Monthly Archives: September 2013




Thoughts never really leave me; I”m blessed
With what I take to be a holiday,
A page, a line from some distant future play
A little worse for wear for lack of happening; as poorly pressed
As common grapes in my own youth. Both bread and wine
Denied, my eyes at least behold the beauty of the thing
That I was never told, how truly passing was the spring
While I was teasing buds and threading fishing lines,
However much I thought I knew; how old I felt.
And as my trails began to cross, I suppressed
So little of what it was I took to be my soul. I dressed
The part, withdrew a thousand miles from where I dwelt
Imagining the magic of a myriad wrinkles’ wisdoms mine while still a boy
And thinking nothing of my summer’s lust, reduced my salad years to toys.

…art at top by H B Kerr…

“I Am What I Attract”


“I Am What I Attract”

I am what I attract, and as the loadstone
Draws invisibles so am I, and so I am alone today
And would it were not so I am not lonely. Yet to say
I am alone is closer to the truth. No sigh, no plaintive moan
No commonplace relief placates my throat; in my ear no tired voice
Complains or rallies decibels high against the whole; no silent sallies rent
Satisfaction in recompense for all I have left to all I did not willingly apprehend
From countless minions on the other side of time who made their choice
A solitude before we met. I am no stranger here, the key to my own prison
Lost along a beach where nothing dulls or swells the appetite;
No esoteric cause, no strange and caustic condescension to the rites
Of nothing here but simple vision in an arc of light, so listen
Carefully! You’ll hear the pitch and rhythm of the slaves intone
The presence of all luminaries in the night forever in themselves alone.

…art by Yigit Koroglu…

“Sign the Warrant”


“Sign the Warrant”

Sign the warrent, then. decree
The thing to be. Noble generosities
Of grace in governors are gifts in rhapsodies
Of purpose and a sometime promised remedy
In perpetuity in any life’s brief term; these―crucibles
For souls and peoples―litmus tests. Seek certitude,
Not mere faith or knowledge in the outcome, fruit, a passing solitude
Of undivided truth. Yes! perhaps the cleansing bowls
For any common Pilate, yes! but depth and height for Peter
While the Truth stood nailed to a cross at noon. Solicitude in metre,
Signature, and signs will not be measured by the litre
Or in numbers’ boiling cancers but with currency of the heart. Meek or
Arrogant, weigh stature in the man by willingness to die, not live.
When asked of nuances in the cannons of Gregory’s Inquisition,
the fatwa’s of the Jihad, the Prophet made reply:
“Wish for death if what you say is true and be prepared to die,”
No great surprise to those who know the sun.
They say it’s disappeared, but we know better.
Nothing’s left the sky, nothing’s lived or died; letters
Of the universe declare their glories on the run,
But I can testify to blessings and the bounties
Rife no matter what the messenger, or angle of the earth.
The horizon so effortlessly flatters itself; but in the surf
The evidence that somewhere on the planet foundling trees
And foliage, strangling jungles, and the swiftly shifting beds
Amid the mighty rivers’ muds desire to be the sea. The bloods
Of that great golden disk have never ceased; the cow, the cud
And Helios, a never-ending row of grace bestow and we are led
By those who claim the clouds and tilt of planets greater than
What it was that Galileo breathed within his sleeve,
and grateful that Sadducees have at last agreed to lift their ban.


“The Minute Stands”


“The Minute Stands”

The minute stands, my soul does not oppress
Its hours in conference rooms, nor press neighbours close
Upon my door, nor do trusts for futures, expectations, hopes
Of lasting curb the armies of my arrogance; I am at rest.
Because I love my soul, no lasting fears breed
Wantonly because I house beside an ever-running stream
Of waters several purified within a plethora of dreams,
In potent, proper cadences and rhymes descending through the reeds
And rocks from all my memory’s distant melting mountains. Glaciers
Of pieties’ states release potencies passing to the very porch of my door
And gone, and on to others. Yes, the raging rains are there for
Correction, yes, but clouds, never trespassers; diamonds, ever placing
Galaxies in my hands. My outbuildings are full, the harvests good;
And through it all, gain and loss, my soul rejoices as it should.


“Within the Coup de Grâce”


“Within the Coup de Grâce

Within the coup de grâce, the question’s simply put:
Devour paradise in this brief breeze, or live within
The pale that penetrates a lifetime. The phrases, phases in the winds
Of light bereft becoming fires jilted, plundered, these the soot
And garnish of vanities enjoyed as spice, meant to jolt,
To jumpstart, to reinforce the bottom line—shortcuts
Of weathered notions fully fleshed, fruition’s gains—neat, but
Missing something in the translation, these but transition, reverend folks,
The longer, sweeter tide of thought stretched taut within me;
  These see no sweet nothings, no grace notes breathing in or out
Of line with those who practice only basic chords who love to jump and shout.
Rest, and put it to the test. Know this, attend! Simplistic as it seems
The truth will out soon enough. Within the endgame happiness
Enjoys dominion in this world, it’s true, but joy ascends the Next.

“One Word”


“One Word”

One word for the road, two or three but ultimately
In time and through use clusters darker weights and gifts
The bitter sweet remuneration, wings of mischief
In the innocent, prodigious pride in the stately
Damned who for the moment occupy stations of the lately
Crowned and periodically remain as arbitrators in the drift
Of noxious clouds and sand dunes respeaking storms and monoliths
And what preöccupies the waking hours, yeast of conversations sedately
Phrased but to what are, after all, mere stones; that light-is my-lead
And not the shadow-that-I-cast is my inspiration.
Higher then, comes what is cast off by the mirror
That is my soul, and nothing of the shadows or
Commotion caused but purely the journey,
the majesty of earthly seed

From dust to dust, my final aspiration.

“Oh the Moment, Yes”


“Oh the Moment, Yes”

Oh the moment, yes. Movement
Owns them both–stillness
In evening’s fire’s thought and witness
To change. Cycles, rudiments
Along the way as if cosmic paths were condiments
To reasons for it all, seasoning enough
To accent eternal syllables and possibly a word; the stuff
Of endlessness in verbal arguments
That pause from time to time to take a breath and form an action
mind the road!

Delicate digressions vie with natural hesitation
To embrace the midnight hour as circumspection
In the minor chord and prelude to the latest code,
Anomalies in the nexus like pearls of depth and deepest night
That birth a blinding light as moths,
sycophants of dawn that drown in flight.

“Mark Resurrection”

Death pathway

“Mark Resurrection”

Mark resurrection in increments of death and blend
All distillation as talismans to all things living. Disappearance
Then, after all is splendrous reappearance,
Redesigned to bind all broken promises sent
Comfort like the sun for the faithful and the lost.
Seek confirmation, then, within the mind and soul,
but look to it, friend, in the end as the beginning never folds
Nor those who look for solace in the frosts
Of faith and knowledge; losing teases search
And then is gone. Certitude rises in the East,
With eyes held skyward to the West. Fortitude abounds in inward feasts
Of broad intention, tone and pitch and blessed with inspiration reaches
Patience in the present, memories of the past,
And perspicuous signs held in escrow first to last.

“A Sunday’s Positive Retreat”

“A Sunday’s Positive Retreat”

A Sunday’s positive retreat from the you in me restores
The dignities, the abstracts and a certain loftiness of soul
To such a height and venue that subtle reconnoitring of goals
And aspirations catch a second wind and certitude is restored.
Fill the given time with collective conscious thought to reaffirm
The origin and purpose that created a direction
And resurrection is renewed. Catalogues of pensées, subjugation
Of the mental wilderness and undeveloped character reappears to make firm
What has gone flaccid. Ethereal wisdoms in the plasma shudder
As a delegated Columbus finds his latest Salvador;
perhaps a turn or two
Through Eastern esoteric works,
themes for this week’s mystic school, the true
And ever-present voices, a pineal necessity for philosophic utters
Changing water into purest lactose,
modern loaves of superstition to the growing gorge of masses
Shaking down a cadre of ever-growing critical analysis
and knocking public sages on their asses.

“Each Week’s Saturday Morning”


“Each Week’s Saturday Morning”

Each week’s Saturday morning’s
Christmas. Up! Mom’s Symphony of the Pans
And banging clarion call to breakfast and the plan
For what token chores are mine with adagio of warnings
From Dad that lawns exist to be mown,
And trashcans created to be emptied first
And always before the adolescent glory of the moment’s thirst
For liquid interests and mental roaming—readings sewn
In drawings etched in the total freedom of an early afternoon;
At sixty-eight, each week-end’s ritual sleep-in leans
Toward a piety in all that matters. Weaned,
Souvenirs of many moons and melodies of countless tunes
Each spawn a zeitgeist, cut in curious Fandangos
as Conga lines decide what’s truly blessed:
The week’s remembrances’ memes recalled
…but all I want to do is rest.


…painting at top by Kilara of DeviantArt…