“That We Fall Is Natural”
That we fall is natural; that we rise, elephantine.
The elemental flow of oceans cannot be
A thing so scripted in the stones nor greater than it seems,
But ever-striving, ever-writhing, natural peaks declining,
Irreconcilable in their conniving, twice and more desired falling
In or toward Themselves, the Mothers of all Waters, yes. Rivers
Die and are reborn at once–revivals in their streams and noted divers
Books, catalogued as tributaries and watersheds–calling
And recalling from a moonstruck swollen pinnacle
even to the least and last most holy drop.
Confucius* said it long ago that greatest glories
Come not so much in never falling, but in histories
Of revision, sublimes in tectonic prodigies at the mountaintop.
Little wonder save to mortals what the matter is;
energy is the bright selective gleam
Of noble souls who
like the stream, the river, the brook,
must at last rejoin the sea.
*Confucius B.C. 551-479
Posted in Age, Change, Death, Evolution, Existence, Fate, Hope, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Nature, New Year, Ocean, Poem, Poetry, Providence, Samsara, Sea, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Ecology, End Times, Evolution, Existence, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Of course you’re slightly disconcerted, you should be. Now
That you’re alive and well and thriving,. . . how
Else should you be?
…after all, you’re really here….
You know; a little here and there will never hurt,
And if you’re good at what you do, the benefiits assert
Themselves and sooner or later, we all get the point
. . .of knives and forks and spoons placed clearly on the table
When your but’s are in a basket and your no’s are out of joint
With the seasons and the people, and aliens that crawl
Through pipelines, conduits, and everything in the air ducts maul
The lungs because the filter’s often worse than what’s in the air.
Yes, well, someone’s never mentioned this and nor cared
Enough to remove the label when they had the chance,
The thing’s still breathing; price tag thus, and at first glance,
The truth is just as obvious and nothing short
Of brilliant, worthy of protection, worthy of report
Amongst the ever might-have-been’s.
But then the backfire and the stall, the mid-flight
Process includes a message from the pilot, “Don’t tell a soul
But we’ve already landed, nor in bronze or silver, but solid gold.
“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
“A Summer’s Aimless Thought” or “Don’t Ask Why I Wrote This!”
And so the lesser heat descends upon us once,
But, come again?…and now the skin is damp
For no good reason, nothing more than clams
Must feel through all their night’s eternity, abandoned
In watermarked enclosure, rarely asking where
Their homes are logged–no! nor even more from life
Than what is strained for food. If found, the knife
Will end it all. From accidental currents traffic cares,
From aimless waves and tides and what seals may accrue,
Seadogs innocently involved and driven by their own
Insensitivity to feelings and not so much in interest as they comb
The seabeds looking for what mindless kelp must do–
For supper–Yes! We dine tonight: the sacrifice of clams and oysters,
And budget-minded shrimp, and the choir?–crabs conveniently cloistered.
Posted in Animals, Chorus, Distraction, Entertainment, Existence, Imagery, Materialism, Mortality, Nature, Poetry, Sacrifice, Seasons
Tagged Crab, Lyric Poetry, Shrimp, Sonnet
Pain, and the Pacific has had its way, so many tears;
The summons; natural deities, rushing devotees of Southern waters
Join discords of the North and oceanic rivers feed because the glaciers falter.
Nai-no-Kami will no doubt dance. She needs not move far while fears
Of millions, fields and city gates are prey with every passing day.
We view their sighs and gestures, calmly watch and lunch on wonders
At the thought and misery that gorges on the plunder
Of laboured mountains duly noted while we dine. Mere screens relay
Our sympathies as surrogates before us mouth the news in bites, remote,
Confounding empathy of others with our own, and with no more thought
Than is required to vote or tolerate yet another tired announced affair
Convinced we’ve performed our sacred duties. Filtered sage suggestions float
Between commercials; who is dead, and who is dying?
We resign ourselves to daily schedules, and retreat
To mindless repetition, and support of yet another public brawl,
and trash what cannot be understood, change the channel and eat.
Posted in Compassion, Existence, Gods, Media, Mortality, News Media, Ocean, Pain, Poetry, Tragedy
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Nai-no-Kami, Pacific, Sonnets
“And When He Looked Again”
And when he looked again, he saw the two suns
Rehearsing illusions in the river’s voice, the highest good,
The other lost within himself; the tidal mirror could
Not bear separation from the source, one
In signs, yet silenced, ever flowing in what it did
In passing. Crudely graced, seducing visions perfectly,
The first declared itself a certainty,
Its faith a recreated memory, its secrets hid.
In less than seconds, there was nothing of the rival left
To view. A single pebble and the river, too deserted,
stretches seamlessly, the cleft
Between the golden orbs become a prism,
the heavens suspended twice, the right, the left,
The recreation of creation, binding immortal mortalities,
void and substance bereft,
The heavens and the earth; breathless, lost within a common interlude
Where visions set themselves through perpetual accident and certitude.
“Between the Particles”
Between the particles, seeds, whole galaxies
With beings monstrous in physique by grace
To be or not to be of any consequence; a place
Of high dramatic action, energies, prolixities
And all that is the chaos and confusion here
Among us there between the millions, there
Where no present eye beholds the plan; fair
Throughout minions of the wide arena sated, dear
To those whose measures are diminutive
But in such numbers as we cannot command,
Or catalogue; and even here may be the death of man
In servitude to what is life to them, disease to us, illustrative
Of powers to the nano only recently imagined:
We seek where there is nothing; we see mountains in grains of sand.
Posted in Appearances, Ecology, Evolution, Existence, Matter, Nature, Poetry, Reality, State of Being, Universe
Tagged Economics, Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
“And While We Live”
And while we live we see but one of us
May pass through single spaces, one
Will ride the northern run
Toward the right and trust
The left will soon produce
A southbound pilgrim free
And safely bound and while his
Soul’s in transit, quietly he reduces
His necessities, and so it goes with fellow travellers
Along the route and so it is within this place. Passengers
Once removed within the present do not truck with languor,
Neither do they traffic with a mutual struggle; revellers
At feast and lovers in their thrall beneath the moon
Will seek the waterline alone, and while none arrives too soon,
All are always just a little late. Sisyphus, consigned to fruitless spoils
Willingly approaches his sacred chores; his noble views,
Along the edge of things, the crust, consensus, news
Of what the gods have built and a litany of foils
Is all that is of him that was or ever will be.
His ambition moot, he has no equal in his toil;
He glories as he stands, his sweat, the oil
Of yearning for perfections never rightly seen
And never consummated in the breach.
He oversees his crown of thorns and spies the puny forms
Beneath the clouds far beneath his station, He mourns
For lack of company and for the less blessed so well beyond his reach,
Preventing touch to fingertips or comfort from his lips a farewell kiss.
Touching nothingness but briefly, he turns his back on all he’s missed.
Posted in Affirmation, Courage, Double Sonnet, Existence, Hope, Poetry, Selflessness, Survival, Tragic Flaw
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Patience, Sisyphus, Sonnets
Who rises but the dead and who descends save the living? Who, I ask?
Whole generations flee from me. Beauty drains beneath the sun; my walls,
My will cannot contain such quantities of qualities; my heart cannot recall
So much, a single letter; a word, a universe. The sentence incomplete, a task
Beyond the discipline of syntax. Yes. I dwell upon a mountain peak,
The other side of fascination, in and of myself a centre, a light so blinding
That the senses, gifts within me must collapse in time, the binding
Never seen by others and not at all so broad enough. Containers leach,
Constructions of the minute hand do not survive through time’s invasion,
Tears and laughter wanting waste the night. My flight outlasts
The length and breadth of all I see and nothing in me speaks
To this as I must leave it where I first beheld it, glory
So intense that who it is who saw it first no longer reads the story.
Yes! And, whether in the present or in latter worlds
Hereafter, we’ll own nothing of what it is we think we missed, and there
Will be no separate peace, no cause at all to stand and stare in disbelief:
I’ve simply always been and ever am while all else is calamity. The turn
Of seasons, monoliths of months in stacks, my Book of Hours glows
Though presence at the banquet here is moot.The call
Toward the Centre as with all most sacred rites makes little sense at all.
Delight, then, in the invitations only. Journeys through all roles
And stations in their increments and increased patience
from perfection to perfection puts all yesterdays as tomorrow’s dread–
The subjugation of the will to its appointment. Still, what is read
In casual events will quicken life with blessings for the living dead,
And raise both death and dying to a point of pure liquidity. We are led,
We do not lead. Wait, my friend, we do inform ourselves, the eye
And heart assume new forms and places that no soul may easily deny.
“Where the Sun Has Risen”
Where the sun has risen marks the edge
Of all that’s been but, offering no offense
To what is evident in the primal disk, an evidence
Of what has been and not what is, a hedge
Against rebellion in the ranks; a wedge
Deliberate, a proof, divine, that in the imminence
Of being and in having been, an eminence,
Is occluded like the stars at noon, replacing every absolute with the pledge
Of probabilities within a sacred zone of time. Masked against the periphery,
The matter, more the consequence of having largely come
From nothing and ascended to even less, dissent expressed in helplessness
Addresses issues of existence as if they were a wilderness
Of weeds for the sake of worlds below and well beyond all mystery
Of galaxies, a Lilliputian sovereignty beyond the banality of the sun.