Monthly Archives: November 2013

“Held in Audience”

Dyson_Sphere_by_capnhack

“Held in Audience”

And from the micro to the macro, we come to points of rising suns
That bring catharsis to the eyes, buds burning of pure numinosum
Held in audience, thrall from so much beauty to be gleaned,
Heard among the many who have come
To see the dance, the movement, all that is a simple evensong.
Well, who can hesitate with so little time to breathe? After all,
They are so clandestine and yet so publicly installed
As when in the course of minutes, experience—no mere trophy of the wronged—
Grants extreme unction to what they want because, recalled
To life en masse, their tastes and knowledge equal—the one,
the other—here at once; the celestial rotogravure
Ensures that no soul remains aloof from beauty’s torments’ burned
Doubtless in doubt but that one has the wherewithal to withdraw
From propriety in favour of purpose in such polite society. Yes, well ,
do you really think the Buddha took the night off
From time to time to shake down bread while His saints soared aloft?

“Little Significance”

synagogue

“Little Significance”

Little significance on whose lips reaction calls
The truth or what the colour of the robes of those who pause
To listen to the calculated mumblings of the laws,
The cause that measured adhans’ five-fold mantra from the minarets draws
Upon the Great Announcement, Who it was Who met the woman at the well
And told her every last thing she’d done. It comes to me
That in the raising of a cabbie’s meter or the parson’s purse to ease
The laboured journey of prisoners in conspicuous living hell
That crop the weeds of Georgia’s highways for some small
Offence that no one in the highness of Tibetan caves
Would notice raises splendid intercourse at tea
for spinsters in Vermont who salivate
In guarded whispers, salacious odes to grease the priests whose caterwaul,
Recalls the muezzin raised above it all in shibboleths of mitigated light
Through synagogues, mosques, and churches clothed in antiquated rites.

“And Who Is He?”

mirror9screen

“And Who Is He?”

And who is he if not an image in the hall
Alone with nothing but the furniture—
A stick or two—perhaps a glass of pure
Remorse for what’s past, and then the call
To what may just begin to reappear,
A possibility for some few hours in the sun?
The measure of a man is not his run
Of fortune nor a portion of a clear
And fruitful day among the multitudes,
But what he must achieve when face to face
With his own image and position placed
Before the judge of judges in the crude
Efficiency of gazing in the mirror all alone:
A man in crowds is not the man he is at home.

“Words Fail”

Pi-pie9

“Words Fail”

Words fail as time lines up at the station
No matter what the incidence of stops, resigned
To passages that little matter when bookmarks drift and energy simply finds
Itself a void in endless agitation
Of the pen poised anew to make its entrances, natural machinations
Too absurd to take their place in expectation of design,
Rich imbalances in crude subjection to perfect its rules while grammar’s rinds
Surround the sweetest predicates where clauses bring all to naught. Elimination
Of a single molecule creates inertia and intransigence,
Then, will never cease to lose both light and laughter. The crude defy
The whole where possible. Vain as is desire for cosmic π’s in darkened skies beneath the jaundice eyes of armies of opportunity and defense.
Ignorance will pit the lioness with willful prejudice
against the hyena’s jaws anesthetised in angry petulance.

 

“The Cusp of Things”

red_light

“The Cusp of Things”

The cusp of things, this siren in the night’s
Diversion that scars the vision’s days’ delay in what’s between
A wanderlust of possibilities yet to myself remains unseen;
And who has not discovered the taste of light,
The fragrant smell of vice and convalescent wounds that lead to brief surprise
In lyric melodies of accident, the salacious slap of coincidence or found
All solids turned to rushing streams on no longer stable ground,
The body heat—a brief release of truth—turned suddenly to ice?
Yes! of course I’ll teach my hours to fly, but fact
Is hourly resigned to friction through an opening,
An aperture, a lens through which each scene
Rehearsed becomes a chiselled frieze. Suddenly a match,
Some luminary speaks! his light reveals veneers I’ve built;
A satisfaction turned to grief that grinds these ruby solitudes to simple guilt.

“Have I Disappeared?”

Nature: Unforgetable Elephants

“Have I Disappeared?”

Have I disappeared, a mere recluse seduced to just
Another child of God? Today the silly infant
On the morrow’s sorrows’ streets, yes! and borrowed from elephants
Who grow but slowly, well aware that musth
Makes all the difference that transcends the size of tusks?
Witness another generation in yet another zeitgeist sway, an element,
Yes! but nothing near the seed of truth at all; a just requirement
No! but surely a warning. The numbers here must rise from trust
That there is a contiguous future, and the simplicity of nature’s bound
By few if potent rules that govern living. The weak fast
Here within pale, a consistory of suspicion in the circuit of birds
Awaiting eternal sleep that comes to all below—to calves a loss in whey,
Perhaps—but even so, there comes the nagging need to last.
No, I know no antidote to what is plainly seen.
The ends in all beginnings set the tone but for a time
And times again, and then again until a single rhyme
Is born within this world and worlds beyond the open sea,
From nothing each of us is carved and each of us will be
Again but nothing whether in the swelling brine
Of all there is to dream or nothing whittled, nothing signed
And no one’s name is mentioned while no thought atrophies.
Well, of course, I’ve disappeared. Before my place
And station were defined, my name not catalogued,
And fortun’d even less, nor mentioned in this bliss
That must have pleased some pernicious heart in close embrace
That raised the very reeds on which to play my song.

“A Single Tone”

images1

“A Single Tone”

A single tone, the elastic green or thin
Blue line of tomes and trilogies
Of joyous soliloquies
And what it means to breathe. A baby’s skin,
Yes! thin, the moment’s mine, and from where I sit,
So’s the next and then the next,
And for a time I am the action and the text
For more than actors; multitudes may fit,
Choirs of spirits throughout the years
In what they do, or may accomplish,
What their open windows, what they wish,
Expressed in what they will and will not and what it is they fear,
At once seize the souls of children in embryonic features
Of their worlds and what becomes of them: in fact I was their teacher.

“The Text”

Blue Truth

“The Text”

The text is oblique; transience,
The setting; morning moments strive
To goad the abyss or dive
For balance in the languid silence
Of high noon’s bleached and satellite hours
To the edge of obscure drifting
From the point of consciousness, sifting
The ashes of that passing evening’s fire.
Comes the occasion, the premise, the stunning clue
And nothing stops the process save the circumstantial fingers
Of the stage manager, and what light lingers,
Resolves, extinguishes itself in seconds, minutes: the view
Stupendous in the void. To kiss a memory and leave it on the stage
Transcends the loss, the pain, the striking of the set, the turning of the page.

“I Will Remember Them”

…in remembrance of all the wonderful teachers years ago,…and they were truly gifted and wonderful…

gish_campus_airial-web

Grand Island Senior High School
Grand Island, Nebraska

“I Will Remember Them

I will remember them forever, hearts
Departed long ago and those who still
Remain to say, “Ah, yes! I was and still
define myself within such visions, starts
And fits at thinking, matching first the noun
And then the verb to form a thought complete
With license to ground a thesis, yes; to see antipathy,
Transformed to sweet antithesis and then be drowned
In newborn thought―a synthesis at least―
And from such dim antecedents to the crown
And beauty of beginnings bearing down
On me and all its implications, blasts,
And rushing images in streams of light and thought,
The genesis of questions and of all the truths I sought.

gihs

“The Proof”

RICOH

“The Proof”

The proof was always in the pudding here, not there,
And in the tasting, the warp and woof of some few conceits
Upon a little hyperbole there, a solecism whose receipts
Obscure themselves in time with little thought or care
To what they mean once loosed or would have meant as they came
To him, restive, in briefer intercourse with casual static lightning’s flame
As passions’ sometime guests and lit by liquid lapis’ midnight rain.
Begging questions for a simpler recognition, seizures gain
Momentum by default and as if by will
Or mindless arbitration spill
Produce with no regret and even less respect on every hill,
In every valley, random, unrestrained.
“The source, the cloud, the drops themselves must be
An effortless encounter; mark it! There’s the key.“
“Perhaps,” he said, as if he always knew exactly where his words would lead.