Evidence is impertinent; knowledge the more so.
What’s required’s what’s requisite:
It is better to receive than to give, to sit
Than walk, rations and stations notwithstanding—to know
The hairline partition between the profound and shallow
Knave and his belief, both seeds—deposits
Less for harvest than to overthrow the field itself that profits
Nothing from the plough and even less remaining fallow.
What does a man whose fame is paraffin,
Whose reigns are grace and sin, egregious loss and win
Whose draw is driftwood, the simple work of artisans and tradesmen,
The complex afterbirth of artists and doctors of acumen,
Whose words and produce are the sums
Of circuses, possibly media feed,
Certain the prostitutes of avarice and greed?
Posted in Evidence, Grace, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sin, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged End Times, Evidence, Grace, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, News Media, Poem, Sin, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Tragic Flaw
Diversions mount, but decisions are determined
And timing in celestial spheres and signs
Are not paused for dilatory motives nor do the blind
So easily blot out the sun. Some there are who enter
Darkness seeking the mercurial stations of the tongue, the move
From where they are to where they divine they must
Be without so much as limb or wing but straight through the dust
To strike pavilions over what is not and never could be a truth. Note all who’ve
Owned a cause to glorify the effects of blows to obfuscate, to conceive a sure
Obstruction of all evidence, nothing more. “In My Father’s House
Are many mansions,” written plainly in orchestrated independent clauses;
The caveat in escrow, the final contract awaits the ink *and “If it were
Not so,” He would have writ the mystery of galaxies and stars
as when polemic balances mark the seasons’ endless cosmic scars.
Simplify the matter, choose the either, consult the ether, pick one,
Be, and it will be! An avizandum is no match for public exhibition
And the journey never really satisfies the abyss of timely erudition
Further than a fortnight nor the rule of planets beyond a single sun.
And if the moon’s the object in the search,
Winter’s clouds will override the story
If they speak at all in apostrophes of midnight glory
While the appetite for fear what must follow the zenith. Dirty shirts
And all the king’s fine laundry’s better left
Unwashed if the pawn neglects the very lint of ragged pockets. Socks
Are so easily separated, so inevitably lost forever. High tech stocks
And clever use of futures are stuff of much the same in strategies in what’s left
Of patience or detachment, or verisimilitude when the trend in toys is moot
or confidence in leisure time exacerbate so strange a shrinking;
Ships and stocks are never stronger than the thought of either sinking.
* John 14-1-9
Posted in Apostrophes, Blind, Causes, Caveats, Celestial spheres, Cosmic scars, Darkness, Decisions, Detachment, Dilatory motives, Diversions, Dust, Effects, Erudition, Escrow, Ether, Evidence, Galaxies, Independent clauses, Ink, Journey, Midnight glory, Moon, Patience, Pavilions, Poetry, Ships, Signs, Stars, Stations, Stocks, Sun, Truth, Verisimilitude, Zenith
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Samsara, Sonnets