“Comes a Lion’s Sacrifice”
Comes a lion’s sacrifice, his eyes
Now fixed, the gaze, the ageing body’s shadow taut
Upon the juggernaught, a rolling form, yesterday’s intention caught
In matted threads of crimson sweat in beads lean against the thighs’
Redeeming, screaming declamation, all or nothing broadcast
Erect in silent swollen majesty, volition in the brow abolished;
An emotion’s glow, the goal of fear astonished, patina polished,
The hemlock drained in haste as thoughtless
Epimetheus breathes in and out with such a blast
As casts its lots in nothing less than seconds
that renders even natural disease the kinder. One now last
But never least in lines of endless consequence in unnatural rhyme
Between the cat and prey with justice at the feast designed
To kill or not to kill and thence to take one’s fill or fast.
And so it is with consummations great and small,
The climax of potential in the meaning of it all.
Attention spans are short, fuses,
Matchless dangers; no matter–the need for caution
Is the norm in the middling run of things–en masse, a daily auction
In the race and sibling competition trumps the general purpose. Muses
Ancient, gracious and inviable so often are ignored
In favour of what’s been seen and stored.
In youth, some future use; in age, necessity itself takes the floor
While invention’s mother’s lost and no one knows what for
Except to say that something in the wind’s
Brought something else again and when
The dusts are sifted and settled—so they say—the prairie hen,
The swallow and the bee no longer know where they fit in.
Capistrano weighs its greatest losses, hives their Zen
As power lines and cell phones sunder intercourse to the very end.
Posted in Age, Attention span, Bee, Capistrano, Cell phones, Competition, Danger, Fuse, Hives, Intercourse, Invention, Muses, Poetry, Power lines, Prairie hen, Swallow, Wind, Youth, Zen
Tagged Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Furtive futures, tokens of the late night flower
And as he smiles, a common thread of thought, some random
Virtue and its knee-jerk negative recusal form régimes, their regiments set neatly in tandem
Each day with time enough to feed the guests between the hours’
Harvests. Memories posit foibles calcified from past
Proposals of support and action in what was always just around
The corner. Patience, saddling his ass, object to wastes grown profound
In almost every instance with innocuous verses that running circuits last
In time while losing time defines itself in terms of time, itself, and nothing stops
The show unless a rare and casual kindness from a stranger to the flock,
Or simply not who or what must have a right to be. He views what’s on the dock’s
Consignment nd recalculates the costs of baggage and accessories; the rock,
Within remains the same, of course; witness, yes, but still he is both what he is .
and as he was before he found his tests
To he the very meaning of his every breath; a gift, a bounty, an eternal yes
is there, but nothing closes close to closure. There is no subtle hint of rest.
Posted in Adagio, Anchors, Ballast, Dust, Foibles, Futures, Internal clock, Joy, Libraries, Lifelines, Melodies, Memories, Momentoes, Passions, Poetry, Tests, Thread of thought, Time, Verses
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
In reply to a beautiful note sent to me…
“Lady P: Yes, Well…”
Yes, well, after all, at least for you and me
There’s everything and all and even more through truth and honesty;
We grope at times, yes! but never quite make or break the call
From perfection to perfection gaining ground then risking all.
But, there’s the rub, the same for everyone who breathes
To live and not the other way around: as boiling lava seethes
So, too, the will from time to time relieves itself, erupts and then must cool
To build tomorrow’s fortress in the season’s rut. Know that fools
And angels build as well on sand as on a known caldera
Seeing safety’s but a syllable, a symbol, chimera
Of the mind or possibly a maxim born of boredom
And nothing more than light conversation over hay or sorghum
With a denizen of Hell, itself, who’s merely waiting for a train,
And you with no umbrella to protect you from the evening rain.
Posted in Angels, Boredom, Breathe to live, Caldera, Denizen of Hell, Fools, Hay, Hell, Honesty, Lava, Maxim, Perfection, Poetry, Rain, Rub, Sand, Sorghum, Syllable, Symbol, Train, Truth, Umbrella
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Sound the Bugle”
Lyrics by Gavin Greenaway
Written for the soundtrack of
Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron
Sound the bugle now… play it just for me
As the seasons change… remember how I used to be
Now I can’t go on…I can’t even start
I’ve got nothing left… just an empty heart.
I’m a soldier… wounded so I must give up the fight
There’s nothing more for me… lead me away
Or leave me lying here
Sound the bugle now… tell them I don’t care
There’s not a road I know that leads to anywhere
Without a light, I fear that I will stumble in the dark
Lay right down and decide not to go on
Then from on high, somewhere in the distance There’s a voice that calls,
“Remember who you are… if you lose yourself,
Your courage soon will follow,
So be strong tonight… remember who you are”
Yeah, your a soldier now,
Fighting in a battle,
To be free once more.
Yeah, that’s worth fighting for.
The only way to deal with an unfair world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion. –Albert Camus