Monthly Archives: September 2012

“It’s Midnight ”

“It’s Midnight ”

It’s midnight here and emeralds come to mind;
And you? What must you be where you are now?
I know your thoughts of me are drifting. How
Was it you fled the flesh and left the rind
Behind some few premises ago when nothing in the needle’s eye
Lingered. Restive as you were, the distance of a single prayer with open palms,
The warmth of open arms, the scent of you, the psalms–
Airs and essences distilled to holy water; what was it you desired?
You searched my meaning  smiling , ascending briefly, pulling stops
And leaving all this morning’s traces lost in the Sibyl’s dew. Gone
So quickly, you, the sunrise, taking nothing of the song
But verses, lyrics pocketed, perhaps; you forgot
The melody–I hear it now, a softer strain, ephemeral,
Like breathing in and out–and still I’ve kept these emeralds.

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“Icy Drafts”

“Icy Drafts”

Icy drafts from winter’s future reach me; late night candles
Blaze along with altogether nothing in particular,
Nothing brilliant but levelled in the vernacular
With only some slight punctuation. No need to handle
The hour nor spend the day. No one, no thing,
No wizened breadth disturbs the dusts in me
When even Shakespeare smiles to see
No dream from which to wake for his sake. No,  no ring
Of fire, no need for patience in delivery. Devotion
I leave to the cricket soon sacrificed to the owl; suspicion
To the critic.  Applause I’ll pass and all his opinions
To the fool.  Settle the mountain with the ocean
To the bottom of the glass, but I think wisely to leave the bottle
On the table. No endless highway here, no hand on the throttle.

Painting at top by Suzy Schultz;

at bottom by Darren Maurer

“The Daily News”

“The Daily News”

The daily news finds respite high atop a rock
In some secluded spot not far from a puddle, brother to a brook;
The one report remarks that from withered history poetry is mined, a book,
Weathered, perhaps, its stipend possibly a set of sapphire keys to open locks
And doors whose wrought iron hinges run the risk of rust from residue—
It rains, you see—and twice forever close in on themselves, recreated, redefined
Adjusted to all that might have been, “had the runes been kind,
And then some!” Coded in the syntax of yet another, “This might be true,
But possibly nothing more than the glory of the many in the few.”
There is a blindness in the accidental radiance of a season, thorns
Of beauty, blight of disaffected action, unintended factions born
Of limitations, fractions of qualities and attributes that mask the subtle blues
And greens of ocean deeps in living chrysalides of collecting highland dew; the essences
Of truths bend with greater force in time than proceeds gleaned from all the senses.

“The Watchman’s Left”

“The Watchman’s Left”


The watchman’s left his post and change evades

The vaulted marble halls in Washington and London
As rumours author precedents while the pundits fail their orals and
Her Majesty’s final queries, “How, then, are my trusts mislaid?”
White-gloved hands sign towards leaders of the stage,
But where lies the crown, where the sovereign doubt,
The gleaming precedent that comes to mind to put to rout
The monarch’s question, tales of rising veils and Eastern hymns of rage?
The salt has lost its savour, friend, and Onan cedes ceaselessly a certain infamy.
So comes the Western light to warm the will to fire the kneaded clay of things;
Committees rolling, appeasements merely strolling through the circus rings.
With yesterday’s sun at apex, today’s blue moon unfolds a fragile pigmy
Sky of falling fractals of asides and clips and sales in parsimonious comment:
So much depends upon so many waiting mothers, somewhat dazed, perhaps,
Beside the red Potomac while the white-gloved buglers sound their “Taps.”
I saw a shooting star last night, some unnatural nocturnal flaw
To think on and what it means to be me, or someone
Close to me, or yet again for the fleeting moment to come
Between all our yesterdays and tomorrow’s cosmic clause,
The need to see, a momentary lifting, yes, eyes
Fixed heavenward notwithstanding souls so earthbound
That limpid days fly by with nothing more than profit found
So easily as the press between the ever-weighty lies
And all that we hold dear despised and tossed back again, a tread,
A brisk and tightened cord that strangles spun rapidly from this to that
As with cotton candy, pleasures so easily abandoned, actions flat
Against a plan so ill-conceived that pleasure pleases dread
And leads to unrestrained remorse and very close to bored;
And as I paused, I smiled, and hoped for nothing more.