“The Streets of Montréal”
The streets of Montréal are empty now.
The neighbouring labouring winter lingers as the bus stops sigh.
Procrastination signs in odd displays of petulance at what must come south
From colder, darker Hudson nights as ice rusts earlier every year in forests; as if reminding us of reasons for early thaw. North from sales
In Southern giveaways the multi-fronts wave greetings from so many hills away;
Flight lanes set by geese suggest a conscious prodigeous delay
As newscasts and conspiracy reports have some little to say of chemtrails
As heckling sunspots’ hour to hour display for weather wearied eyes
Not at all concerned with what’s for dinner but everything to gain as teams
Of salvage crews prey along New England’s ocean shores. Reams
Of information on the cable news hours’ finely honed cyclones surface lies
And cries of what’s in Gaia’s oven and what on earth is all that’s going down
As BP Oil’s politicians in shameless self-promotion make their
usual strident claims that bolster bookies and talk show hosts placing bets
on just exactly when, not if the Mississippi rises next
and what, not whom coastline levies drown.
Posted in Futures, Hubris, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Market, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Ecology, Economics, Economy, End Times, Illusion, Lyric Poetry, Nature, News Media, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Strife
“There’s Nothing in Neruda”
There’s nothing in Neruda* that’s not been said,
No subtle hint, no helpful word, no turn
Of phrase, no bold assertion that to earn
A place beneath the skin one must be bled,
Detained, flattered in the stacks of libraries, betrayed,
A Caulfield** in search of what Bukowski***never found
in hopes of finding hidden pearls among
Unnatural grains of sand before the oyster’s song was ever sung,
And all before his cock crew thrice—You know he never paid
Beyond the going price. Are we not forgetting something here?
The witnesses? Another round of hemlock, please! and as the academics cheer
the proceeds of yet another idle idyll, a second glass of wine, perhaps a clear
And unequivocable glance at the mirror sitting there to interpolate
the riddle loaves and fishes of enigma or the positive benefits of fear.
Ah, yes! Neruda may have told the tale, but who was he to give us hope,
And from what box he now quotes himself and never
gives a river’s damn about what it was he wrote?
Of course, I can’t be sure of it, but from here it looks
For all the world that in truth I am you
And you are me and there’s the misery, the mystery, the view
That’s missing in the metaphors and similes, the clue refined from brooks
And seas, the bakers’ scales and finely tuned anomalies,
the national sport of news and fresh cacophanies, hooks
By which we are urgently define and hone the truth askew
From certitude, and based in faith that separates all from each, proved
Or unapproved in swarms of groups and nations, the accidental nooks
And crannies of every greatness, every generation, seminar, religion,
Clan and sanctified plan proposed, to accent ancient schools and families.
All experience expresses the inverse from Hammurabi to our beloved Ramses,
Seen as freaks and distant relatives and relegated to exceptions
With a shot of charisma or some other social clot, profusion
In the masses of exclusion throughout of all the spies of life that seek.
So much to say with so little time to speak,
Whether for the self or for the same in orderly confusion.
Still larger loans from banks of life’re sired from brothers,
Even greater obligations and demands from mountain peaks,
And beyond the heights, the snowy summons of the higher roads and streets.
The recreating lights that cut the edge of fear of sacrifice in grieving mothers
Leads the restive albatross to discover, possibly to smother
In the blasphemy of his own need and greener pastures elsewhere―
a weak and weaker Icarus―in search of tests that cannot keep
His lightnings’ glories save in darker South Georgian seas, blunders
To suspect within his breast and nothing when at last he sleeps:
He discovers little more than what the drop within the puddle seeks.
*Chilean poet and diplomat, Pablo Naruda [12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973]
**Character from the novel The Catcher in the Rye, a 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger
***German born American poet Charles Bukovski [August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994]
…Art at the top of this post, Liu Bolin 刘勃麟 – Photography of China
Posted in a 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger, Age, Aging, Albatross, Charisma, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Material connection, Oneness of mankind, Pablo Naruda [12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973], Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spiritual connection
Tagged 1920 – March 9, 1994], Age, Aging, Charles Bukovski [August 16, Delusion, Double Sonnet, Existence, Illusion, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pablo Naruda [12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973], Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
President Herbert Hoover [1874-1964]
Reticent; yes, with you still gone and fading posters piled,
I snag a moment’s thread while you tire of lightning rods—
What? Gentle greens, you say? Acidic teardrops cool your face, pods
Of bloated croaking frogs still lowing legless in their noxious streams on miles
Of floating bleachers scrutinise Inaugural prizes
sought by cheerless choral crows
Who flirt with impunity together; tireless efforts, distractions from
All pious convocation, their shamans–mystic petrels–entertain the sum
Of ancient lines of seers, their nests left unprotected still and breathing shallow
There against the charcoal sky in absolute denial of the obscene call
To let the bulls stand tall–who remembers who we were before descent?
And you wonder why I ask, “Who pays the rent?”
You see nothing between, you and me and Humpty Dumpty on the wall.
“Life is life and Obama smiles,”you say, and nothing in between refines
The thin red line behind that smile and Hoover’s curse in 1929.
President Barack Hussein Obama II [1961 - ]
Posted in Economics, Herbert Hoover, Herbert Hoover [1874-1964], Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Obama, Poem, Poetry, Reality, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Barack Hussein Obama II [1961 - ], Economics, End Times, Herbert Hoover [1874-1964], Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Obama, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
Simple intelligence of the thing, a certain gait
Of common sense and goodwill, hearts
And minds that hold not solely to the arts
And sciences nor to the overweening good, the late
Great planetary frieze born of shibboleths allied.
