“No Longer Middle Ground”
No longer middle ground since we crossed the Rubicon to Oz;
Middling, yes, but Ozymandias has not been seen since 1818
Save for one split second threading hairs through the seams
Of two or more zeitgeists along a grey-walled trench, a cause
Of parallel joy for some few hours of silence when a clause
Or two was formed within a certain fecund corporal’s dreams
Of death, transfiguration and some place in line that seemed
To say that true results are neither here nor there; the law’s
Delay will save the day and if we’ve been fêted in a fetid trench
For now, we’ll soon be surfeiting beyond the need of bread and butter,
And on to caviar and champagne. Let it rain today; suffice
To say whatever comes to mind will serve a dying virtue or a certain vice
With no one left to gainsay what despite the stench
Is after all to victors, spoils, to prey what words are left to mutter.
What must be must come with no one left to guarantee—
Entitlements be damned—if better souls are weakened, powerless-
Ness succumbs before the righteous face of bribery and cannot guess
Who’s come to dinner than what’s behind the silver screen
Sufficient for all that’s supposed. In the end, we’ll euthanise the trees’
Supplies, the reams of notes and asterisks to history in digests
Bound in leather, all that might have served to lay to rest
The licentiousness of blame, contrition in arrears for what we leave
To broad imagination. History takes effect in tomes of admonition
With healthy tongue in cheek; the hornet’s sting can be fatal,
True, but then there’ll always be survivors and who’s got time
To reckon loss when carillon bells take their sign
From foggy memory and devastation indicative of wholesale attrition:
Who’s left to pay the bill; who discerns from death the blessings of the cradle?
Posted in Asterisks, Blame, Bread and butter, Bribery, Carillon bells, Caviar, Champagne, Contrition, Cradle, Death, Entitlements, History, Hitler, Hornet, Law's delay, Licentiousness, Middle ground, Oz, Ozymandias, Place in line, Poetry, Powerlessness, Prey, Rain, Results, Rubicon, Silver screen, Vices, Victors, Virtues, Zeitgeist
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
…painting by Kyle Ragsdale…
“The Balm of Blame”
The balm of blame relies on shame
While fools amass in cloisters; clowns, their terrors
Grouped in choirs as with fires sired in hell. Errors
Come as natural as breathing, while their eternal flame
Afflicts the every man, and cannot be concealed.
How, then, does the crown not fit
As when in the thick of smoke and mirrors bells peeling
Not from above or from the side but fulgent, sealing
Heaven’s signs in record time, the eyes, the gait, the every gesture
Bold prophetic witness as the Eastern Prophets’ Word is echoed in the West,
Their lights snuffed out in increments that underline the tortured tests
Of wills and structures of the Occident in bulging bank accounts–sequestered,
Belching fallacies–metered by the hour that all but scream for want of closure?
Yet, the line is long and longer for ambient mists of deft exposure.
They will not hear the key left limp at latch–the entrance
Or the exit; they cannot see the rising
Or the setting of the complaisant star, its restive analysing
Of the land and sea at midnight, the telling glance
Of creatures who stalk their prey in the foyer of the edifice;
The temporary seating exceeds the number of the tombs is evidence
Enough that in all creation few defy the mirage; the fence
That must divide the space above a phantom’s presence
Of this planet from the gaping hungry star-filled void
Of all that passes for imagination.
Connoisseurs of matter taste
Nothing but the venom of the fang in hours of self-defeating waste:
That posits purpose in pursuit of the outrageous, they speak of decoys
And photographs in place of simple memory and obsolescent joy.
Weep for they whose righteousness consists of lawlessness and celluloid.
The sardonic moon signs mayhem and havoc to the eyes
At rising, a potent rift between what is and what only seems
To be; and we, its tools allow for fancy as it deems
Fitting to be in the mystical early patterns of the evening skies.
How meet and seemly even for the dedicated mind
To allow such flights of visual savagery to arrest
All logic, moving as it does to attest
What truly isn’t there at all. How like denial, refined
Anticipation in the night of our modernity
To grant such majesty, so great an urgency
As the behemoth moon of our imagination cedes
Nothing to the truth but flaunts its strange lucidity
In increments that must eventually crown itself the liar.
Fully risen, there it is what begun must in turn expire
shedding neither light nor fire.
Posted in Appearances, Bank account, Bells, Blame, Celluloid, Closure, Connoisseur, Decoy, Denial, Double Sonnet, Duplicity, Ediface, Error, Everyman, Fallicies, fancy, Fire, Flame, Havoc, Heaven, Hell, Imagination, Joy, Key, Land, Liar, Logic, Magesty, Materialism, Mayhem, Memory, Mirage, Modernity, Moon, Occident, Poetry, Prophets, Samsara, Sea, Star, Tomb, Waste, West
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets