“Simplify the Matter”
Simplify the matter, choose the either, consult the ether, pick one,
Be, and it will be! An avizandum is no match for public exhibition
And yet the journey never really satisfies an abyss of timely erudition
Further than a fortnight nor the rule of planets beyond their single sun.
And if the moon’s the object in the search,
Winter’s clouds will override the story—
If they speak at all in apostrophes of midnight glory—
While the appetite’s for fear, what then must follow the zenith? Dirty shirts
And all the king’s fine laundry’s better left
Unwashed if the pawn rejects the lint of ragged pockets as socks
Are so easily separated, so inevitably lost forever. High tech stocks
And clever use of futures are stuff of much the same in strategies in what’s bereft
Of patience or detachment and verisimilitude when the trend in toys is moot in leisure time exacerbates no small wonder in shrinking;
Ships and stocks are never stronger than the thought of either sinking.
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Detachment, Economics, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Meditation, News Media, Sonnet, Thinking, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
“We Will to Live”
We will to live while millenia roam across the boards.
Our stage remembered, drowned in memory becomes a swamp and thence
A wounded star across the bow where builders’ knives repair the fence
And perforate the hitherto unknown. The undisturbed pristine moors’
Natural madness gives but just enough to inhale and to support
The failing pale of flora, fauna, and here and there, perhaps in offence
Placed more for decoration forming little ordre, no defence
But room enough for families and peculiars to the tribe, the core
Of some unlikely future nation’s border war
Or pages in a glossy geographic monograph. For pretence
Of pattern or the need for fillers in poetic license
Some there are of gifted verbal genius with almost nothing to support
Save these, the lessons of the pasts engaged for mass seduction
In a world that has no end, no greater need than pure and simple reproduction.
Imprecations of the stream are moot in deltas as they reach the sea.
Everything’s aim’s to gain as through nature’s perversity,
And while we grope at times, we may never quite roll the stone
That blocks the entrance to the Sepulcher. Risking all we’re not, we are alone
And there’s the open sore. The same applies its rule for everyone who breathes
To live and never mind the other way around. As the madding cloud seethes
Above the villages, so, too, the volcanic will must relieve itself, erupt, cool
And leave future’s aching fortresses astride a season’s lethal rut. Fools
And angels build as well on sand as on a known caldera
Knowing safety’s but a syllable in life, a symbol, a chimæra
Of the mind. Is it God or His Creation that thrives on anarchy and a scintilla
Of chaos less than light conversation on the price of eggs with Manila
Within a stone’s toss of Hell, itself? Who here’s merely waiting for a train
And who has no umbrella to protect his children from the evening rain?
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet, Typhoon Haiyan
Tagged End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, Sonnet, Typhoon Haiyan
Some thing a-typical arises foisting tired but boisterous
Caveats, addenda, screaming anomalies and all hell
To pay for lack of any better thing to say; they spell
The hour, they cast the day’s iron, they fire the weeks’ preposterous
Prescient fears, plastic in the force and thrust
Of what appears to move and yet is still. And as the well
Runs dry, the will remains the perfect dungeon. The knell
Of what the bell once toll must exorcise from former trust
To change the oh-so-slightly this or that design
That redefines the times and needs of those whose path is but a day.
The reach they say will last no longer than the torch will bear,
And no! no longer than these golden laurels resist fatigue in metal there
Upon the brow of dynasties nor ancient logs and temple columns petrified
upon a gilded page deny the rites of Cæsar’s pyre to wash his sins away.
…art by Eero Johannes…
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Cæsar’s pyre, Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Separation, Sonnet
“There is a Strain”
There is a strain in waiting. Here in the atom’s atrium
Comes roaring in the autumn’s leaves and days:
That novel not begun, anticipation of some new light at dawn, a matinée
In the spreading skirts of winter’s deeper lasting opprobrium
From those he knows he must leave. Pencil in most weighty schemes
And actions on consignment, back orders, slight
Delays festooned with disorderly conduct in procession. Flights
Booked months or weeks in arrears and in his eyes are dreams
Bathing freely in vanilla images of the nightly moon’s thought
That soon he will be free. These, the natural conclusions
In one so penultimately close to actual lines of light’s diffusion
In some cosmic credit, a long ignored desire of eternal spring. Supine,
He lies here wondering just what the summer’s fuss was all about,
And now when almost all is said and done, at every breeze the flame goes out.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
Geologic leavings from the rift, an ancient strife, lucid memories gone shallow,
The signs of consequence greater than implication, simple modernities.
So little thought to what survives beyond a portion of a lifetime; eternities
Whispered in the last winter’s winds while earthly crops are all but fallow.
Ears accosted, the ear’s former inspiration deafened by stentorian rhetoric,
Redoubled in the light of the masses in the press and redundancy, the suns
That rise and fall with chutzpha and maddening regularity reaching such sums
And gaseous rumours as permeate the ephemeral and lightly esoteric.
But do we see the latest apparition in the dawning skies
Today and revel in its flight,
No greater vision possible, no finer god, his résume in lights.
And while accepting fresher delays from yesterday’s demise
All are cognizant of what must be? Rains will come no matter how we strive,
And in the end the only consolation for the living is the fact that we survive.
It’s pathetic in the classic sense, egregious waste
To spend a world on what he thinks he is. He tastes,
But finds no flavour, sees the page, but in his haste
He reads and cannot spell. The crooked line is chaste
Enough to him and more or less he owns the knack to be
Perceived as top dog at the corner street arcade
Before divisions in the stable force his hand. He raids
His lifetime’s fortune fortified and buttressed by animosities
To what existed well before all witnesses to the crime had stepped aside.
His way’s engraved on every schoolyard jungle gym and sandbox slide.
It does not fall to him to raise objection, cop a plea, to cease or to resist
A new-mint shiny dime or shoot the moon’s deposits in the skies.
Addiction’s child plays the labyrinth of paradox, dilemma, and enigma’s lists
Of what’s been overlooked and what misfortune’s kissed–
“O WORLD, I cannot hold thee close enough!”* And so he must.
He’ll play that card until the bar is closed, until his dollar’s been reduced to rust.
* …from “God’s World” by Edna St. Vincent Millay
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, Dollar, Economics, Economy, End Times, Illusion, poetry, Sonnet
Demonstratives, egregious adjectives salute me on the street.
The “while” of all my hours. The ëgo you may say gains admittance to my ear
And raises spectres in the gathering rusts of any fiscal year
Of clouds and storms, the noxious winters on all fronts. Anxious fleets
Of bankrupt publicans working seas of mitigating spreadsheets―
“Procrastination,” someone mentions, “just keep talking,”―old debates
Clabber easily where genocide of currencies are sanctioned, openly; discrete
Parleys-in-Council. Morganatic masses melt to puddles in polar streets
While doctors spin from pulpits, “Foul! No matter what our fate!”
And we’ll all drown as when emerging from an ancient a Celtic haze,
Roman rhetoric melding to Norman lists of deficits put to page
Point for point their goals around the glory of taxes and invasion in the late
Night nauseating prattle of the screen. But no place to hide in the latter days
Of bold correction in the Saxon markets, fickle futures that simply fade away.
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Celtic haze, Delusion, Demonstratives, Economy, End Times, Fiscal year, Invasion, Market corrections, Morganatic masses, News Media, poetry, Procrastination, Publicans, Saxon markets, Sonnet, Taxes
What age will grant sanctuary for untoward tailings in the dust,
The ague of decadence and contemplation; more
Or less beside the need of solemnities, the shore
A satisfaction over mere achievement. What must
Be evokes no small modicum of stress here beside the ocean’s egress,
Harbours of contraband uninhabited but for the wayward, wayfarers
Of reticence and perhaps the odd refusal. The late HMS Mayflower
Of course had greater thoughts than simple foundling nations, excess,
In turn on the mother continent, northern raiders―the Rus redux―landed,
And the race was on. But surely goodness knows
The fate of retrogression. Certain the last leopard in the snow
Finds his promontory, and where he rests there must be prey. Banded
Antelopes ascede, not the great cats, and yet before the cock crows thrice
The tribe denies the Holy Ghost while yet another names his price.
“Though the Rising of the Sun”
Though the rising of the sun knows nothing of its setting,
It is for the earth and moon to wonder at such treason
As witnesses to this truth above translucent skies and seas, the season
And its recipients, homilies of bounty; whose,
the onus through the needle’s eye, the periodic letting
Of the blood of lambs with only yards between the finite poles, forgetting
Nothing, revealing nothing but an urgency
to emergency and back again? The heathen
Knew no more than synalepha in their call to prayer; pagans even less, elisions
Fossilised, putting thought to marble and fervour to the page, betting
Time against the pharoah’s death that few would ever live long enough
To find the tragic flaw. Comes the Man from Ur to move the heavens
And the earth to wakefulness from slumber, to realign the eyes toward the Star
That transforms a common phoneme to the station of a Holy Morpheme far
Beyond the Alif as the Alpha: the Word, Itself;
so the story goes and just so the stuff
Of legends leading to Omega born. Of the Twelve,
one chose time; infinity, the remaining Eleven.
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Alpha and omega, Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet, spirituality, Strife, Tragic Flaw