Tag Archives: Aging

“Order Comes”

“Order Comes”


Order comes to counter what’s been settled

In the extra room. Chaos speaks: eyes today
Stray south to storms in brew, but thoughts at play
Are not contiguous. Reminder! kettle’s
On, and minutes from the inspiration,
Coffee, and that special toast
I’d meant to have with friends.
No, there’ll be no invitations sent
Today, but in these simple transportations
Warm reminders to the nose.
Seize the season, sit back, smile, and savour
Silence in the afternoon and windblown flavours
Wafting in like ghosts of days long petrified—the rose,
For instance, the night I found that message taped to my front door.
I tossed the flower on the table and read the note right there on the floor.

“A Single Digit’s Secret”

Energy

“A Single Digit’s Secret”

A single digit’s secret is the outward sign, then two; begin again
And all becomes nothing. Friction is the willing conversation of the elements,
Induction, intertwined interpolations; equity, evidence
Of heat expressed in growth and progress, in the main
A corner filigrée cut of crude credulity. Intelligence,
The Sculptor; magnificence, the Marble; both unknown
And evanescent. Potentials―crops and fruits―are honed
From ancient scans in sands and recipes, and what is sent
To press or put to bed eludes both novelty and ingenuity.
The poet knows what cycles reconnoitre in redux and La Ronde.
What will be has always been while what is seen
Is simple resurrection but with a difference, credulity
In the repeat, as when immortal rumours couched in histories set
Themselves as precedents while external forces hedge their bets.

“I Suppose I’m Moved”

Painting by Jim Daly

“I Suppose I’m Moved”

I suppose I’m moved, and while we’re on the subject
I’ve thought about what you said the other night
About the greater scheme of things, the flight
From genes to the collective, the singular, the object
Without form or substance—and guests. The two united for the trip
Till death, it seems, ignite some familiar spark and they must part. It’s true,
The children see nothing much, no objective clue,
No lighthouse to indicate where they’re going as they slip
From one rude awakening to another; the challenge
Of success or failure, nagging hunger or sudden release
Within the same recurring toss. We then sleep, the keys
To what comes next appear as just another darkest accident in a collage
Awash, so loosely thrown together that the world would probably call it art.
Still, we never cease to seek our truths, our lights, our candles in the dark.

“I Found Someone”

headache-quinn.anya_

“I Found Someone”

I found someone breathing as if to pray.
No prayer, of course, no sign, no moon, no stars, but silence—
Calm to souls and solace in crisis
Of questions—so many hopes absurd and loosely bound.  What’s payed they say
Gives animas to eternity. shielding simple fear from terror’s
Bid to amaze. I would not ask outright, I had no right, then,
I take flight, taut in twilight when
From weedy wordless cancers’ branches—errors,
Really, to the whole–to innocence conjures lasting alibis,
Superfluous sentinels ever come to rest, fruits of thought-oppressed
Violence. enough that vine and wine is produced—inebriation of more from less,
A wrath, the test of what some old man surely spoke. Patient bluest sighs
Among sparrows egg him on while sitting on a porch swing, wisdoms all at once:
“Make peace with the Fathers,” says he, “prepare to flee the Sons.”

“Two of Them”

“Two of Them”

Two of them apprised will rise while only one survives;
The first, a germ like any other, in the second,
Excellence as loving makes it so. She reckons
Life in paragraphs and chapters, derives
Pleasure in the phrase, itself–in leisure lies
The notion of posterity, the fecund
Last and lonely station of a book—the legend
More important than the fact, the spies
Than what is spied upon. Where there are three
The Chinese say, some one of them must be a teacher.
Let both in compromise find refuge in the third
That one may truly love, the other form the words
Recording signs and sighs of mystery
And ritual and yet another sermon for the preacher.

—Once

 

“He allowed himself to be swayed by his conviction that human beings are not born once and for all on the day their mothers give birth to them, but that life obliges them over and over again to give birth to themselves.”

