Monthly Archives: November 2012

” Bees Bear Witness”

“Bees Bear Witness”

Bees bear witness far beyond a spider’s gossamer
Infatuation ; they navigate portable priorities
In ways that armies only dream of. Here minorities
Are not a factor in the office nor the officers
Within this prince of many species. Simple factors
Dictate elemental courses in reaction
To proper exigencies in the moment while the march of factions
Plays no part in these designs beyond the actors
And the actresses who wait willingly in the wings to exit
From their point of view if circumstances merit
In themselves massive conflict with no hope of climax; they ferret
Meaning from a single will to live, and if they find the need to edit
What’s been fit with a brand new queen, the press is forward and alive
With fresh resolve; a simple recipe, drive, a drone, and designated signals
. . . that it’s time build another world, another hive.

“The Stones Thrown”

“The Stones Thrown”

The stones thrown casually today become poems in the steam;
Their waters’chards and spray are showers built with shafts of light
The which provide the shadow and the altered night
Refreshed and sheltered from the screams
And harshness of the single day’s relentless runes.
Such thoughts as were, and are, and then recede
Again to depths in scribbles on the page only seem
To move when spied by such effects as in this room
Confront us all with truths once mined
When at this age or that and raging in the times,
A day remembered heeds the call for thoughts sublime
Beneath the earth to upward rise and then to climb
Too high for any bird to falsify, to glide, much less to soar:
Thus far and more are whispered now for evermore.

“If I Am Alive”

“If I Am Alive”

If I am alive but barely, still I live
Beyond the doubts and casual appearance
Of hosts of others in the cast, their clearance
Measured, their endurance no further than they give
To pass the time away, or worse, nothing more than missives
On a wire, more deadly, even lethal straight through the air;  deliverance
From them becomes their desperation if but a single brick in evidence
Has not been claimed, their fingerprints ubiquitous on every page, a sieve
To flatter, conjure, mediate, to violate the very marrow of the peace.
May I care or caudle, must I savour penury in the fault
Of the age or pay homage to what is of yesterday but is today
No more than fumes and vapour from a passion thrice delayed
And more?   It is no matter in the West, but the die is cast just east
Of what was once an Eden seeded in antiquities, its soils turned to salt.             What sweeter taste distilled than from what’s begun;
What royal satisfaction compares to what’s been finished?
The lines are weakly drawn between the millimetre, the inch,
And all that follows once done must then expire; the run
Of ruts and dull inertia vie with one another while the sun
Drowns both alternatives and their inverse as does the sea the fish,
Or school, skies, the single bird or flock. See it as you wish.
But oh, had I but known! Arachne’s pride, her hubris spun
Alike from fingers and divinities in some sweet loom
That should amaze the multitudes of men and sublimity but broke
The natural faculties of all the gods in their aversion. Themselves
In terror, but more so in the wisdom of the goddess from the shelves
Of ancient vain imaginings, from the book a page from destiny revealed too soon.
In the end comes justice from Athena; through the smoke
Of perfect passion’s edifice brought low by imperfection,
Her action brewed with desire in a panoply of attributes never ratified,
Never satisfied. What star knows neither birth nor death but matter pacified
In both with rest and  final consummation in eternity? Circumspection
Not choice is the crown of those who wait and if they wait upon selection
Torn from choice and born if only then to die, they must abide
By what they learn: the end is in the beginning, a number multiplied
If only in division, hurled back again from death to resurrection.
In all creation and unique in the stations of simplicity.
Both gods and men deny they are but doomed
As both are so devised that from the void they came
And to the void in certain splendour they remain
And cannot rise above the regions of duplicity.
As is the womb, so is all creation in the end consumed.

...something inspired to some degree by the daily news of wars, rumours of wars, earthquakes, tsunamis, savage attitudes by governments, religious and secular, who would attack and destroy their own people; economic ruin in the face of conscious knowledge of what can no longer be sustained by a world population of close to 7,000,000,000, most of which is starving, all of which are grieving what was and is no more coupled by what must now come and can no longer be avoided….

But I have that within which passeth show,
These but the trappings and the suits of woe.
Hamlet, Act I, Scene 2
William Shakespeare [1564-1616]

“He’s Doubted”

“He’s Doubted”

He’s doubted little but that he’s weaned
His years of all his weeds of apathy; his reticence,
But the lofty presage of an onslaught of age and common sense.
Few could guess, of course. These calendars, the cauterized intentions
of his childhood all but gone and save for the rising of occasional dreams
In time might well have coupled with fear but then he’s met himself
And finds the chance encounter with the chasm oddly pleasant. He’s elevated loneliness–a badge of honour in youth–an essence
Among the many rites to be stacked and neatly catalogued on the shelf,
And finding no lasting nights, no respite sealed, revealed prayer’s the thing
Retained between the shadows, stale, perhaps, at times like flowers
Pressed between a fatuous journal’s soulless leaves, their natural powers
Collapsed within a hidden room where only sunbeams and dust-bunnies sing
Everywhere but in the rain. Banalities whisper endlessly; his axioms, hesitation,
There between the beads; his metered patience dwells to the side of resignation.

“I Saw a Shooting Star”

“I Saw a Shooting Star”

I saw a shooting star the other night, a nocturnal flaw,
To think on and what it means to me, or someone
Close to me, or for the fleeting moment come
Between the present and some cosmic rune or clause
That satisfies a need to see, a momentary lifting, yes, eyes
Fixed heavenward in a world so earthbound
Whose limpid days fly by with nothing found
So easily as the press between the mercury’s lies
And all that we despise and back again, a thread,
A brisk and tightened cord spun from this end of hell to that                                  With pleasures so easily abandoned, actions flat
Against a wind so wholly contrived that pleases dread,
And leaves sustained even the velvets of remorse so very close to bored;
And as I paused, I smiled, and hoped for nothing more.

