Briefer images at dusk along the street and wonders
In me--who is that woman? Street lamps, yes! the moon
Or worse that slaps us both; tarnished, and in a tangent off some June
From long ago, memories in a travel log of time when I still blundered
Through the odyssey of all my fears and slumber seemed forever light,
The blush and dimming of the spots somehow pleasing to so many peoples,
Then, and still I stood to hit the queue to see her eyes.
Distilled prayer beneath the steeples,
Midnight trains and feeble seats in Greyhounds,
uses of the every highway dedicated to gemutlichkeit
And the momentary! More, a never-ending wanderlust and steam
To drain the festering boils of youth in rhymes of two dimensions:
Points from “A” to “B” to “C”, perhaps to “D”, and mention The here and there of this I saw or that within what dreams
Concealed in endless intercourse in the night and I so moth- like in the rites
Of great mahatmas in repose amid the golden spinning wheels and kites.
Posted in Age, Aging, Desire, Imagery, Lust, Lyric Poetry, Nostalgia, Passion, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Youth
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Tragic Flaw
Bitterness serves the servile senses; malevolence the brine
Payed out to loams in newly flooded fertile delta soils.
Where there are no antidotes, no alternatives, no holy oils
Can soften evidence. When the flesh is spent the rind,
Manure to tried and tired conscience dried, provides desire enough to find
The seed gone stray, some few limbs, fibres of miracles for future coils
Of awe and circumstance. Pick up the rake, then, the hoe; gather roots to boil
And treasure newly welcome honest broth, the meagre rendered never-mind.
The taste is saline, yes? So much for what we cannot say before the hour turns
Sour, the afterthought enshrined within the hourglass that soon enough restores
Its natural balance in the night. A hint of moisture overrides the will at dawn,
Some confidence to see what’s left exceeds what’s been withdrawn.
Odds are that even in the ashes of denial nothing’s left to burn;
Where there is no decision, interest is the fruit that’s rotted to the core.
Posted in Bitterness, Conscience, Decision, Delta soils, Denial, Desire, Fruit, Hoe, Hourglass, Limbs, Manure, Miracles, Odds, Poetry, Rake, Rind, Rotten fruit, Rotten to the core, Seed, Senses, Will
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“The Greatest Sanctuary”
The greatest sanctuary saves, preserves, and seals
The last and latest treasure; final fears are entertained
And in the end repeat themselves penultimate in any age
That’s spent with nothing left to say. The morass of months reveal
Themselves as names, the briefer moments cast in isinglass,
And hung above the door as witness to emotions borrowed to defend
The journey of both giver and what it is that’s given–split ends
That pass at times for purity of desire. Consternation, then, at last
Effaced, those few peas remaining within the pod will spend
Themselves while outward bound to what is after all a dream
Or merely someone’s lunch. They groom together–the sheen
Is frayed–delay is shame when every effort to confirm or to renew offends.
Reconnoitred, what were formerly evergreens
disclose themselves as deciduous devotions
That decry their former riverbeds as puddles, watersheds of desiccated oceans
That long since disappeared. Yes, we’ve seen this rain before
and now we see it every day;
Umbrellas up, umbrellas down, yet these expose
Themselves as useless as the refugees keep running, hoping, close
To bolting at the slightest sign of teardrops in their pain.
And what is gained in either case, the with
Or the without? The question here is moot.
Is moisture poison to the man who values silks in suits,
Or to the woman bound to shake her fist
At every incident that renders hairspray a total waste?
But these are questions for the sophist’s notepad and fodder
For prevarication while what is relevant to the journey, a blotter
For veneers of life are disclaimers and discounts which so easily make haste
To negate what is evident in a common tin of oysters or a jar of lox:
The end of every one of us is six feet under in a box.
Posted in Age, Aging, Death, Denial, Desire, Double Sonnet, Dreams, Ends, Estrangement, Illusion, Lust, Marriage and Divorce, Negation, Ocean, Pain, Passion, Poetry, Silk
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
“Surprise Her, Then”
Surprise her, then, and leave the rest
To guess what took so long; he waited patiently,
She preferred a mirror; he, a glass of sanctity.
Eternity? He had no time. Her guess
Was lost on both of them; they never cared
To tip the waiter and neither bore the blame
For tastelessness in choosing tables, lame
Excuses mumbled that the appetite just wasn’t there,
And, after all, the glory of a pearl is its frugality
Amongst the gems with nothing wounded on the sharp communal knife.
These holy breads come whole, unsliced,
A lethal wafer, lightly tasted with a toast to purest blasphemy
And one more for the road. Infinities in anonymity are served in double slices
As an altar’s daily sacrifice, eternal virtues
stripped of immortality reduced to vices.
Posted in Addiction, Delusion, Denial, Desire, Infinitity, Love, Lust, Marriage and Divorce, Passion, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
“‘Twas the Blueberry Pie”
`Twas the blueberry pie, you know; `twas
That pie as odd as that may sound, and I
Was hungry in the afternoon and spied
Her house―I’d come that way because
I had some several sundry savoury things to do
Along the road that day―and following my nose
A stronger apparition there within me rose,
And she was at the door in no time! Courage grew,
And she was quick to ask if I would chop
Some wood, and surely this was not beyond
My time and energies to spare? “The farther pond
Has deadwood there already cut!” The stop
To gather wood? No problem, ma’am and no delay!
T’was the pie, my son, and that’s precisely why you’re here today!