Monthly Archives: October 2013

“What’s Come”

Wall Street1

“What’s Come”

What’s come in mornings comes close to closing arguments;
Some last gasp within the nation, curtains falling in classrooms,
And business hours’ closings in no more than yields of mushrooms.
Gather and surmise. They’ll keep their old appointments
While remodelling corners in the life they’ve led and jettison
Decisions for one more season. Comes the afternoon, the summer’s
Yield to autumn months and they’ll be nothing left of slumber,
Running forays to the pawn shop to hedge their summers’ reticence
To part with memories and souvenirs supporting others in the kingdom,
Nameless, ever-present in the shadows just outside the door. The ransom
Paid, they’ll free themselves of all those years and spend the ransacked
Pensions of working man in one last tax. There’s more and then some
To consider in the settling of accounts, and they’ll be off to see the Wizard
While the world back home in Kansas is blanketed in months of one long blizzard.

…painting by Katelyn Alain…

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“A Holy One”

bridge2

“A Holy One”

A holy one is born to justice or to love,
Whether soft beginnings stretch the paths
From the river to the mountain, back
To deeper wells than womb or the showers’ deluge from above.
He must decide, he must approach his gift.
The bridge is there, of course, ever forbidding. Sirens praise the rift,
Between the passages from mere attraction to what is one in truth,
the mind to heart, of course, reverses journeys but sift
The messages, read between the stones, decipher mysteries; set adrift,
And perhaps he is, but in the end selah there is the passing
From inspirations to consummations on the other side;
If he can fly he will not walk. He cannot hide, he must decide,
And as stations and the office are everlasting,
Fathers wait, mothers, then, abide; and when he must see, he leaves
His foot prints on the bridge from love to justice blessed crossed in blessèd peace.

bridge3

“Justice as Potentials”

justice---l-body2

“Justice as Potentials”

Justice as potentials invade the hearts, affections cede their own
Fields and those of others in specious urgencies ill defined
Beyond the anxious worm within the soil and some few voids come to mind.
Embroidered organs, muscles, bleached and raw impressions, bones,
And tusk breakers; the clues are endless. Of all conventional thought―
His, notwithstanding―sometime crowns are all cast down and qualify
The spaces ‘twixt the aces, king and queen as any Jack will pacify
Presumptions and asymmetrical assumptions and all those tragic flaws
To wave dismissals and the right to speedy trial with a nod
And as with wisdom—in itself, a whisper of truth in balance—is free to breathe.
Even planets reveal themselves in phases and effects, their pawns.
Continue, then by all means to conclusions drawn
From genius wrought in chimeras of beauty and golden Nimrods
In cloister. There is equity in all that is and distraction in the breeze.

“The Lady with the Cane”

Lady1

“The Lady with the Cane”

The lady with the cane got on the westbound 90 Bus
With considerable difficulty and slightly confused just in time
To find a seat toward the front. All went well and fine,
And had there been no seat, no problem, none, no fuss,
The kindness of strangers would soon insist that she
Had a comfort seat. All could see the worth of this
Retiring lady who’d been happy in her time to raise three fine kids,
Survive the War, and Great Depression, proud and free
Of debt, all despair, her physical impairments totally dismissed
With no regrets, and radiant acquiescence through it all.
In time, two loud young teenage girls got on the bus,
Two shrieking sirens, harpies heard throughout the bus, trust
Galore that absolutely no one would look up or raise a word. The ball
Began, of course, and what was said and done would curl your hair,
And they were right, of course: no one stared or even seemed to care.

…painting by Lucian Freud…

“If Mourned”

Cosmic soup1

“If Mourned”

If mourned, this love permits no entrance, leaves no exit.
From its labyrinth there’s no way in or out; in substance nothing’s in between
For traffic here from the users gleaned, bursting at the seams
For all’s intent and purpose, deployed while still in transit
From one röle to the next, sandals winged. With memory split
These ancient tunes mimic one another but for seconds like moonbeams
Or the briefest torrent of terrible swift lightning that does not lean
Toward simple use or common cause as heartbeats in cadavers where we sit.
Believe us! Here within a matrix whether housed in womb or cradle
Charged in camera with interest or selected tribute from the shelf
The whole of what we are, a single moon
That serves a solitary planet or as that satellite serves a family, marooned
And circumspect for a measured time, and payed out as by a ladle
From a cosmic soup of time in stock mirrored each within the self
Useless as a vision, solid as porcelain figures in a cabinet on a shelf.

