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Some confidence to see what’s left exceeds what’s been withdrawn.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
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 people,
Then, and still I stood in line to see her eyes.
Distilled prayer beneath the steeple,
Midnight trains and wornout seats in Greyhounds,
uses of the every highway dedicated to gemutlichkeit
And momentary glory! 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
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.
Too dark, the image is spontaneous surprise
Allowing for callow simplicity, widespread, not
Freely strung, perhaps, nor finely wrought.
Spoken, an oblique word to add to some collection, surmised
And measured plans without a thought to instruments of light,
Nor proper canvas housing hues and filigreed beams
To grace medieval drawings and ever-flowing dreams
In cold rejection foiled, splays to mask the monumental heights
Routine in use no matter how magnificent: you preferred hopes
To need, to full-grown trees but tiny seeds,
Or wholes that must in time disintegrate; a flute, perhaps a reed
In need of being played, the player all too often wrapped in robes
Of musk-dyed silks and ancient tides,
And all the while I merely smiled and let it die.
Posted in Desire, Detachment, Estrangement, Imagism, Love, Marriage and Divorce, Passion, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Seed, Tragic Flaw
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!
“You Tell Me, Then”
You tell me, then, what’s so important here,
Your yesterday, your sweet mañana, what?
Your last romance, your latest hit, the spat
You had last night while bringing up the rear?
And when the flags are down, the spit’s been turned, what dreams
Have so much weight that while you burn you’d love to chat,
But you’ve got fat to chew and so we’ll hit on that
When you get back? Perhaps next week? You’ve reams
To read, and by the time you’ve circled twice a globe again
You’ll have another stack to seed your wanderlust and goals
Will rearrange themselves from quires of penny stocks to solid bars of gold,
And you’ll be asking me to hold that running conversation in the pouring rain
As if it were our first. But that’s the point, my dear, the die is cast,
That first egregious rush of joy turned out to be your last.
Stealing glances, yes, and desire overcomes
All common sense that says, “You cannot stare!”
Sensations pleased, and sure as hell with greatest care,
The opening and final shot above the knees, a loaded gun
Forevermore. It can blind you and you know it. Jealous suns
Make loans that can never be repaid. Still we yearn for nightmares,
Never-ending glories in eclipse that skip the stairs,
Traverse justice in arrears, forfeit choice and stun
The heart with lasting images of naked blasphemy no fig leaf ever covers.
Ponder this, that with that next eternal kiss, that holy rendezvous
Through inner miles, no continent can bear the weight
Nor estimate the station of any other soul in any other rôle. We navigate
By day, apprise ourselves of little in the night
while nocturnal rainbows bleeding colours
In the blinding hours remind us that we need
no more than candles in the darkest room.
Posted in Certitude, Desire, Dreams, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Numinosum, Passion, Poetry, Samsara, Sun
Tagged Desire, Dreams, Lyric Poetry, Passion, Sonnets