Gabriel José de la Concordia Garcia Márquez [1927 -- 2014 ]
Love in the Time of Cholera

“I Am”

“I Am”

I am my feet, or my history tells me so;
My shins; dexterity amid the rocks reveal it may be true;
My thighs; their balance in distraction sees me through
Illusions at the level of the  groin’s most pernicious foes,
Receptacles as voids in need of better news; and though
I am my mother’s navel, my father’s love left so many similar clues—
The evangel to what was otherwise ignored—that the view
In any given moment’s blocked.  Here, then, my heart maintains its flow
In reasonable annuity, and I’ll be damned if I am weak,
But if you ask my legs, you’ll find a sometime potent posse,
Nothing else. My once proud pectorals could
Never act alone―as if they thought they should―
But laboured twice the time for heartfelt evidence
That given time I would succeed―
And so I have as I can plainly see.
I am my eyes whose rivals in the ears
At times have overcome the world and all its fears,
But though twice born view both here and our eternity
I see but vanity served that while I eat, I hesitate and feed
On noise and what is after all experience in arrears.
I am my mind; “Cogito!”— the mantra’s cadence shows as through the years
I’ve dined on fine receipts and tallies that what I meant most certainly should be
The outcome of all my powers to deduce a spark from what I’ve seen,
A truth in what I’ve done and glean from what I’m told I’ve been
  This, despite  what I know I am,…but let that pass. I am
In fact conceit, itself, and in its place I stand
And where I sit and both but simple remedies to all I’ve gleaned:
“I am,” the Ancient Sage made replied, and “that I am,” shall be
a fleeting moment’s apostrophe to truth and not at all what I believe.

*********

3:14 And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and He said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you.
Exodus

“Patterns”

Patterns(10)

“Patterns”

Patterns, tedious to the casual connoisseur in callow love of circuses,
Whose aunts and uncles–convalescent cynosures–apply the ligatures
That best the daily bread but adds nothing to the liquor but signatures
The appliqué, the seams and borders of mere circumstance,
And pomp of simple disingenuous serendipity; floral blooms of in between,
And on the other side; propinquities of wider yielding needs
In creeping things, rewards of sweat well past the age of puberty. Hollow reeds
Of adolescence are careless where they land ever corresponding with obscene
Displays of natural righteous rage to opportunities of eternity and propagation.
It is just so with common events as well those in military congregation:
Universal laws claim exclusive rights to the infinitive in  any conjugation
Of principles set down by God knows what subjunctive subjugation.
Witness, then, in every accident the circumlocution of the spheres
With what flowers, tadpoles, insects, and homilies revere.

“Lest We Despair”

midnight1

“Lest We Despair”

Lest we despair, there are always wondrous souls
Who do not merely feed the ether, drain abundance,
Neuter actions, waste the oneness,
The common bounty with dalliance in quotidian goals.
So where lies the dignity of thin air, the drift, the all,
The strength, the constancy, the very point
Of light save in special souls adroit
In what it takes to make the least at nightfall?
Benchmarks will mark a life of thought and inspiration.
Luminaries allowing shelter in shades of night are not at all
Deterred or long delayed by the earth’s rotation nor do they stall
As prey to some glorious thrall but follow through to consummation.
The globe abounds in cycles, seasons and the daylight vulgar hours,
Kenotic moons to drown the noise of madness as the midnight flowers.

“That Yearning’s Passed”

Yearning

“That Yearning’s Passed”

That yearning’s passed, I know
A peace of simplicity, relief;
A promise fulfilled, the passing of grief;
An outrageous gift of understanding’s flow
From grace to bounty; platitudes, slow
To middling in mine own eyes but quickened as when the wreath
Of outward stars surmounts the inward scars, the chief
Priests’ glower glowing darkly through an ancient glass. In escrow,
Then, to points of no demand and nothing left to chance.
Remember!! greatest secrets born within are less than burdens
In the light and more than shelter can bestow;
Turn the blindest eye to life’s sweet afterglow
And take another look.  Let the foot another step and advance
Beyond the point of scripts for life’s inevitable diminishing returns.

 

“The Cello Hours”

“The Cello Hours”

The cello hours born in satisfaction’s flowering
Struggle for the taste of sunlight’s ambered
Quotidian pause between yellowed evening song in embers
Of any passion’s flames, the body’s needs, so immediate, so towering
In the vertical for lack of space to run;
Steeper slopes too raked; some desperation’s blotting out
What memory’s suns’ refuse to yield–the stout
Resolve, the countenance of all volition’s fruits undone
By now and all but totally forgotten in the dying folds of coals.
We rush from one safe haven to another.
Absurd, but on this earth tectonic shifts that smother
Linger in the soul and while all the world’s aglow, the body sees but single goals
In search of yearning for the satisfied in every earthbound swarm:
“Touched or touching, now I tell you friend, I must be warm!”