“Pleased and Pleasing”

Emerald

“Pleased and Pleasing”

Pleased and pleasing, crystalline,
Your eyes
Supine and surprising, patterned,
Your body
Pressed and pressing, joined,
Your hands
Allowed and always, affirming,
Your face
Signed and signing, searching,
Your spirit
Thought and thinking, inspiring,
Your glory
Sought and seeking, destined,
You.

“Something Wicked”

Babble

“Something Wicked”

Something wicked this way comes
And everyone knows it! Witness
The brevity of will in a people so possessed
By control that no waking phrases in the scrum
Are backed, no action packed
But leads to Pyrrhic victory somewhere short of oblivion.
“Buy me, do me get me!” say they all with pomp and liaison
Sprinkled through the phrases, staccato wracked
And stacked and constant, never mind the consequence
Or where it leads: “Just process the wiseacres,
Sedley, and stop philosophising about the mediocre
Lives they portray…,”* the wise whisper. And while the sequence
Of goal and collateral debris matters only lightly
Up or down, tout le monde at home attend politely.

recognizing-bottlenecks-in-product-backlog-scrum-agile-software-development

*paraphrased caption from a cartoon in The New Yorker magazine some years back…

…painting at top by Petula Bloomfield…

“Some Golden Ratio”

anticipation1

“Some Golden Ratio”

Some golden ratio renders lavish limitations concealed
Forever in escrow in nocturnal peace. This rest,
This joy of doing nothing proffers idylls that arrest and test
The ëgo, the öpportunity to blaspheme, to yield
To temptations hidden in the grasslands, happiness
Drowned in logic, threads lost within the many rooms of reality:
O God! I would have it!
But here she sits at last,
A stupor of commonality,
Perfections and procrastinations. Usury
Of desires, sirens in every
Waking moment
Cannot be denied and so the quotidian cacophony
Of sharpest failure in the pastel shades of pedestrian mediocrity.

Golden ratio1

“Weaknesses At the Weekend”

“Weaknesses At the Weekend”

Weaknesses at the weekend–yes, perhaps,
And then there are the early autumn’s housebound
Moments when the embers’ crackling sounds
Speak volumes to the soul, stay put and mishaps
Of the weekdays’ wounds are soon overlooked
In major preparations’ soups and brews
And special sauce while the marinating stews
And meats are seasoned over notebook
Recipes in peppered flour, yes. A fine pork chop
Or two there on the counter smiling in the kitchen,
A filet for sure or then again the hearts of artichokes smitten
With the thought of someone’s mother’s chicken boiling in a pot
All day with herbs and garlic; eventually, an entire tree of broccoli,
A wreath of parsley. Broth days…
…it’s the famous the famous eat or sleep dichotomy…

“In Spheres”

dueling_stars

“In Spheres”

In spheres, distances not in brief delights
But necessary echoes warping in the flight
From sources of light to casual perceptions are but meteoric flares,
Comic swarms of relatives in intercourse with pathetic rust,
Mountains’ remnants, antecedents of recollected dust,
The cosmic pride of satellites in musth
That leave islands of restive matter coined as juggernauts. Cusps
Between the eons herald still greater bathetic births
Of perspicuous beauty to all observers as the days give way
To ages’ raging restless weathering. Know that these delay
Nothing in themselves; ever late and always prime. Know these tragic lies
Deceive the eyes, delights in crystal formed of violence reconnoitred.  Forgive
Such qualities awhile and allow munificence within a night’s museum,
Tokens in a cosmic cemetery
and we but mourners in an alcove  present mausoleum.