Lord knows a little candour here and every muscle hurts,
There, and if He’s good at it we remember that we prayed; skirt
The issue if you’ve a mind to. Sooner or later, someone gets the point
With their hundred butts in a basket and their no’s out of joint
With the times…and people; even the seasons yawn crawling
To freedom through the pipelines, conduits, and air ducts, and mauling
The lungs because process is the watchword and filters’re worse than air.
Well, someone’s construct forgot to think on this and care
Enough to clear the air and slit sufficient throats when they had the chance:
It follows: shallow breathing, simplify the vocabulary. Thus, at first glance,
Truths are obvious because at last everyone understands—nothing short
Of brilliant timing—worthy detection, to be sure, merit in report,
But then the process stalls, the casualties mount, the issues dodged.
Not even Mao lives forever: Obama lives here, you know;
even so, his house is his mirage.
Gandhi’s truths are motionless beneath an image born,
A version’s accent that only seems to change; perceptions lie.
The eyes, the ears, the touch, all senses testify
Before the centre. Memories, chattels of the intellect, are torn
Between the ëgo and its mirror. He will board that train,
And see his own distinction — one-way ticket bound
Zephyrs tell him what he only thinks he knows. Hounds
And adverbs pursue him, winds he cannot name remain
constant comments as he moves through distances
That never crossed his mind. The earth is twinned,
The gears are jammed, yet breezes, golden prayer wheels, spin.
The pinnacle not the single shot of infamy―not the sun, but suns―an incident
Within a galaxy’s corruption far beyond its crucibles, hopes and cosmic excess:
Energy and matter never tire while circumstantial certainty leads destiny to rest.
That moment, these several when
The nothing further can be done, no real choice,
No option, no rest , no celebration; tasks, the last of many—voiced,
Now silent as were the über-years of work—will one day bend
The purest light, memory’s prism’s massive missive of relief and thanks
In weighty sentiments and fondest farewells, cheer
And season’s musk to see me on beyond reticence and fear
To take some few steps–arrogantly, yes, perhaps–toward paths that rank
Above all present trumps and common peculiars of this earth:
I have the fewer moments through to the very ends of means, I know,
And will it so for these hours. The unwieldy flow
Of days are proof enough that life’s lavas might well have spent their worth
Just so. Miseries of days beyond this present brief strife,
Born within the urgencies of time, are seeds of beauty
harvests from shadows and their hints of an even better life.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged lavas, Lyric Poetry, massive missive, miseries, Mortality, Poem, poetry, reticence, Sonnet, Sonnets
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.
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“We’ve Been to the Mountain”
We’ve been to the mountain; we’ve seen the other side.
Elephants, no matter how little time apart,
Greet loudly one another, trumpeters in the lordly arts
Of proper nouns, like Persians in their Naw-Rúz pride
And passion in the ancient annual Spring-tide’s
Boasts amongst the pronouns, the years’ arrests in arrears,
With all the false and withered premises, weird
And natural bond together, yes! The ides of zodiacs abide
With such amazing grace, their verbs will override
The wholes of months that each, their seasons call
To order, seize opportunities where none exist at all.
Who is’t gazes into mirrors on these walls? “’Tis I”
Say all! Who then answers whom as they leave these rooms
And who beys at whom as they stand before their moons?
Posted in Abyss, All or nothing, Childhood, Chimæra, Circumlocution, Circuses, CNN, Consolation prize, Crito, Crucible, Denial, Denizen of Hell, Earthbound joys, Education, Election 2016, Elephants, End Times, Ephemeral pursuits, Lyric Poetry, Mammoth in the room, Maudlin sentiment, Mayhem, Negation, Poetry
Tagged Lyric Poetry
“Marvellous,” so he thinks, “just why it is
Creation’s robe’s so blood stained? Stubborn remains, they insist;
They persist, disease, and carnage, yes! Rising famine, orphans; lists
That never end, and then of course that always fatal kiss,
This blasphemy of complaint and intuition that we
May not truly live at all!” Effortlessly, nights wear on. Responding,
These and beauteous phantoms blend and in their careless logging—
Pages in this life and well into the next—we see
The Sadrat’u’l-Muntahá and merely breathe. We throw up
Our hands and beg the question although we always know
Who and what it is we seek. To ourselves and no one else flow
Freely in the Upper Room the clouds of incense for a requiem; to Him, the cup,
The cynosure placed perpetually on the table, the guests long gone,
The Holy Writ upon the wall, this tabula rasa, this once and final song.
…painting above by Evard Munch…
Leviathans suffer willingly the wastes of lessers with the spoils
Of forage in awe of their minions’ rout. Leavings
Of forests—minutia in the seas—objects in multitudes of breeding
In billions lay as quarry; breathing only halts the intake, precious oils
And storage founts in awful majesties as but bubbles will numb the foils
Of the deep with little thought of being prey; no other path is possible as to seek
Escape evaporates in the stupor of the stampede and mindless feed,
Ephemeral images of affrighted numbers and omnipresence. The serpent coils,
As consternation’s measured to the length of ineffectual peers
And in the chaos and confusion, venom—the elixir of a momentary sun—
And mere instinct lights the way for both hunter and hunted, in tandem
For the hunted, “In sæcula sæculorum,” say the hunters
In deft detection; great ones of the kelp and boiling seas remain true,
The enemy of few, so much the reward, relentless, so limitless the purview.
Another page, another mother’s light
Turned away; turn again, then, see! A win, another loss
To justify another’s blinding of the night’s costs;
The morning’s do’s, —the evening’s don’ts made right
When viewed upon a back-lit screen—might
Within a child’s eye, be plucked, tossed
From purgatories to the heavens, back, and lost
Again then plunged, expunged from memory, tight
Below the bow and just beneath the river’s wave, bright.
She’ll deny all accusations; he’ll deny her nothing’s crossed
Like fingers hid behind his back to wound the world, the floss
Of millions, possible glories in billions to the wizened rite
We’ll not toast the host of this tabernacle,
The last at the national altar to democracy’s debacle.
Transitions, troughs and floodgates
Swell before the crops are in;
Appointments rough-hewn begin
From centuries’ wealth in soils. He hesitates.
Lamentations of the classic farmer’s touch
Bestowed on something that was expected
Neither to outlast the seed nor tip the balance but once elected
Audit landscapes from the past and serve the sudden rush as much
As circumstance permits a well to gush and choose another path.
He was a teacher; was, and no doubt
Will continue to apply the torch to oils of souls
Whose mission is to lance the boils of youthful wrath
And freely prime the wells of mass miscalculation of the myths,
The babbling and cursive powers of hubris and its shibboleths.
Posted in Age, Aging, Centuries, Crops, Farmer's touch, Floodgates, Hubris, Imagery, Lamentations, landscapes, Lyric Poetry, Miscalculation, Myth, Oils, Past, Poetry, Samsara, Seed, Shibboleths, Soils, Sonnet, Teacher, Terrorism, Transitions, Troughs, Wealth, Well, Wrath
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Youthful wrath