Monthly Archives: August 2011

“You Say You Want to Make a Little Something”

“You Say You Want to Make a Little Something”

You say you want to make a little something on the tide,
Secure some Appalachian dinghy on the sly
For days when you and she or he or they are all so tired
Of cut-and-run through the mire and desire

For all you say you don’t believe in.
The moon’ll dim, the stars’ll manifest their spell
While Johnny learns to read and write
For number one or possibly or
a nice crisp “two”;

A grocery list, a delivery note that says:
“Tonight you’re mine; back in five
To take it all,. . . .or whatever you’re delivering…”

While yet another apple falls on Humpty Dumpty
or slips on down the drain,

But nothing puts you back again,
And by the time Ol’ Humpty figures out the route,
It’s time to lick the thumb and turn the page and scout
The TV Guide for better pastures, “fresher deals”
They say; we’ll steel what’s left of your last breath. You’ll see; you’ll feel
Nothing on this prescription, no regrets and if the casual fool inquires,
or cares to ask the price, you tell’em, “first one’s free but not the last!

“Twice Two”

“Twice Two”

Twice two or three more icons at the table: twelve,
Yes, of course, the guests; the audience, unprepared, is screened
Some few short lines before the festivities begin but barely seen,
In all that wine; some one of them has gone and leaves no trail to dwell
On lethal details; who keeps score? Yes, of course, the blessing,
Words but softly spoken yet incredibly relevant, and who is more
Who bears the weight of adoration–Whose welcome’s scorned–
And none of them the wiser in the stay of execution; who’s guessing
Who’ll be next, and who will never make it to the door.
Come Sunday morning and the consolation prize will out.
The forthright, forced frenetic paces run riot through the dining room. Shouts,
Hosannas for the One Whom he denies so erstwhile vague before the war.
How sweet the hour and guests, how drawn the face of him whose plate
Is empty; as we meet tonight within the Cave, God help him who hesitates.



Bitterness serves the servile senses; malevolence the brine
Payed out to loams in newly flooded fertile delta soils.
Where there are no antidotes, no alternatives, no holy oils
Can soften evidence. When the flesh is spent the rind,
Manure to tried and tired conscience dried, provides desire enough to find
The seed gone stray, some few limbs, fibres of miracles for future coils
Of awe and circumstance. Pick up the rake, then, the hoe; gather roots to boil
And treasure newly welcome honest broth, the meagre rendered never-mind.
The taste is saline, yes? So much for what we cannot say before the hour turns
Sour, the afterthought enshrined within the hourglass that soon enough restores
Its natural balance in the night. A hint of moisture overrides the will at dawn,
Some confidence to see what’s left exceeds what’s been withdrawn.
Odds are that even in the ashes of denial nothing’s left to burn;
Where there is no decision, interest is the fruit that’s rotted to the core.

…in interaction and appreciation of the poetic words of Alexander M. Zoltai…

All is
Lost but the
Chance to
Lose it

…in interaction and appreciation of the poetic
words above of

Alexander M. Zoltai… []

Aptly expressed; a delicious thought, actually.
There is unequalled truth to this, the bailiwick
of those who know no doubt that blessings and curses
of this life are in fact inexhaustible, inextinguishable.

What is left then, but Creation, itself? What courage
does it take to approach all aspiration and consummation
in the ashes? Every planet’s doom is reunion with its star;
every star, its own appointment with the beginning

and the end of all that matters and energy’s just what’s left over.
And perhaps this is, after all, the raison d’être
for the inexhaustible,
the indivisible, inextinguishable

pain or sorrow, joy or bliss
within the mansions of this world.
If it is of God, it will last beyond leaving,
and as the longed for inauguration into the Next.

Be it the either which, expressed quite simply,
the Heavens and Earth may cease to exist–
in fact must in the end expire–but His Word
will never pass away, and neither the one

privy to Its existence;
and like all that is, we are in the end,
indivisible, inextinguishable.
Whilst we breathe, so, too, breeds our sacred company,

so, too, our own clear magnification in direct proportion
to recognition of one another and in the reality
of His oneness, our own dear being,
indivisible, inextinguishable.