The vicinity of daily sanity claims a corner
On anonymity, perhaps a former
Aphorism outspoken often but never really tried.
“Come, stay awhile!” they say, fingers on the trigger
Offering nothing less than what is guessed
About the world and, yes! seen only at its best
Because it’s nothing less than what looks bigger
To anyone who’s never been there and owns history.
To the wise, simplicity; to the foolish, one more mystery.
“A Moment To Reflect”
A moment to reflect, these several when
The job is done, and there’s no real choice
But rest and celebration; tasks, the last of many, voiced
Throughout the years of work will one day send
A massive missive of relief, and thanks
With weighty sentiments and fond farewells; cheer,
And weathered tusks to see me on beyond, and further than fear
To take a few steps–arrogantly, yes, perhaps–down paths that rank
Above all present trumps and peculiars of this earth:
I have the fewer moments through to the end, I know,
And will it so or else the hours, the weekly flow
Of days and nights, prove life’s lavas might well have spent their worth.
And what of miseries in days beyond this present strife,
Born within the present, laced with beauty
in the shadows of the latter life?
Posted in Age, Aging, Certitude, Detachment, Emotion, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Patience, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Reality, Samsara, Sonnet, Strife
Tagged Age, Aging, Death, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Nature, Patience, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Strife
“The Weathered Branch”
The weathered branch in winter’s weariness
Knows whereof it yearns, and just so its certitude and hope;
The blossom finds no time to contemplate, its cope
And mitre, all its careless beauty reigns in azure consciousness
That time and the occasion are not long
Its beginning nor end. All its cries are ice
And burdens in the grip of midnight’s once and only vice
And heard no more. What requiem in its song
While strength in twigs and heavy motherlode
Abides in faith despite its wretched state,
A one in many who live when storms abate
Producing yet a greater majesty despite the deadly cold.
Which melody is heard, outrageous anthem moot
Within hours or living centuries made manifest in the root?
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Wisdom
“Amazing Grace and Little Wonder”
Amazing grace and little wonder who
It is that for a bowl of soup will squander future space and sovereignty
For a moment’s roaring respite; whose the chilling ring of casuistry
Devours precious primetime dinner hours on fecund ferial days. Few
If any fruits are plucked as potpourri for monumental business gambles
Gaining mastery of the blinding present, yes! perhaps, but whose the futures,
Fortunes and logistics strewn throughout the Milky Way with vouchers
On the run defined by wine and fine cuisine served with soundbite scrambles
In code for ever-mystic fiduciary streams, desiccating brooks
At source that damn the costs and swelling columns in the ledger?
Preferences, then, will legislate toward the whim; they pleasure
In the hidden barb, the ensemble, the purple caveat; the subtle lethal hook,
The crocheted will and hubris that, matched with folly,
supports acquired taste in all-consuming pain;
One need not wonder when and where the markets’
blisters will amaze, but if the boils’ll ever drain.
Posted in Ephemeral pursuits, Federal Reserve, Fiscal cliff, Imagism, Law's delay, Licentiousness, Lyric Poetry, Mammon's glory, Market quotations, Markets, Materialism, Pedantry, Peter Principle, Philistines, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Illusion, Lyric Poetry, News Media, Sonnet
…back again by popular demand…
“She Asked Me How I Knew”
She asked me how I knew, and all I knew,
And all of this in less than what it took
To give a sign, and say, “What floor?” It shook
Me up a bit, to tell the truth, but then I view
These close encounters in the light of years
These days, and find that nothing sways me so far off the path
That I’ve lost sight of who I am, and how to laugh.
And so I answered her, I did that thing. And then the tears.
The double-arched eyebrows, the look of terror in her eyes when I
Suggested that between our floors the elevator flies
Too quickly for a studied answer, but not to worry, I’d
Be willing, yes, perhaps, someday on some long train to try. .. .
She took a rain check, though, and said she had to go;
And, when she asked my name, I knew she really didn’t want to know.
Posted in Emotion, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Love, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet
Compassion lingers late at night when I contemplate
The end of me, the beginning of you, and intimacies
Of both our houses—the camera and the lens—exigencies
To indicate the early possibilities of late
Arrivals and even later beginnings. I cannot hesitate,
Nor, it seems, can you, but as it is what it is, prolixity’s
The trump, the tricks in favour of the heart’s identities
And a pox on all four Suits with Hearts the edge to moderate
What Diamonds cannot hope to do without their Clubs and Spades.
Such auspicious Houses lay the cornerstone of temples
Raised to commemorate all Muses, Fates and Destinies,
Specters of personas, as well, no lovers of souls. Infinities,
My friend, come in time but more often much too late to spare
The aging; abiding, priming, smothering youth in praise and Medicare.
…card design by Undersea-sparrow…
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Medicare, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, Detachment, End Times, Imagery, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Medicare, Mortality, poetry, Relationships, Sonnets, Strife, Tragic Flaw
Three seconds to midnight and some decision
Rests on where the sun lies.
Someone there beyond irrational skies
Says it’s time to rethink revisions
In the rhythm, a shift in keys, camouflaged divisions
In the lighthouse. Seductions blind the eyes
To icebergs in retreat as volcanic sulphurs advertise
The truth and souls prepare for sanctity and circumcision.
Two seconds and again the Star will make His move,
The Prodigal. His flock devoured, He concludes His fast
To claim His bride while tyrants cry, “I cannot breed!”
In one last united choking, all souls that bleed
For freedom like eagles in the heights above prove
The strength of dawn at first and all humanity at last.
Posted in Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnets
Tagged Ecology, Imagery, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, Poem, poetry, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw