“Oh, I know”
Oh, I know it”s been said before but bears repeating:
Unless a man embrace estates, his sense
Of eternity, his gifts of endless strife and goals of regret intense
Enough to merit periodic casual to shameless open weeping
In the corridors; unless the deadly abyss of every night’s sleeping’s
Prone to breach and rupture within his dreams or by the clock;
unless ‘neath the lens,
His page is thus combustible by the light focused upon a spot,
his joy depends
On something well beyond his own heart’s contumely,
his gates–his paradise, his weeping–
Fall well beyond the storehouse of his eyes and its catalogue of fears,
His light is changed to fire in tragedy and myths of talismans that guide his way.
Again, unless all this is welcomed well before the final hour, his pride will swell,
His vanity implode, and circumstance becomes
a euphemism for all he sees as hell.
Remember please that breath and breathing signify that death is ever near
And in these final years, satisfaction’s just another word for nothing left to pay.
Posted in Age, Aging, Certitude, Death, Fear, Hope, Hubris, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Materialism, Mortality, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Pride, Pyrrhic Victory, Samsara, Sleep, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spirituality, Stations, Strife, Tragedy
Tagged Age, Death, Existence, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Pride, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Tragic Flaw
Concessions, yes; hairy clouds and rains can comfort hearts
Within the sheltered warmth
and welcome of my own bed.
I imagine angels on the pillow
where I lay my head,
And when I pray I am at Temple,
nightly sanctuary of the arts
Within my head as when I read or hear
within tales and fables
Running rampant through that vapid place
where hues and sounds abound
But are not seen or heard; choirs in the void,
not a hint of laughter round
The workman’s bench, the manicured down
of gardens or at the table.
Yes! One day’s maintains bear no obvious hint of perseverance,
No consolation for the years,
no respite from the constant consequence
Of experience in real fears. Vision simply comes to me,
Ready made. Who I am to speak?
With whom am I that am alone? I ignore
The whole vicarious mirage as I lay here but for a superficial middling time,
And here with me is what never is
and nothing more.
Posted in Antithesis, Creativity, Dreams, Experience, Hope, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Poetry, Respite, Samsara, Sleep
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnets