Monthly Archives: October 2012

“Prophecies”

“Prophecies”

Prophecies cross fingers in the sky
And linger long enough to point toward transitions
Sealed in stars on all horizons, premonitions and suppositions,
They say. What is must change while what meets the eye
Is never what it seems and never was while all that rests
Within the heart is changeless. Proffered predictions
Rest so very little in the mists of silence. Recent predilections
Rise to the surface of the broth as dross, the tests
Within the crucible of what is enjoyed or may be endured
Accumulates in sardonic human folly. Surely, victory
Can wait another day if runes are contradictory
And humours even less in every reading. Imbalances are secured
Through judicious decision anointed in newly inked ointments
Realized in auspicious concert with but minor disappointment.                        

“Millions Fruitless Labour”

“Millions Fruitless Labour”

Millions fruitless labour, spirits in the spittle,
Liqueur of strong experience, perhaps—it matters little.
Tales and superstitions  ever restive rest in rains
From daily deluge, oddly spaced refrains
As ever reigns forever in the wine
Of His grace and once in every life defined
In cardinal minutes gained and lost in seconds. Mortals taste
What each man leaves to follow time-worn trails of debris and waste;
He need not think he need not breathe, but still he’s here,
And in his heart’s delight he worships daily fears
Of winters’ melting snows discovering summers’ bloods in turn,
And in the embers of his nightly fires smoldering letters yearn
To appear and reappear in nuances of rhyme renewed, the afterglow,
Transfigurations in the ash. This he knows but would it were not so.

“Mark the Man’s Credentials”

“Mark the Man’s Credentials”

Mark the man’s credentials.  As he speaks
He pacifies his scars, he enunciates the blinding facts
Supporting nothing more than air to ratify his acts
With his own light or the weight of even less; just so.  The wordsmith cheats;
He unfolds himself with his tongue. Fallow generation’s fetal weeds
Immortalised crimson in velum, scribbled  pages—monographs in blocks
Of sentences and paragraphs—just as clods riot in the coda of the rocks
As Mammon surely justifies its primal place and finds the end it seeks.                   If in the lightning bolt there are not seeds enough
To bribe the soil and all its tenants, surely sands witness pleasures to be
Had amongst us beyond all toil or rhetoric or land-locked living fees
Demands alike;  just so.  Creation sows its gems, indiscriminate crystals known
To find the ends they seek and life beholds its crown within the living state
Surviving yet another mystery that no man can fathom nor orchestrate.

 
 

…Photograph above by Ehimaya Oza

“We Were Offered Legs”

“We Were Offered Legs”

We were offered legs, we chose to ride;
Hands to work, we chose to gamble;
Eternal divinities of the hour, we chose the golden angle
Through the vagaries of  a Schopenhauer inured to change and taking pride
In what’s been borrowed from a shelf whose weights cannot abide
The balance of truth.  While “dropping by” to sample
Printers’ proofs of reams of glossy pages, a plethora of ample
Views and raw revision to the log of codified
Beliefs degrade all virtues to devices and vices thence to actions honed from condescending
Pundits who never cease to seize the latest
Words on what it was that got us here. Inflated
…if a little dated,
They await no Messiah but a bomb or earthquake in ascending
Spiral visions of the nouveau riche, the inevitable confusion
of the ruled and rulers as they pin their tails on flat-out lies and delusions.

“Hesitation”

“Hesitation”

Hesitation stains the simplest decision,
Pollutes the act, shifts from inspiration to simple change
In channel, certitude to hope for better days. The range
Of possibilities is moot whatever the vision,
Redeemed as ancient memory of former families
And tribes, the atavistic residue of where the birth
Took place and who was there and whose the girth
And majesty of just another baby born. Anomalies
Aside, the most of us are prey to our own crowns,
Accidents and interjections owned
Alike by all who claim to be the authors of life. What credits honed
In tight and manicured bouquets, these clubs, these ancient mounds
Of rust whom spades erect in the wake of hoards that diamonds
And hearts evoke and to which they pander as they might while
a wounded earth supports them all in silence, ironic in demand for answers
Where there are none; pressing the fruits of satisfactions
Where arbitrary rule and random infractions
Decree egregious loss to one and rampant cancers
To the other. Future’s fortunes cloud the present
Before its suns have risen and well after they have set.
No substitution, no antidote, no fond expectation met,
The spectre of foolishness binds assent
To retribution and beginnings to the covenant’s
Descent. Turn away, then, from the brilliance of a single moon
And face the day’s most patient sun, the countenances of June
In the deeps of winters’ vast eternities. With sun and moon now relevant,
Every least affinity leads to forgone closure and the sometime petitioner to rest
With his secret ever esoteric in this world and patently obvious in the Next.

