“Now Mark the Man’s Credentials”
Now mark the man’s credentials as he speaks
To pacify the greater numbers in the act
Within the sport of words, his only ammunition, the facts
Of light within his arbitrary audience. In this he cheats
Himself and all that is of simplicity, the one
And indivisible beyond the Sadrat’ul-Muntahá, the point
By Whom the conscious constant cursive case of time appoints
Both upper and lower worlds and effortlessly runs
Within Itself this generations’s needs
Deposited, seeds of what will be in fields, in mountains locked,
And from which, freely, fire and ice withdraws their stocks.
Creation surely finds the end in deeds.
If in the breath there is not proof enough
To others witnessed, what is it to be
Amongst us all beyond mere mortal toil or immortal fee
And foils alike, these gems are simple stones.
And it is true that all have rights to speak?
If life is worth beholding to a saint,
Thus then reckon life worth living with no complaint,
A longer extended cut along the grain
For some; a sculpted verse, splinters carved, a life
In words of fine complexion for others while the knife
And chisel complete their commission in omission, again
In elimination to capture something safe,astounds,
Contraband of observation and objects more or less
For all the world in waiting; certitude’s with us,
My friend, in likelihood a likeness have they have found
A last and least messiah blindly plucked, jury duty in the crowd.
They must, if blind duty binds, expose the cloud
Above the clods whereon he sits uncrowned
By all but his delusion, angels’ muted corkscrews and horns
Release the cork of new and untried bottles for every eye and ear to see
And hear upon the virgin bow of a ship which no one will believe
Is reason enough for this and one fine statue placed.
Gifted verses do not make the tale.
Ananias, lo! to you I speak in verse
To forsake this prophesy live or even worse.
The only way to deal with an unfair world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. –Albert Camus
Sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.
Posted in Credentials, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sadrat’ul-Muntahá, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Delusion, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Sadrat'ul-Muntahá, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
“If Wroth Breathing”
If wroth breathing, there is a need;
If need, then comes the question never spoke
By either brother, a primal continental rift that broke,
A rupture when in that moment, Adam’s seed
Made more than one, difference cedes
A natural shift from peace to war; the smoke
Alone had been enough, but weighted, a stroke.
And from the rapture’s might no longer leads
The sign of truth. “Ask what may be done,” is Abel’s
Cry; “What may not be undone nor forever won,” from God’s domain
Replies, and neither will survive that summer’s day
Within the Garden where truth no longer reigns and envy blocks the rays
Of sun and moon and stars where once their steeds were stabled—
And what may not be undone in angers deep within the heart of Cain?
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Relationships, Strife, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
“The Greatest Sanctuary”
The greatest sanctuary saves, preserves, and seals
The last and latest treasure; final fears are entertained
And in the end repeat themselves penultimate in any age
That’s spent with nothing left to say. The morass of months reveal
Themselves as names, the briefer moments cast in isinglass,
And hung above the door as witness to emotions borrowed to defend
The journey of both giver and what it is that’s given–split ends
That pass at times for purity of desire. Consternation, then, at last
Effaced, those few peas remaining within the pod will spend
Themselves while outward bound to what is after all a dream
Or merely someone’s lunch. They groom together–the sheen
Is frayed–delay is shame when every effort to confirm or to renew offends.
Reconnoitred, what were formerly evergreens
disclose themselves as deciduous devotions
That decry their former riverbeds as puddles, watersheds of desiccated oceans
And long dead seas. .
Posted in Age, Aging, Death, Denial, Desire, Double Sonnet, Dreams, Ends, Estrangement, Illusion, Imagery, Lust, Lyric Poetry, Marriage and Divorce, Negation, Ocean, Pain, Passion, Poetry, Samsara, Silk, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
“Just What You Meant”
Just what you meant is not too clear today
While all the world feels indisposed but then, aside
From that, it seems the effort to decide
To see must equal if not dwarf the weight
Of longing to be done with this and out
The door and down the street, and gone.
You might well ask what siren draws me out along
A path to worlds away from you, when the route,
The melody we felt, inevitable as the juggernaut of dawn
And all we pledged through pale eternities in this
Fresh day still shone. Together, a certainty that ruled those early mists
Throughout the early morning’s night, what had drawn
Us so close with lightning’s grease to both our spirits’ light?
