“Disconnect the Vowels”
Disconnect the vowels, then, read what’s left
Within the strophe that makes sense to you; leave
Judgments by the door. Wear no sleeve
On which to pin a sentiment nor shibboleth bereft
Of common sense because the urgent cause
For which the precious ointment was adopted long ago
No longer finds its use. Justly, as it should, in isolated slow
Progress through generations, the hoary stories pause
As literary cusps on scrolls between cycles’ broader strokes
Stoke what it is we know or think we know, or what all know as lies.
The verdicts will, of course, disguise themselves as scripture in the eyes.
And do you think so handsome gilded spokes
Of wheels as cycles’ pillars, circumferences to cover centuries of fears
So fragile that words inscribed in tears will touch the hearts and reach the ears?
Posted in Cycles, Ears, Eyes, Fears, Judgement, Sentiments, Shibboleths, Strophe, Tears, Vowels, Wheels, Words
…a revision of the poem…
Swept aside, all moments and celestial mementos collide
And waste no never-mind on credence and retention
In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine celestial reflection.
Mortality by definition lies; not so through what histories imply
But in the daily interaction of missives from the Goal
And penultimate ilunga * of the Source or
Sanctions of interaction in the triumphant triad of the coarsest
Ores of time, of space, and all that matters. Time, the cosmic linen folds
Of space and active order; space, the theatre of experience at the heart
Of the observer; matter, but an audience, a phenomena in passive
Active shadows of Creation and its nemesis. Simplicity is massive,
Complexity but a word; a question’s languages are art
And science while the answers form the pathos and the abstract.
What is more pathetic than to be and yet be nothing in the act?
Simplicity in the classic form requires
The prefects of a perfect vacuum
Combined in such a way as compliments the acumen
Of a strident meme, the jealous zeitgeist, tests that to the whole inspire
An urgent need to pause, to linger over bodies no longer really there,
A little more than a half a generation’s substance in a given time.
So granted this, so beautifully and tragically resigned,
Aloud comes the elegies of episodes to “Move along!”or “Retire!”
With such a cry inscribed, there was and always is
A here and there in rapid profit worshipped, fierce
As gallstones of desperation: “This, our chosen age, rehearsed
Upon a cross of memories little more than lyrics of an ancient tryst!”
And, equally, the many crowned and catalogued, remain aloof
Through symmetries of perfection in a sacred dynasty of embroidered truth.
*The word is ilunga, from the Bantu language of Tshiluba, and means a person ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.
When there is this, that is.
With the arising of this, that arises.
When this is not, neither is that.
With the cessation of this, that ceases.
His Holiness The Buddha
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, Antithesis, Arts, Buddhism, Change, Classic, Cycles, Double Sonnet, Elegies, End Times, Ends, Generations, Hubris, Hustlers, Hyperbole, Idolatry, Matrix, Meme, Memory, Negation, Nostalgia, Numinosum, Pathos, Poetry, Posterity, Pragmatism, Pyrrhic Victory, Relativity, Retirement, Samsara, Sciences, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Synthesis, Thesis, To be or not to be, Tragic Flaw, Tshiluba, Yearning, Zeitgeist
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Nothing’s censured, everything’s gained they say
and choice is all there is and all that’s human.
Cycles shift as do devotion
and commitment and we are glad and sad
As fits emotion and the glory of the stars;
are gone by February, January’s gains illumine
What’s to come in cloistered gusts
that blight the staggered laughter of a spring’s reality.
As autumn’s indiscretions rush to judgement of the past
Occluded by the soul’s embarrassed need
to face the present last,
And yield a future’s wanton wastes
in raw October’s costs and call it natural morality.
Of course, all the world’s put right within
a pale Pink Moon’s delight and we are here tonight
And know damn well we’re gone tomorrow from the diaries of the estuary;
Dawn’s first kiss–the eternal pardon–will arrive behind the execution day,
Delayed a single hour for the sake of show and mere appearances, flights
Of angels sprinkling spores of wonder in the newly pollinated skies. We’ve lied
Again and while we ponder why it matters only heaven knows we tried.
Posted in Censure, Cycles, Devotion, Months, Moon, Poetry, Seasons, Stars
Tagged Autumn, February, January, Lyric Poetry, October, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spring, Summer, Winter
“Summer Like the Lion”
Summer like the lion has so little time;
Reflections on horizons only seem at rest,
Refractions, hungers in the higher grasses are at best
A blind, a routine introspection, attest to sun and pride,
Alike as natural season’s slightest change rewards the prey
Of both with perspicuous signs and insecurities but nonetheless
Concrete enough to cause a wonder in the every power; less
Than single clouds occlude the sun, the slightest hint of grey
Upon the main, both signal gain and loss. Clearly crowned,
They have no equal in selection’s schemes
Save Death, itself, yet each pays out in measured penalties. Extremes
In greatness and renown sustain but reasons, diadems and crowns
Subject to circumstance of cycles in the main—in means
A certain end—in cosmic tragedies beyond the need of seasons.
