Monthly Archives: June 2012

“Curious It Is”

“Curious It Is”


Curious it is that in these few lines I find flaws

And weightlessness in adamantine words in flight
From the abstract incident and the concrete patterns of the night,
And yet, as I drown withal comes light, air, and morning, in silent thrall
That each breath brings its confession, countless dispensations of reverse
In every verse, thoughts easily dismissed as conceived; I am satisfied that here
And there again have I exhaled a truth or two. This, and as I inhale I hear
The insurrection from the gallery, the ranks of rhythm, immersed
In unintentional casuistry as much as anyone within the curse and blessing
Of abstruse allusions to possession and its loss. The final scenes are mine
And mine alone that lead me to a place somewhere in time
Between celebrated valleys of knowledge and experience addressing
Artifacts and all their codices that qualify duress and mitigate the brine
Of seas of tragedy for what the world rejects and comedy in what eternity denies.

“The Messenger”

“The Messenger”

The messenger comes with no one home;
In perpetuum, in his office leaving notice, warnings posted
Ever heeded, ever kneaded, ever hosted
In a land of consolation. Trust allows itself to roam;
Perhaps the mass will linger moments but never long
As all matter seeks its solace in the rites where there is none;
Fortune cannot rest where passions rise with the rhythm of its sums.
Marvel, then, at match and taper, humour candles, denigrate the sun
And at no time is the thirst for water. Equity despairs
In every age, its heads seek history books and praises in the printed word
While no one truly reads and ears have long since ceased to hear.
Mercury, Hermes, call them as you will, but here
And there and in an era late or early epoch only fear
Commands an audience with claims to immortality. “That great star
My friend, is all we never see and all we ever are!”

“He Hesitates at the Gate”

“He Hesitates at the Gate”

He hesitates this side of the gate, the bridge lies minutes before,
A much travelled thread stretched not far but far enough—
a chasm’s hem—the seam of dreams; seems, nor is it steep or rough
Nor ill-conceived: a simpler bridge, a door
To over there is open and something’s overheard,
“Now, then!” …He withdraws from yesterday’s conceptions,
Herds of hidden instincts, arpeggios of rhymed exceptions.
The early flies swarm; they gorge on neglected revelations, the third
And fourth generations of congresses of well-intentioned giants
From the pantheon of legends from his childhood. There is no beanstalk
Here, no yellowed road to emerald heights, no lean talk
Of auld lang syne nor is beauty ever fast asleep while sentient clients
Dance wildly round a crystal casket, no—a plaited sensation, ropes
Of primitive doxologies and fine-stitched patterns of long forgotten hopes.

“So Much Business”

“So Much Business”

 
So much business left undone, so many miles
Of tapes, ribbons in reds and blues, greens;
Afghanistan, Lebanon, Georgian dreams
Of millions led by headlines peopled by the smiles
Of clerics and the grimaces of what’s endemic to markets,
Grist for the mills, lies designed to validate
What was never in question and seems to obfuscate
The will to rise above the glory of the grove. The spark that’s
Missing is the true desire of souls who long ago
Decided that the fruit of the breast was more desired
Than prayer; milk, the fire
Of life above the light, what the bow
And arrow offers mother, child and creditors to boot;
Arrogance grafts upon the tree what only cyclones offer deepest roots.
…The lighter thought, then, for us all; a fragrant breeze,
And while we swear it is so much less
Or more than what it truly is, at least there is the guess
That madness cannot be far removed from ease
As when after consternation, panic, and a night of prayer
The modified version never quite tips the scales
And the inevitable breach but qualified freedom, nothing left of trails
Of debris, the detritus of but a brief and potent hemisphere
No greater than a day, no deeper than a single night
Of ownership of all that is the other side of just another ruse,
A plenum in subterfuge amongst the many who labour through societies of wit
And weather in the memory; their accumulation, whether bushels of writs
Or generations of foreclosures on the residue of someone else’s sight
Bear no fruit and fruitage but latent sorrows’ scents and accents  for the muse.