Instincts lost left walls of thought, but in the end,
all actions dulled as the sun rose and both of us took flight.
Posted in Love, Lust, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Selflessness, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Emotion, Imagery, Imagism, Love, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Selflessness, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
“You Own the Year”
You own the year and years before you
As I the year and all that’s passed;
Your signs are rising, eternity is steadfast.
Quo vadis, then? I who serve eternities am overruled
By sheer numbers, countless previous dispensations viewed
In retrospect and circumspect in vast
And spacious notions of impermanence and impasse.
I see before the fact in part, imperfectly at present, pursued
By spoils of the war and coupled with a dubious acquired taste
For bitters, an acerbic memory gained close at hand or lost at sea.
Nothing in this world is or is so stable
That it is not utterly dependent, created, removed and recreated on the table
Of bounties throughout creation; what God has willed to use or waste
Shall be not be more or less than what it is and what is not shall never be.*
* “Protect me, O my Lord, from every evil that Thine omniscience perceiveth, inasmuch as there is no power nor strength but in Thee, no triumph is forthcoming save from Thy presence, and it is Thine alone to command. Whatever God hath willed hath been, and that which He hath not willed shall not be.
There is no power nor strength except in God, the Most Exalted, the Most Mighty.”
–His HolinessThe Báb, Selections from the Writings of the Báb, pp. 190-191
Posted in Age, Aging, Certitude, Change, Civilisation, Covenant, Destiny, Detachment, Duplicity, End Times, Existence, Experience, Fate, God, Hegira, Hope, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mankind, Mortality, New Year, Poem, Poetry, Providence, Pyrrhic Victory, Reality, Samsara, Sea, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spirituality
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Eternity, Existence, God, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Did Ever Peace in Motion Come”
Did ever peace in motion come to mind while living still,
Or what’s an ego for? We do not cease; we know we die
But, what hopes are hung there in the clocks, the early cries
Of “Quickly!”or “Grant me time that I may kill,”
And whether there is joy in sunrise there beyond that hill
Or here behind this present place within the wall we occupy.
The only guarantee we have testifies
To purpose, patience that we have lived to see what fulfils
A destiny, no mere approbation, positive as this may be,
But willing prophesy and added acquiescence to the turning
Of the page, the further reading, the greater goal
To ascertain than to achieve. Then on beyond the poles
Whither to the north or south, to encompass greater than the seas,
Further than consumption; such limitless forests as are beyond all learning.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Detachment, Emotion, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, peace, Relationships, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
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. Sooner or later we’ll get the point.
Knives and forks and spoons are placed precisely 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, aliens crawl
Through pipelines, conduits, and everything in the air ducts maul
The lungs since the filter’s often worse than what’s in the air.
Yes, well, someone’s never mentioned in this nor cared
Enough to remove the label when they had the chance
While 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, noteworthy of report
Amongst the never-you-mind might-have-been’s.
Back then to 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, damn! solid gold.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Emotion, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Strife
“I Could Have Called”
I could have called last night, you
Know; you’d have answered, of course, and we,
Removed, should conquer these deserted walls; the you and me
Expressing wonder and ecstasy de facto that two
Fine tunes in a single space find nothing in our words;
No lyrics, no grandiloquent prophesies, no binding ties,
No coy deception, fitting deposition, or bold-faced lies
To truss up seams, loose and dwindling ends; just birds
Of prey whose festive table breeds in fables, birdseed, curds
In whey–nothing offered, nothing taken–
Gilded fare in a God-forsaken
Intercourse that breathes perhaps in syllables, but nowhere near a word,
Stentorian sensations that somehow subdue a nightly desperation,
Declarations masked in stilted mantras ripe with endless repetition.
Posted in Aging, Appearances, Departures, Divorce, Ends, Estrangement, Fables, Hypocrisy, Negation, Poetry, Relationships, Separation, Walls
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
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.
Posted in Age, Aging, Chaos, Coffee and toast, Imagery, Imagism, Kettle, Lyric Poetry, Nostalgia, Poem, Poetry, Rose, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Autumn, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
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.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Emotion, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw