Monthly Archives: June 2013

“See the Signs”


“See the Signs”

See the signs in what you’ve done for me and smile.
There’s peace in what you say and joy in small
And insignificant asides in corridors and halls
Of what and where you are. I do not see you in the miles
Of life that stretch the either side of us every day,
But I behold the tokens and the souvenirs of storied stations,
Parabolic detours and scheduled stops along the line: elation
In the wanderlust, the magic of the Tao and the way
In which from time to time we find ourselves
Together in the oddest places—traffic stops.
My heart will miss your visions ever locked
In structured schedules and in the dusty shelves
Of what it is that I’ve constructed. It is our fate, our legacy:
So many souls require us both along roads
that separate our several destinies.


…painting at bottom by Remedios Varo…

“No Amount of Wishing”


“No Amount of Wishing”

No amount of wishing makes it so;
Such tide’s against eternity, and I am forced
To cut and run this side of common sense. Of course,
I opt to claim another day, and in the afterglow
Of what I’ve known in life, I’m glad for sentiments,
And memories, the meat without the fat.
This world owes nothing to me: flat
Upon my back or standing tall, withal the evidence
Is stacked against longevity and lovers of this world.
What is founded on the premise of a goal
Remains outside precedence, far beyond the folds
Of centuries upon realities centripetal within this swirl
Of fame or fate: the present foments dusts and grime;
The future’s laced with grave discoveries and causal rhyme.

“The Body, Yes!”


“The Body, Yes!”

The body, yes! Consecutive form,
The repetition of the last, consensual norm and yet
With slight but noticeable difference in the set
Of eyes or angle of the nose, the swarm
of friendly smiles; nods to right or left,
Indices of stock on the floor or in a bed,
Apparently a casual sitting, instead
About to rise, or to collapse, bereft
Of any given posture or position in the light.
The body, yes! The body, and the view
And close consideration; any slightest clue
Implies perfection, disgrace and beauteous flight
Between the lines open to the naked stare;
What else can one do, when one just happens to be there?


….calligraphy and photographs by Ronit Bigal…

“Of course! Art”


“Of course! Art”

Of course! art, the cheek of brilliance balanced, bold
Enough to catch the inner eye,…but soft!
What lights in wider window webs, and lofts
Within such cinder rooms as spine and centrefold
Can mean so much, that feed so little but the soul?
It is the ache of apples ripe for picking,
Snowflakes chiseled, storm clouds mimicking
Latter day ablutions of spirit-slaves in chains within the cold
Bewildering creosote docks and sealed wine barrels of the wharfs
Of distant Northern European seaport shores
Whose denizens in beauty live then forgotten by the whores
Of Paris, Rome; or whitewashed backyard city dwarfs
Whose meretricious coffee tables will in time collapse
Beneath the weight of monographs when time and currency have lapsed.



“Art shows us how to be more than we are.
It is heightened, grand, an act of effrontery. It is
a challenge to the confines of the spirit.
It is a challenge to the comfortable pleasures of everyday life…”

-J. Winterson

“The Days Do Not Crawl”


“The Days Do Not Crawl”

The days do not crawl; there is no strain,
No weightless urgency to save the day;
No bitter words remain, nor ecstasy in vain,
And what I have will not prolong the pain;
No! Nothing is but what it was, nor sweets
Nor bitters to numb the tongue; nor passion’s heat
Is left the other side of doors to whisper as it grieves;
No endless sunshine, no dying leaves are scattered in the breeze;
And I am not abandoned in the streets,
Nor do I miss my home across the seas,
And I’ve not broken bread with thieves,
Nor do I see an end to all I have achieved:
But, I am here, and you are there, and we’ve nothing to deny,
And when you call my name, I answer, “Here am I!”

“No Longer”

“No Longer”

No longer middle ground since we crossed the Rubicon to Oz;
Middling, yes! but Ozymandias has not been seen since 1818
Save for one split second threading hairs through the seams
Of  zeitgeists two or more along a grey-walled trench, a cause
Of parallel joy for some few hours of silence when a clause
And caveat or two were formed within a certain fecund corporal’s dreams
Of death, transfiguration and some place in a line that seemed
To say that true results are neither here nor there; the law’s
Delay will save the day and if we’ve been fêted in a fetid trench
For now, “we’ll soon be surfeiting beyond the need of bread and butter,
on to caviar and champagne.”…
…Yes? then let it rain today; suffice

To say whatever comes to mind will serve a dying virtue or victorious vice
When no one’s left to gainsay what despite the stench and clutter
Is after all to victors, spoils, to prey what words are left to mutter.

What must be must come with no one left to guarantee—
Entitlements be damned—if better souls are weakened, powerless-
Ness succumbs before the righteous face of bribery and can no more guess
Who’s come to dinner than what’s behind the silver screens
  And gilded archetypes for auld lang syne. In the end, we’ll euthanise the trees’
Supplies, the reams of notes and asterisks to history in digests
Bound in leather, all that might have served to lay to rest
Licentiousness of blame or contrition in arrears for what we’ll leave
To broad imagination. History takes effect in tomes of admonition
with healthy tongue in cheek; the hornet’s sting can be fatal,
True, but then there’ll always be survivors and who’s got time
To reckon loss when carillon bells toll their rhymes:
…so, who pays the bill and who discerns
from death the blessings of the cradle?

“The Pastels, the Liquids”


“The Pastels, the Liquids”

The pastels, liquidity in the glass are given sight
In purest motives from the richest reds,
Blues, or better yet, outrageous magenta shreds,
Cobalt indices within the tincture. The slight
Is, for the moment, intended, frozen, then released
In lucid translucent turbulence held captive by seals
Between the wards as ever-churning shapes reveal
The signs of bailiwick again.  The artist, her fragile ovulation, speaks
In stains, then thoroughly intoxicating flames, and then is gone. She’ll appeal
To hearts in refraction, a natural reaction in framed compassion.
Stationary, held inert, or in the running freely, stasis rationed
Rarely if at all, she invites movement along with zeal
Induced by pure delight in candlelight in the dance
Of elvish fingertips upon the eyelids, no smile left to chance.


…art at bottom by Art Adams…

“She Holds Herself in Deftness”

woman_by_the _window_number_two

“She Holds Herself in Deftness”

She holds herself in deftness, a dandelion misplaced
From time to time in God knows what the pot.
She uses moments skilfully, and what she’s got
She shares in rooms she’s peopled, spaced,
Designed the more or less in compositions
Spelled, apart from one another, rearranged
And blocked as on a stage to take advantage
Of the light, its tasteful wise proximities. Competitions
Ruled, measured, revised, advised, and set
According to a notion or a rule
That she’s devised may not be
Science, but something more, perhaps, than chance, an ease
Akin to art, and expended squarely on a single fool.
No one seems to notice where it is she goes
Between the scenes nor what it is she knows.

…electronic painting by Wim Wenders…

“And When I Pack It In”


“And When I Pack It In”

And when I pack it in at night I think
About my day and turn my thoughts to Him,
And feel more than ever that the hymn,
Sweet Hour of Prayer, is more than just a link
To chains within my mind to what I know is true:
Deeper, deeper, yes, than breath itself. The only time
I find I am alive affects the single call, the stolid rhyme
Between what He is and what I am, the simple clue
To what I’ve seen and gleaned and what I am about
To see, a reason far beyond the air I breathe: He
Is, I am, and He becomes for me
The Question as well the Answer, the Mount
Of Olives whereon I hear my voice,
And, in the end, it’s He who makes my choice.


“Kuan Yin”


“Kuan Yin”

Power in the youthful spirit―less
Than perfection and ubiquity by a hair,
Still more than merely hubris, a flair
For outward verbal, visual, and the rest
―This Kuan Yin places both hooves tied
And even, polished in the stirrups, firm
And purposed for the ride. She will learn
Of course that undertow in tides
Is dangerous and that not all imaginings act
Along the grain when divined from the sky,
Ancient planes which may have had a fly
Or two derange the serviced instruments―a fact
That more than must and many learn from time
To time―but spirit? Yes! as she relates to the sublime.