Tag Archives: Mortality

“I Don’t Know What I’ve Got”

steppingstones

“I Don’t Know What I’ve Got”

I don’t know what I’ve got just now, but I
Can fall behind that step beyond
The first; the second stone—ponds
And streams are pocked with them—exceeds the first, and lies
Wide of studied strides beyond the third, and nothing guides
My heart to conquer short of pride. Inertia extols
Effort but left untried, the will atrophies while it scolds
inaction albeit guaranteeing the right to fly.
This much is true (or so it seems) monoliths contemplate
Delusions’ stones surmounting streams of mocking, croaking insecurities.
Suffocating fog burns the heart then disappears. Its energies
Released, confidence’s set ablaze at sun’s full rising all too often all too late.
In short, I stand alone at times, all movement trumped
By midnight’s clouds and like the elephant am disinclined to jump.

“But I Have Heard”

fallacies

“But I Have Heard”

But I have heard the most disturbing news that’s troubles
Waters in pools of endless strife and Bethesda’s all too chronic pains.
These! malignant vines, stinging Stygian lines injected through the veins
And made to order on the thought of natural patterns formed of stubble,
Kneaded, twice redoubled, swaths of circles in the crops, alien to all I know
And only hinted at in mild sporadic phatic comic conversations
Minted in the teacups of late night radio listeners, ejaculations
From the ever-ready savants hoarding hours in the climax and the show,
Recurring flotsam leaving baffled masses in the night. On review,
There comes a newer, fresher definition, the specious form and image
Of the natural spectre of the fiend that pays no homage
To the needs of Êblis, Cain, or any of his crew, but centers in the purview
That displaces all philosophy among the latter Philistines while Abel’s told
Rapacious angels suck the spirit nigh to death of any living soul.

“Suppose Evolution”

cain1

“Suppose Evolution”

Suppose evolution the ablution of time as revelation, but gather why
We migrate. All know, of course, or should, what land
We live in, what the borders to the dream, the strand,
The stream of all acts, axioms, atolls of sanity sealed in wax. Try
Reason cupped in raw emotion in the Courts of History, ours
To bend and cherish in or out of season in the time
It takes to be or not to be the first and possibly the line
Drawn in haste in quicksand in the briefest span in feeble hours
Of loss and victory. L’Chaim! A toast to fine
Distnctions drawn between the posse and the Law!
Repeat the gaze, Govinda, and if you see the flaw
In personal salvation, seek penetration through strength of heart and mind,
Hubris in negation and his sibling’s futile crops–annihilation in rage and greed―
While Abel lies silent in the eye of Cain’s infernal whining in the weeds.

“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.

“So Tired Tonight”

“So Tired Tonight”

So tired tonight; the late nights rarely float;
I am here as much as there and wondering in myself when
If ever I will see the stars as well I once knew them. Then again,
The myriad monumentals, the smokey smell of creosote
From aging wharfs, the former headiness of worry,
The urgencies of thoughtlessness and giddy
Private joys of knowing no one knows the silly
Things I want to do. Night birds and a flurry
Of noted messages here, and over there, again the sun
That must soon rise high I see with it all
The weight of clear desire to rearrange what’s left of my small
World; and as for that lost ambitious excited little crab who cannot run
But sideways in what he takes as his private room, he’ll never make it back,
You know, to where he started as so easily the tides will smother both our tracks.

“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.”

“Oh, I know”

“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.

“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

“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.