……A deed without a name….

…in recognition of the dark events that presently becloud the entire spectrum of world events….

Thou canst not say I did it: never shake
Thy gory locks at me….

…Great business must be wrought ere noon:
Upon the corner of the moon
There hangs a vaporous drop profound;
I’ll catch it ere it come to ground:
And that distill’d by magic sleights
Shall raise such artificial sprites
As by the strength of their illusion
Shall draw him on to his confusion:

He shall spurn fate, scorn death, and bear
He hopes ‘bove wisdom, grace and fear:
And you all know, security
Is mortals’ chiefest enemy….

… Double, double toil and trouble;
Fire burn, and cauldron bubble…… By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes…
… How now, you secret, black, and midnight hags!
What is’t you do?…
.…..A deed without a name….

…by William Shakespeare [1564-1616]……
… A writer without a name….

….or at least, he let us think his name was thus and so and that he lived in Stratford once upon a time….



Disconcerting; expressionless about the face,
The eyes, the gestures, my smile in any minor step
You take; sudden entrances, exists, all essentials swept
In torrents across this mobile stage, the supple need for guidance as I pace
The floor to find my shoes. The simplest gesture burns; the sparks, elite,
So subtle brilliance in the softest action while you, the witness to it all abhor
The fact that what I am is what you are. Denial rages through a score
Of fears exhaled in sweat and tears that flood whenever I begin to seat
Your soul where it belongs, this sacred trust
held deep within me. Rest easy, friend.
I will be true to you. In later moments when I’m gone you’ll think
On it and know we are nothing if not sums of spirits
in the grip of centrifuge. We drink
From common ladles. Mortgaged mornings’ lights’ assay and bend
The prism’s light to bleed tomorrow’s rainbow’s form from drops.
We form an ocean, mariners of error and mistake;
We bear a circumstantial curse that leads
to universal light in every breath we take.


“The Adagio Begins”

“The Adagio Begins”

The adagio begins; I am so very old this afternoon.
I drop prescriptions at the pharmacist,
And, while I linger, phatic melodies persist
Perniciously; cornered by exchanges with the clerk. Soon
The neighbourly welcome wears a little thin in me,
And while she might have had me read
The blurb she found in yesterday’s discarded need,
I found myself a little on the run and disinclined to be
The latest in this evening’s causeries, her chance encounter, leisure’s
Fodder in the daily bond, another rerun of the previous day’s events
That even when fresh and in the bloom of youth were set
Ajar in previous matinees. Politely I decline the pleasure
In the “breaking news” edition of the hottest feed of tips
On vitamins, deodorants, and balms to soothe the driest lips. —Once

“Your true traveller finds boredom rather agreeable than painful. It is the symbol of his liberty – his excessive freedom. He accepts his boredom, when it comes, not merely philosophically, but almost with pleasure.”
Aldous Huxley

“No Talk of Peace”

“No Talk of Peace”

No talk of peace desolves detraction in the mind
For lovers of this world; no casual thought of war
Distracts the heart of seeking souls that soar
Beyond the gates of static limitations. To those who find
Talismans the sovereigns of affirmation and negation, words
Are hollow deeds, rogue emotions, fractals of the mind,
at last a pure abstraction.
Dimensions of devotion require no lightning rod. Deduction
Leads to platitude while speculation ensures
The ultimate for cuckolds in this life. In the end, of course,
what is must be
What is–no more, no less–and what is sought
Is not so well defined, so cleverly designed that seekers caught
So easily in repetitious phases of this life avoid judiciously the seas
Of myriad manifest eternities
; these, the innocents, are blind

to past, to present, to coming planes, reduced to residue
Of what are after all selective natural satisfactions carved in stone
and gravitas, betrayed by metamorphosis, divined
from media reports of icons on the loose in Xanadu.