“And Comfort Comes”

“And Comfort Comes”

And comfort comes from stations washed ashore on the bank
Of all great seas and rivers, benchmarks, watersheds
And monuments as seiemic shifts in zeitgeists; glories led
By strange humility in masters whose histories are drawn blank
With whom generations cavil and who provoke
In lesser moments no more than leaner age affords,
The more prosaïc goals framed to ward
Off national malaise. They must evoke
A wonder in the people, and awe
Amongst the gods, and in the end, such light
Cannot be masked, nor can the transitory might
Of kings suppress but single eagles, neither nets nor censors, nor the law.
And here, then,  is Shakespeare, Father of the modern text…
And what of tongues that roar so loud and thunder in the index?


“3:23 Why is light given to a man whose way is hid, and whom God hath hedged in? 3:24 For my sighing cometh before I eat, and my roarings are poured out like the waters.

 King James Bible, Job

“They Will Not Stop”

“They Will Not Stop”

They will not stop, you know, until they cannot bleed.
Medical reports and residuals lead along with grocery lists at pharmacies,
An incessant rush to check the listings, read it; Pharisees
Of all descriptions grease their glistening needs, their silences as Oprah leads
The willing and the lambs to where they’ll find a finer grass,
Their pastures filled with bargains and abundance in the aisles. Omission smiles
On senators and preachers alike while the candidates cross the miles
Between the nearest hometown threat—one’s neighbour’s ass
And gasoline that surely tops the current troy ounce of gold.
They’ll turn the page (they must of course) and trash
The smokers. Pump the gas and all that cash
Gets laid on ever-righteous Exxon barrels from oil rigs grown bold
In seas with calibrated bets and calibrated ease and no one is about to change.
If the goal is self-destruction, that, too, can be easily arranged.
They cannot listen nor can they speak but add to texts and stare
In disbelief and aptly vapid joy or base relief.
It keeps them glued to screens for clues in sound-bites of vicarious sleep
 Gaining gravitas as they crowd the streets in hot pursuit of here and there.
Within their palm-grown cast of  “Friends” and plenteous roe of virtual Network
Sites, seeds of virtual gardens, the literary fantasies of high-speed basic needs
Are gathering rams whose force has not abated. Nor have others failed to cede
What must come, eleventh in  hours,  aphorisms distilled to slogans. It begets
A certain sobriety while in the flush of wine they watch the tube,
The latest and exclusive live reports of signs of life in presaged strife,
Of storms on every coast, perhaps a virus in the circuit as the people vote—
Specifically on Wall Street and the Treasury, the spin of market’s quotes—
Before the rage of Ponzis and daily revelations of electoral strife
Amongst the self-anointed Mayans of the day recorded as a long pursuit,
Another longest march to what it means to scream and yet be mute.

“Gold Dust”

Gold dust in what’s become a bathtub, a rhyme for greater peace
In polls and averages on the Great Black Board, a greater rôle
For what must pass for city life and incarnations of the nation’s worthy goals
For all those married folks. No myths this time round, no words to please
The multitudes; no gilded maps and travelogues to find the Golden Fleece
And guide constituent parts to sums much greater than the whole.
Another bank dissolves and yet another twisted shore must fold
Before the revelation to the public where the ends are guaranteed at least
A fighting chance before deceit and means unfurl and Rome dissolves
Once more into yet another unexpected thousand-year repeat
In all its arrogance.  The latter-day recordings of a second darkest age
For schoolboys must be registered to decipher on a dog-eared history page
Of retrospection and contempt of how such apathy and lethargy must leach
From purple markets’ majesties within the brew to miles to go before we weep.

“Reigning Seasons”

Reigning seasons mean so little in the rush
From beacons to the milestones stretched so very taut; horizons
On all sides; they’ve asked him what he’ll do in stilted orisons,
Hopes to see them through the strain of silence, the hush
Of vague self-conscious recognition in the corridors and rooms,
The lobbies, foyers, familiar wells of stairs
No matter what the occupation; airs
Of interest and concern are there as brooms
With which to spread the clouds before him as he takes his flight
To where all travel. His days and hours are alone, now, buried months and years
Some time ago. Such tidy units close to death, the patients’ fears
No longer issue in this dreamlike state, the stupor in the fading light
Of what it is he’s done. No need for grace and salutation in a wave,
No further explanations needed here with nothing left to save.

“Torrential Towers”

Torrential Towers”

Torrential towers at the porous shoreline in their chorus

Augur waves of caution; warnings at the border that higher grounds
Become the choice in real estate when what we’ve done confounds
The facts with what we should be doing.  Turn the gaze to forests
And the acreage of new-ploughed farm lands to the south
And see the balding witnesses to what should not have been erased
By those who could not wait to see it happen in the race
To formulate prescriptions on run for Gaia on the mend. “The mouth
Of avarice is never bound by moderation,”
is the muezzin’s call

To progress in the market. Only they know truly what conspiracies
Are rife who can recall scenarios of doom and ancient theories
Less a source of satisfaction than the people’s cry for boutiques and malls
In every several state and province in the land.
To these the politicians must reply, “Which, the greater feat, to change
the Law, to heal a cripple, or to give strength to idle hands?”