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!”

“They Told Me Often”

“They Told Me Often”

They told me often, always boisterous, boasting loudly, nights
Would come when I would feel the season’s counterfeits rally round
Ten thousand thousand fresh laconic smiles, duly marinating in their sweet obscenities while chasing tails, and bound
For fiscal glory, yes! I knew they knew it could not last, nor might
Not, could not more than minutes in an icecube’s stand, this half hour, or that,…and yet…
They always raise their fists on high, and swear to God
despite their losses surely, yes, they’d do it all again and lay in flight
Their life’s breath’s coin conjoined where once their wit was hatched to stay
The course and never once betray or even reconsider whom or what they are with no regrets.
Their joy is in the print and watermarks and all that shredding….No! By God! They that were sincere are sweating, and all those shirts will never dry. Standards to the clan, they are,and even after desperate stares
Surround their own deductions, loopholes, distorted egos all aware
They scribble texts, graffitied mountain tailings, organs failing, seal their space:
“A hand! Extend a hand” they cry, “and deal the cards again for as we live
We die together… “Well, the hell you say! In the Fed we trust; the government forgives,
for goodness sake!”:…Mae West my friend, she’ll tell ya bluntly: “…goodness’s got nothin’ to do with it!”

“Not That What It Is”

“Not That What It Is”

Not that what it is is what it is, but what’s occurred
Is yours and yours, alone, while you insist
That curses blessed are blessings on a sometime list
Of what’s been missed and what’s been left behind these hoary curls
Belongs to you and you alone. Bliss bereft within your world
Is what I am because I know what love isn’t and what’s dismissed
In what we can so easily resist. You’re too good to me in all of this;
I know because I’ll be leaving soon and we’ll be hurled
So far out there that none of what you said and what we did
Will be remembered further than a passing glance
Through pages in some anthology or in a leaden book
Of poems with a long brass chain and hook
That keeps the leisure hours from outright theft
Of memories and souvenirs of what was left
Of us before the curtain fell with no place else to dance.

“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.