Posted in Animals, Cycles, Death, Destiny, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Matrix, Mortality, Poetry, Providence, Reason, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Tragedy, Tragic Flaw, Zeitgeist
Tagged Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Summer
“I Found Someone”
I found someone breathing as if to pray;
No prayer, of course, no sign, no moon, no stars, silence–
Balm to souls and solace in the crisis
Of questions–many hopes absurd, what they say
Gives animas to eternity and shields simple fear from the terror
Of these days. I would not ask outright, I had no words, then,
Took flight, tight in twilight when
From cancer and fallen branches–errors,
Really, to the whole–to innocence conjuring lasting alibis,
Superfluous sentinels never come to rest, fruits of thought pressed
With violence enough that wine is produced—inebriation of more from less,
Wrath, the test , really, of what some old man once said. Patient sighs
Among sparrows egg him on while sitting on a porch swing, wisdoms at once:
“Make peace with the Fathers,” said he, “prepare to flee the Sons.”
Posted in Change, Cycles, End Times, Ends, Epiphany, Eternity, Fathers, Poetry, Sons
Tagged Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet
They arrive, the legions, thorns, as seconds torn
From any calendar and common to us all;
We welcome what must come–we have no choice–the plaintive call
Of late night amber moments need not be recalled; we warn
Ourselves and just perhaps we navigate the rapids bruised and numbed within
The cusps while all celestial orbits’
dispassionate marks reclaimed and rearranged
And burnt across all foreheads the latest number,
a simple paradigm–today exchanged
For yesterday–within a fading image of outrageous dreams,
some few last wishes in thin
Disguise. Nonetheless, what’s as clear as what is not’s the fact.
The purview, vision’s purposes recalled, and all collective memories attract.
The purgatives to what comes must be and what must come. Tact
And all discretion set aside, to barter solace and eternity for a bowl of soup lacks
Substance: in exchange for knowledge, wisdom;
Esau’s hungers burn within the leaves
Of Scripture as all prophesies are turned to satisfaction in the marriage,
the final crowning of action with belief.
Posted in Action, Belief, Change, Cycles, Detachment, Dreams, Esau, Eternity, Hope, Lust, Materialism, Mortality, Poetry, Providence, Samsara, Spirituality, Zeitgeist
Tagged Cusp, Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
“Yes, of Course”
Yes, of course, it’s in the silences, the gaps; what isn’t there,
A kind of saving grace. Yes, it’s in the wrist and more, a second
Maiden voyage. The news announces daily the Titanic’s jocund
Journey redux, greater for revision less the ware
And less absorbing in the loss of souls from rarer thinner air
Brought faithfully to task but mind you nonetheless a reckoning
Within a construct; no! an edifice of remembrances within the seconding
Of resolutions that determines Elliot’s wave within the self-defining stare
Of relative modernity; but one tsunami in eternity amid the voids of space.
The promise of redemption’s found in balances of degrees
In praise of beauty in the sun spots’ mighty aura, the aurora in the fray
Of loose inebriating Northern Lights–try distraction while you pray–
Try the Northwest Passage in the making high above the Arctic’s former grace
Notes, rhythms in the writ, a metaphor in G, perhaps, but played in C.
“There was peace and the world had an even tenor to it’s way. Nothing was revealed in the morning, the trend of which was not known the night before. It seems to me that the disaster about to occur was the event, that not only made the world rub its eyes and awake, but woke it with a start, keeping it moving at a rapidly accelerating pace ever since, with less and less peace, satisfaction and happiness. To my mind the world of today awoke April 15, 1912. – Jack Thayer, Titanic Survivor
Posted in Affirmation, Ôm, Balance, Certitude, Chaos, Civilisation, Cycles, End Times, Eternity, Poetry, Samsara, Ships, Zeitgeist
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Northern Lights, Sonnets, Sun spots, Titanic
“Be Careful Here”
Be careful here, my friend, truth can burn
But cannot bring you down; a given is a given:
A man is fooled within himself; he will be driven
In and of his own delight, impelled at every turn
Toward the Qiblah of his creation as the sun
Will rise from his East, recline and resign
Toward his West. As the rains decline
From highest peaks seduced to run
To the ocean, so, too, creation brooks no barrier,
No alteration in its prodigies. Light ordained
Is not the lamp, nor within a wick retained,
But consecrated within the oil; its properties tarry.
Be assured. Energies within the lamp will reign;
Where comes a spark, no light can be restrained.