Monthly Archives: December 2010

“Bethlehem’s Hours’ Mourn”

“Bethlehem’s Hours’ Mourn”

Bethlehem’s hour’s mourned, furtive glances northward toward Nazareth;
Veiled her expectations as soon enough her promised Son survives.
She knows that somewhere in between this king contrives
Within himself to build a wall. He practices precision; he does not guess.
He knows exactly what he wants, and from the East come
Three who only recently made queries round the campfires
‘Neath the skies beyond the Jordan. Casually they’ve inquired,
“What are these walls, and what the genesis of guns
And orchards plaited all along the shepherds’ run? Whose images are these,
And what is it they disguise, the vulgate for the people?”
Yes, they come, these three, adrift once again stalled between the steeples,
Barred, forbidden. Then again, their passage isn’t what it used to be.
They ask in vain and find the answers come as no surprise.
The king’s awake tonight; he’ll not fool the wise this time.

“The Moon Last Night”

“The Moon Last Night”

The moon last night was less
A pence and winter’s rare
But definite solstice
Fixed but twice, the era
Common to the matrix
Since the Christ’s eclipse
Began in blood-red darkness fixed
With vinegar to those parched lips
And rent the Temple’s veil
From top to bottom, shifts
Three hundred years to no avail
Until both church and state
Were were made to celebrate;
Twice, then, since Christ, the last in 1638.

“It Won’t Take Long”

“It Won’t Take Long”

It won’t take long,
But even so
Don’t rush me.
I do not know
What you won’t see
Nor do you care
Where I will be;
What step, what stair-
Case up or down,
What burden’s there
What sight, what sound,
What hour brings
The tedious first to tenuous last,
Closure to the present, ransom for the past.

“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.

“Did Ever Peace in Motion”

“Did Ever Peace in Motion”

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 just beyond that hill
Or just beyond the present place within the wall we occupy,
The only guarantee we have that testifies
To purpose is that we have lived to see that what fulfils
A destiny is not 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.

“I Dont Know What I’ve Got”

“I Dont Know What I’ve Got”

I don’t know what I’ve got just now,

but I
Can never fall behind that step beyond
The first; the second stone–ponds
And streams are pocked with them–exceeds the first, and lies
Wide of steadied strides beyond the third, and nothing guides
The heart to conquer this but pride. Inertia extols
Effort but still untried, the will atrophies while it scolds
inaction albeit guarantees the right to fly.
This much is true, or so it seems, monoliths contemplate
Delusions’ stones traversing streams of mocking, croaking insecurities;
That suffocating fog that burns the heart then disappears, its energies
Released, is 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 glory and like the elephant am disinclined to jump.

“Just What You Meant”

“Just What You Meant”

Just what you meant is not too clear today;
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 <i>this</i> 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.

“From Chaos”

“From Chaos”

From chaos comes ordre; it’s a promise
Not a threat, and see to it that you heed
A willing radiance, an acquiescence, the need
For civility in the journey from initial surprise
To final recognition, from knowledge in the eyes
And from the illumined page while both are lost in wanderlust and steal
Away to what for all the world seems
Neither here nor there. Umbrage seeds both choice and compromise
As winter’s cold surrounds the heart’s dissatisfaction,
colder still than death
Itself and not at all to anyone’s liking. Where do joys of spring
Lead but to sorrows in the coming fall and from that fall, the season’s
Proceeds, naked trunks and brittle branches, reason
Feeding hollow hopes and simple traffic in dreams? What’s left,
My friend, but bones of separation
in the present and reunion in eternity?
There’s the simple intelligence of the thing, the weight
Of common sense told in an instant blessed and in good time. Hearts
And minds, judgments weighted solely on the flattery of the arts
And sciences and beyond mere annual Disney harvests
de temps en temps of maudlin myth in escrow. A state
Of mind, a cosmic frieze born of worlds allied
Within the sanctity of sanity seeks the safer corner
Of anonymity and the warmth of former
Aphorisms mouthed, perhaps, but never really qualified
Till now. They will say, “Come hither, pull the trigger,
Garner nothing less than what is guessed
And leave the rest!” and, yes, they see it at its best
Because its freshly minted, postage paid
For anyone who’s never been there or knows no history;
To the wise, simplicity; to the ignorant, one more misery.

“So Simple”

“So Simple”

So simple seen at dawn so long delayed, Venus and the moon! Brighter
Than I’ve ever seen them, 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 he 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 age,
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, the universal fade to cold formalities
Of “I don’t know, though!” or “Whatever…” from the blossom’s buds whose age
Belies their gravitas and whose will
does not beget transaction before they’re paid
And praised. Then again, does either ancient luminary care
so long as they’ve been there
Abiding cycles, overriding climes in rhymes of violence and certain gain
With equal expectation of loss as dross in equal certainty within successive reigns
Of terror in the skies just beyond the puny girth of earth’s thin atmosphere?
How much it was the same when Caesar’s designated revisions of the year
Bore both his names and title in the gilded monthly lists in vain
Presumption that the sun, itself, may be detained or entertained
When will and means conspire to light their fires in cold banality,
idols worshipped through applause and semi-automatic Coliseum cheers;
Both wolves salivate in time. Reflect on just how long this weary place
Has been the seat and capitol of colossal vain imaginings, the necromancy
Of the rich, the bloated tales and tools of millennia of astrology 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, gluttony of hubris at last embraced in fresh portfolios
forged from fatigue and blatant moral bankruptcy.