“Sans Settling of the Sum”
Sans settling of the sum, no silent night;
The cold and darkest midnight, no brightest sun
Regained upon the freshness of a morning run
From first awakenings to the duties of the light.
Sans route and paths to shorelines, fishermen
Cast no net nor fruit upon the table there
Beneath the candle and the moonbeam; no joyful stares
Of wide-eyed eager mouths to take the bread, no beds
For doting families there to cradle and caress the children;
No willing intimacy in loving parents, no hopeful news.
And yet, of course, comes danger from the sea,
The stormy petrol cries in certain seasons that must be
Harbingers of hurricane and trial, what we choose
To call the birth pains in a loving mother: nature in herself brings waste.
Her ends must come before beginnings, her gifts but ballast tossed in haste.
Posted in Birth, Birth pains, Danger from the sea, Hopeful news, Hurricane, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Moonbeam, Nature, Poem, Poetry, Sea, Sonnet, Sonnets, Stormy petrol, Waste
Tagged Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
No matter. What’s done’s what
It is; longevity
Leads itself to levity
And gone in less than seconds. The cut,
The rent, the fragmentation of the whole
Begins where even light will bend, and footsteps,
Shadows of what’s behind Goliath affect
Oblique distractions, revisions, histories that alter goals
Reborn and re-created by default in every jaded heart.
The slightest movement in the arc turns every head
In this terrain and judgements haunt the dead
And dying on the spot. Done! No one’s laughing as the darts
Of every man’s affliction seek the vanishing point from which he’s strayed
To face finality, the great mirror in whose image no one is betrayed.
So simple seen at dawn so long delayed, but a sliver of a moon! Brighter
Than I’ve ever seen it, veiled perhaps to purpose
through the willful blindness of my years,
What was it that I remembered to forget? Either eye—when both were clear
And unobstructed—saw visions in the nightly flight to lighter
Skies, at sunset drawn the more to intimate sensations in the rites or
Worshiping the more immediate, stated immaculately, requiring little fear,
An unobstructed view of objects seen as “closer than they appear
Within the mirror?”…or were they ever there at all? I know no delight now nor
Fascination in the company of others of the present stage―
The Illuminati of so many conversations in the next booth just the other day―
before the show and afterward, hushed and heavy harsh realities
Of lamps without their shades, a universal fade to cold formalities
Of “I don’t know, though!” or “Whatever…” from the blossoms’ buds whose age
belies so much gravitas and care.
And whose will does not beget transaction before they’re paid
and praised. Then again, does this ancient luminary care
so long as they’ve been there?
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
Abiding cycles, overriding climes in rhymes of violence and certain gain
With equal expectation of loss the dross of equal certainty in successive reigns
Of terror in the skies just beyond the puny girth of earth’s thin atmosphere;
How much it was the same when Cæsar’s designated revisions of the year
Bore both his names and title in the gilded monthly lists in vain
Presumption that the sun, itself, might be detained or entertained
When will and means conspire to light a fire in cold banality.
Idols worshipped through applause and semi-automatic Coliseum cheers;
Cause wolves to salivate in time. Reflect on just how long these weary fears
Have been the seat and capitol of colossal vain imaginings, the necromancy
Of the rich and bloated tales, tools of millennia of astrologies in the armoury.
How often have bucolic Virgils and Octavians stumbled onto history’s
Urban stage, the first to taste the fruits of history’s tired storylines, effacing
Iconoclasts by default and gluttony of hubris at last embraced
as fresh portfolios forged from fatigue and blatant moral bankruptcy?
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Octavian, poetry, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Virgil
Silversmiths retrace the fire; sweats
In rivulets down brawny arms, twin bushes
To the chin and through the valley of the pectorals; and he pushes
Gyres in the waters; determination defeats defect, fatigue, frets
Along the instrument mould the
shining of a gentle mind’s design,
Undone, the fist and fingers as hammers in the process
Till the thing that was not is and what little rest
In thought becomes the thing, itself, the line,
A cut above a cusp between inspiration
And its final destruction. Destination, oh! the beauty of the thing
Will guide his hands securely and the synthesis, the ring
Of something new or newer makes its run from mental registration
To obsession in the finishing and glories to polish a wondrous sign,
A medallion of conception, some fine image formed of inner space and time.
