“She Knows She Knows So Little”
She knows she knows so little and even fewer see,
Or should the inverse be to serve the world; magnified,
Then, be the sight, and keener still, the diligence and pursuit, the urge to fly,
To float intentions and the mere suggestion of abstracts launched in fleets
As questions never fail to rise; but of course, in this world there is no rest;
There’s always more. Questions spawning questions will
Suffice in futures’ nests and past residuals the contexts for still
Small voices just as bells from Hell will drown a lion’s roaring texts.
There are, of course, as always ready answers, waxed and chloroformed,
For sale in the offing here; she merely asks, her interrogatives seine
For truths that skim the natural foam of oceans or knead the stains
Of cold cognition as yeasts will burn in turn
to breads of thought more easily absorbed.
Within a single glyph, a cliff from which her past visions shrink and scorn;
If not from this ship, then yet another barque of endless thought is born.
…drawing at top by Elia Vzquez-daz-Belloso;
painting at bottom by Steve Mills…
Posted in glyphs, Imagery, Imagism, Knowledge, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Thoughts, Truths
Tagged End Times, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Patience, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
“And So the Thirteenth Year”
And so the Thirteenth Year has risen. Once again
I see the many-signed horizons change, but not so the pun
Celestial; what comforts are guaranteed in the constant run
Of sun and moon throughout translucent images in the reigns
Of single days. These rules ride aloof above the change
Of negatives within my finite train, my sometime home, the living corpse
That casts reflections of my shadow, or so it seems; no horse
Owns less. As I am weaned from Babylon, divisible and rearranged—
Its thousand eyes around this common phantom’s dream
Among the billions—creatures certain of their differences in days
And nights exist but only quietly remain beneath my skies amazed
That what has always been there, seen
Across my ceiling, yes! is not at all remote.
The constant conflict of years has risen once again and smiles
As what’s about to be is simply all that’s left posterity in the miles.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Posterity, Samsara, Years
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw