
That they are worshipped in coal black skies, but preludes to the dawning light
Because it pleases the eye see none but them and rest awhile in ignorant bliss.
Yet with the rising of the sun, all former brilliance must surely fade,
Withdrawn by force to honour greater virtues than the night has made.

I wonder why it is that knowing consciously the identity of what that star is that shone this morning just before the sunrise and has been shining every morning so significantly in the southeastern skies makes so much difference. Tonight it was joined beautifully by proximity to the moon.

A few weeks ago, I learned from a friend that that bright, unusually vivid star was in fact the planet Jupiter. Not that the news was astounding, but in some quiet way it was comforting because as I looked out from my balcony in the early morning hours always just before sunrise, when the skies were clear I had seen that star and wondered just what it was. Somehow I wanted some confirmation as to just what that thing was. I wrote to my friend who was kind enough to confirm its identity for me that it is true that it’s Jupiter and it is very visible in the skies during the whole of June into July. Now, then, this silent delight in knowing consciously that I have seen with my own eyes this “other world” that shares our solar system in some subtle way pleases my soul. These are the signsof God, my friend, as if the moon and sun, the inevitable revival of the earth at spring, and countless spectacles of greater and lesser significance were not. Did I need another confirmation of the majesty of this Creation? These days, for me at least, even breathing is a sign of God and becomes more obviously so with every passing day at my age. —Once, July 2010