“She Knows What I’ve Been Thinking”
She knows what I’ve been thinking, Joe.
She thought I’d be straight shot through
You know, and what’s more, she knew–
They always do–that in the end she’d show
Me what she thought her best side was and let it go
At that. It might just be she’s a little tight, but if
She takes a second look around, she’ll skip
The show, forget the curtain calls, and roll
The footage from the credits to just about
The point she crossed the line and blew
It all by being what she dreamed she knew
Was me but turned out to be just a light excursion, a heavy bout
Of thinking, a frame without a painting, a horse or two without a cart
Which in the end was neither positive nor very smart.
“Where there is an audience…”
Where there is an audience, the verses do not fail;
Where there is goodwill, each least syllable ascends
The heavens to return a wondrous tale…
And so the cycles of the writers’ pens are worlds that never end.
“They Have No Shame”
They have no shame, no tracks are hidden
The reds, the blues, the right and left;
The balances of power, laws bereft
Of common sense are disobeyed
before they’re written.
It is as if the litany of litanies of the whole
Demands intimidation of the sum,
not so much in matter–
Brains and beard, heel on up the ladder
Through the aurora to the poles, glacial melting for show
And tell; plumbing in seas with no drain, drilling stalled
But not for long– equities defined as winners in the chat box, scattered,
Anointed virtues virtual with no defense as charity declines
and as our beloved Scrooge resigns,
His slogans braying: “Are there no border guards, is there no bottom line;
In the event of volcanic ash and oil spills, the market’s doomed to fall?”
Ignorance is bliss as blogs and blarney multiply;
the tallies shake and confidence is shattered.
“We are encouraged to spend money we don’t have, on things we don’t need, to create impressions that don’t last, on people we don’t care about.”
Professor Jackson, a member of the Sustainable Development Commission of the United Kingdom, made his comments at a panel discussion held this week in conjunction with the current session of the UN Commission on Sustainable Development.
The Baha’i International Community cosponsored the discussion, titled “Rethinking Prosperity: Forging Alternatives to a Culture of Consumerism.”
Countries are being driven further into debt–not to mention potential environmental catastrophe–by levels of consumerism that do not contribute to sustainability, Professor Jackson said.
Posted in Bahá’í, Bahá’í Faith, Civilisation, Denial, Duplicity, Ecology, Economics, Energy, Hubris, Materialism, Poetry, Politics, Survival
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Scrooge, Sonnets
Gaea’s stations to the stars address her griefs, elations,
Prayers and growth, itself, her moment. She cannot rest;
Veins are clogged, marriage to a host of willing guest’s
Become the crucible to her common sense and revelations
Give her angst amid the luxury of her snows. She must think
But cannot; moves, but pursuit of progeny defies death,
Itself. In time, of course, she’ll find her goals in retrospect
Through cycles, time and space and she’ll drink
Deep the healing waters of reunion with her own, her proper self
Wherever ever lies–with minions, elves,
So many rites and spirals crude and rude, perhaps,
but ever pointing to the skies;
She weeps and rivers flow: the moon, his mystery, his mistress;
the stars, her loyal spies.
Mars ever declares himself the victor, always;
True only to what he is and what he feels
and common sense; zeal
Is passion unabated in the haze; the phrase
Is justice set above all love or hate
That cannot truly satisfy. The abyss, my friend; he stands and stares.
Who sees the ends before beginnings will not pay the fare
And will not hear the pebble drop. Too late,
It seems, he draws the line with single eyes
Or hairs removed and split from heedless heads.
He wills and the wine is crimson, so it’s said;
He loves himself and all who love him; he flies
From those for whom he’s longed and denies he’s ever erred.
Impertinence, sweat upon his brow; bile, his denial that he’s ever cared.
“He Ponders Little”
He ponders little because he sees no sequel;
Within a yawn, and from his belly births
Unnumbered, cataclysmic spirits
collapse within his girth;
And he is cognizant of others, sees no equal.
Sheer enormity and magnitude anoint him;
–“if he but blanch” we know our course–
And he is known by none of us and cannot force
As others who would be known; his limbs
Themselves a universe, his crimson boil a storm
Of such proportions as house nests
Of would-be planets, the paradigm lest
Any seek to be seated at his table. Paragon of space and form
Made captive by His Light: it is the Sun that gives him grace;
A measure, a single orbit, a weight within itself that is this place.
Blighted cabinet of offspring: the misbegotten seated in the loge
And they’ll none of it; she bids them seize the handle, hold their sign
And they respond with such dreadful imposition as to realign
The concourse until he cannot reach them. They suppose
What they cannot fathom; they’ve loosed the measure
Of their steps as if Arachne were their goddess locked within a wager;
Their tapestries will anger no one; no epic chorus lingers,
in space no longer dangers.
He’ll have the penultimate word; she, the first and last–a treasure
Hidden in enigma–and while she plots and dreams,
They wander far beyond the Tree than ever they before:
There are no impediments, no warnings at the door.
“They are loosed again!” he cries, and this is what she means
To see. But, what the gain
when cosmic waves decayed are rotten;
All this in intervention, laurels in revenge:
she, forgotten; –they that are his children, time begotten.
Atoms breathing throughout the sky; these winds, my spies.
I am the Azure One turned ruinous green from patrimony’s rust,
The curse of progeny and betrayal of a trust
In endless repetition written in the crystal inks of compromise
And back again to mark the Zugzwang of my prescience
Everywhere condemned to see what is not there.
My blindness, an abyss, the scent of mists
In Chaos, the script of the Sybil as she shakes her fists
And in her ranting shrieks that there
Among countless in children I will find
Impertinence and turbulence, and arrogance as the cradles rise.
I took no heed at first but as not every planet evades my stare,
I may not always strike; I alone am thunder. Comic weights dividing,
Tragedy’s tears will people space while mine are turned to lightning.
Goliath. Behemoth, yet my father’s eyes do not behold me.
Barren straits above the line of all my cisterns’ shores,
Are crystals, porous with litanies of creatures, future seas of worlds not born
Arraigned in prisms’ prisons to attract some feeble ray that only seems
To please the rhythms of the heart but never rule as I am warmed
By something undistilled and unrehearsed from memory; my advice
Is hoary white. Humoured as it is, it will suffice
To welcome both the fool and hardy in the undertow. I perform
What cannot be foresworn by an incident’s huddled worry on shores
Of continents and isthmuses where serried islands are but guests.
I might have ruled the whole but in the toss, the test
Of prophesies and fortunes were never kissed by either die.
I am content, it seems, to be and do no more
Than surfeit in the light of endless sapphires, blood to commerce,
Storehouse of the wealth of eons lost, to rise in glory and then disperse.
He lingers to the left then for years and more;
She satisfies herself with seconds to the right and even less,
A glance or two at captive lantern lights and sparks addressed
To moths who do not know the reason for
Their fascination nor what sweet dangers lay
In this or that confection spread between days and weeks with little time
To verify the obvious–candles all but disappear
in sunlight and words that rhyme
With fire usually point the way to fatuous invection,
the pox of every yesterday;
And in the convalescence of the early dawn,
her doubts evaporate like myrrh she’s quite forgot
When she airs her rooms as if the purpose
in his witness were merely balm for pain–
All her earthbound joys share the momentary contents
of a rural mailbox, shelter in the rain
For those who still receive their letters with the circulars. Caught
In fantasies defined in galaxies that disappear at sunrise
there remains the death knell of worlds,
The casuistries of nouns and adjectives
that sue for peace beyond the pale of words.
Posted in Ego, Estrangement, Fire, Hubris, Pain, Passion, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Separation
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Samsara, Sonnets