Sculpture by Diane Neglio…

“The Defendant Is a Child”

“The Defendant Is a Child”

The defendant is a child grown thick and heavy
In the womb landing mere inches
From the starting gate.  His guarantees,  his clenched
Fist and a gnashing of teeth, ingrown levies’
Gains against the winds, hidden antecedents as we knew them,
Family damned as were the rule of generations.
Friendships, grave degrees inured to hesitation
Now become misbegotten global monsters, stem
Cells to a thing that spawns all former empires,
Confederations, states, and sovereignty, itself, expired,
Null and void, contumely ripped from ancient boils fired,
Assaulted, violated covenants rent thrice in two, his twin spires
Levelled to the ground, and he declares that bread is now unleavened.
Mothers gasp as he praises God for what took place on 9/11. Even an Alexander finds his borders within etherial folds endemic to any practicing god
But God.  He has no need to practice,  no emphatic caul  to breach
With his own fingers and the limits of his teeth.
The Macedonian finds no outlines made by footsteps or the trace of toes
In sands he’s called his own  (as well he might)  because
He finds no greater force or urgency other than his own breath within this world
To thwart his purpose, no! nor greater banner  to unfurl
To curb a multitude of sins, no blatant flaws
Within him to cauterise the blood of his own afterbirth because he stood
Before a mother and a father both circumspect within themselves
Gainsaying natural selection in the wake and weight of countless shelves
Of history, both wore laurels in a world no better than it should
Be sated upon earthly immortality.  This Dhul-Qarnayn points to the sky,
At last and says, “It’s yours! By all the gods!” and dies.  Minor prophesies of course arrest intentions while the majors
Send condolences from the playing field to the drawing boards.
Who doubts the hoards
Of wisdoms summoning all wizened pagers
To alarm and preëccupation at the water cooler, the watchman to his bed
While even leaders meet on holidays? They do not rest,
These Olympian prodigies  amassed in pods and dressed in their egregious best
Within the clouds of baseless hubris as corrosives bleed the lead
That lines the public coffers and endless goblets. Petrels in a line dance elect
To withhold judgement while their instincts never flag in downward spirals
Of loopholes, pernicious soot that lags behind the countenance of viscous viral
Stars grown cumbersome in the spasm of sunrise, now redundant in the deck
That stacks the wheels of Vegas and the halls of Washington.  The meek
Inherit all the earth while what they breathe is but a notch above the ideals of Gormenghast and wonders of the noxious gas of mass deceit.

“These Strands”

“These Strands”

These strands are ever sleek as t’were silver threads
Extending along lines raked, inclined, declined from nowhere
To everywhere, yesterday’s profits priceless and as final as the fare.
Unless effortless, what is said,
Declared or promised is spiked, a dénouement
Before the climax, a climax before
The action. Friction’s hoards
Exist as particles scattered by natural endowments
In the winds ever upward as sure as jet streams on a cloudless day;
Circumstance and exigency rise high above the nimbus, notions starred
Briefly cross horizons confined below the congregation of cosmic scars,
Nether territories of a lasting grace, the space above the noisome fray
Howsoever bound as portions of the earth wherein are sown
The greatest and least in multiples of immortality the world has ever known. Little significance reigns on whose lips the visceral reaction recalls
As truth or what the colour of the robes of hoards who pause
To listen to the calculated phatic mumblings of pundits of the day.  Whose laws
Call forth the measured adhans’ five-fold mantra from the minarets that draw
Upon so mindless a multitude?  Who, then,  was it met the woman at the well
And told her every last thing she’d done? Who by now does not see
That in the raising of a cabbie’s meter or the parson’s purse comes praise to ease
The laboured journey of nameless a pensioner intoxicated by this living hell?
Congregations cull their tawdry seeds of unity in ancient storage for some small
Act of charity that no one in the highness of Tibetan caves
Would notice is splendid intercourse at tea for spinsters in Vermont who salivate
In guarded whispers on salacious odes to grease the priests whose caterwaul,
Recalls the muezzin raised above it all in shibboleths of mitigated light
Through synagogues, mosques, and churches festooned in antiquated rites.

“The Isotope Remains”

“The Isotope Remains”

The isotope remains—the poet, the element,
The precious gem—so reckoned in the raw,
So endemic to the lottery, the accidental draw
From which a this or that satisfaction in sentiment
Suggests addiction, defies abuse, or finds his way to hearts
And minds that think on distant destinations
As tools and vehicles that defy both procrastination
And rush delivery. The seer’s chants divorced from scenes, his arts
Will flourish with little pause to where the artist ground
His pigments or the siren purchases his precious stones.
Balanced even so, the unknown crews who violate borders all alone
To rape, to maim and pillage those whose labours’ fruits are found
Unguarded in the novice from inspiration leaches produce for philistines,
thieves of raw materials whether in the first or second person spaced;
No, the poet needs no acclamation, nor is the diamond’s progenitor effaced.