Posted in Conception, Cusp, Defects, Destination, Destruction, Determination, Fatigue, Fingers, Fire, Fist, Frets, Hammers, Hands, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Inner space, Inner time, Inspiration, Lyric Poetry, Medallion, Mental registration, Mind, Pectorals, Poetry, Ring, Sign, Silversmiths, Sonnet, Space, Sweat, Synthesis, Time, Waters
Tagged Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Writing poetry
Bahá’ís throughout the world gathered yesterday evening after sunset or today before sunset to celebrate the First Day of the Month of Mashíyyat [Will]
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Mashíyyat” or “Will”
We bear witness to it in the station of a still
And changeless vision, cosine as it is to truth.
Volition reigns with all, and rules
To govern its existence will
Continue till the thing no longer bears its seal,
Its sign, its talisman nor sacred stamp
Of manifest yet hidden Lamps
By Whose Light truth’s revealed or is repealed.
There is no greater will than this. We are
Witnesses, the signatories of deeds
Of lingering motives, contracts, seeds
Of instituted factors in the sole
And universal changeless Will and Goal
Whose pages neither bend nor fold.
Posted in Age, Aging, Bahá'í Feasts, Bahá'ís, Changeless vision, Contracts, Cosine, Deeds, Factors, Goal, Imagery, Lamps, Light, Lyric Poetry, Mashíyyat, Motives, Pages, Poetry, Rules, Sacred stamp, Seal, Seeds, Sign, Signatories, Sonnet, Station, Talisman, Volition, Will, Witnesses
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Within proximity of the cavern sits the hortatory proclivity of the moment,
Illusory porch mouthed in rock―remedial tomb
Of things―both here within and there without this inner, upper womb
To manifest what it is to be fashioned with the weight of sentiment,
Centre, concentric circle, ever flowing water, external wave
Of casual and monumental passion. To the outward, toiling; inward, bound
Beyond addiction and the need of source, resource, sound,
Deceiver of the whole. So, too, are we the humoured and pleased
Along the way. So it is and continues to be the breath of reckless, ceaseless ease
Within a tethered bulk, discomfort in a sometime suit, garment
Knit within itself in gravity to objects in a firmament
Of space of yesterdays skies and spaces signed today; resigned, a race
And fulcrum, grace of instinct bound within Plato’s Cave imagines virtues
lit with but a glance within the Upper Room of Christ
Provide a circumstance of perpetuity no matter what the price.
…art at top by Joshua Pieper…
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Plato's Cave, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Upper Room
“Disconnect the Vowels”
Disconnect the vowels, then. Glory in what’s left.
Within a simple strophe leave
Judgment by the door. Wear no sleeve
No packaged thing to sign a sentiment or star the shibboleth bereft
Of common sense, urgent cause
For precious ointments long ago
Nonplussed and unfit for use. Justly, as it should, in isolated slow
Progress through generations, the hoary stories’ pause
As literary cusps on scrolls between cycles’ broader strokes
To stoke what it is we think we know, or what all know as lies.
The verdicts will, of course, disguise themselves as scripture in the eyes.
And do you think so handsome gilded spokes
Of wheels as cycles’ pillars, circumferences to cover centuries of tears
So fragile that words ascribed to Lear can touch the hearts and quell all fears?
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Emotion, End Times, Existence, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
“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
“Make No Mistake”
Make no mistake, choices present
Themselves in simple lives’ pursuit of complex
Revelations to ignite a present circumstance; one reflects
On powers of the tongue, the joys of pleasant
Intercourse and periodic forays into conflict,
And again, the peace of simply being here or better, no more
Here than there and having no idea what for.
Knowing begs remission to be a common asterisk
On someone else’s ledger, or possibly a footnote
To the reason why it all came out this way.
But one decides not so very much on what
Must come to be as whether to acknowledge or withhold the vote
On what in fact is and settle on what of course exacts
A fee but is at best an accidental abstract or but a figment of a fact.