Monthly Archives: December 2013

“A Moment To Reflect”

“A Moment To Reflect”

A moment to reflect, these several when
The job is done, and there’s no real choice
But rest and celebration; tasks, the last of many, voiced
Throughout the years of work will one day send
A massive missive of relief, and thanks
With weighty sentiments and fond farewells; cheer,
And weathered tusks to see me on beyond, and further than fear
To take a few steps–arrogantly, yes, perhaps–down paths that rank
Above all present trumps and peculiars of this earth:
I have the fewer moments through to the end, I know,
And will it so or else the hours, the weekly flow
Of days and nights, prove life’s lavas might well have spent their worth.
And what of miseries in days beyond this present strife,
Born within the present, laced with beauty
in the shadows of the latter life?

“He’ll Pause”

Sobocki Leszek (1)

“He’ll Pause”

He’ll pause to give the nod to half a dozen
Elderberries all along the street between the corner
Depanneur and that last mile he’s worn
For years from sidewalk to the door. A cousin
Found the place one fine day when destiny was in a hurry;
A cracker box for sure, but overlooking sunrise and the river.
Kitchen’s not much to look at but big enough to chop liver,
Split an onion; no spilt milk in wasting time and energy; not to worry
Over details, no. But, then again, he ignores himself and wonders
Every once an evening’s glance about the Book of Hours, the place
Where the bed’s been made, the last dish done. Does he find the grace
To mark his time and space; is this still small world his final blunder?
The little joys are leaving now; it’s just past midnight as he sighs,
“Is this my private heaven or the final closet door through which I’ll soon fly?”

…painting by Leszek Sobocki…

“I Am Nothing”

nothing

“I Am Nothing”

I am nothing if not noted in a book
Of reckoning, some slight record of me here and there
Upraised, even sought by souls whose care
And wizened regard I long ago forsook
To seek my own blank pages, to underwrite
A leaf or two, distributing diamonds in my hand
To places I had never been. To seed lands,
Harvest images, draw scented waters of praise sealed tight
In time within a vial or significance, a  light
Container sufficient to carry on nightly walks
Through streets which run throughout my history, chalk
Lines on sidewalks and in the sands drawn as vague rites
In hegira with fellow travellers through dim-lit dusks,
Hejaz of endless dawns to come, some bull in ever-present musth.

“Some Are Crowned”

Yellow Brain

“Some Are Crowned”

Some are crowned as apples, some as eggs,
Others wear the uniform of acorns scattered as the zeal
Of seasons turns by circumstance, some to reach the fields
And some to disappear. Whether treasures or the dregs,
The spike of thorns for classic torture, the prick of thistles for the symbol,
Implications dwindle in the winds and mountain snows will thaw
With no greater understanding than that nothing grows beyond the flaw
Bestowed. That fallow space displaces moistures by the bucket or the thimble
Best beloved, but nothing near the destiny of receptacles of grace wherein
The blessing and benefit is tested. Serenity, repose, and peace
Received, themselves the purpose while the price of life is death. Such ease,
So great a recognition of the burden’s broad design is thus resigned. In
That lethal insight of the germ we see how perfect are the needs,
That some fruits will be eaten and others reign again as seeds.

Brain

“The Aim”

Montreal Night1

“The Aim”

The aim perhaps is subtle but definite; stillness ranks
With movement on the whole within the meme, the which,
Veering, requires another theme to skip a stitch,
To drop a construct, to choose a periodic thread, and thanks
To disarray and latent platitudes in praise of change,
The pattern lifts but pixels from the norm.
In the riot of the autumn’s recent rites no natural lights delight the worm.
Winter underwrites his monikers as souls inhale the breadth and range
Of what it means to be and then to cease to be.
Noted, then. Stamped, enshrined
Within the season’s sudden enterprise, his damp surprises seduce the eyes
Beyond the overture, the other side of icy particles in cloudless skies
Above the object and goal of vision and all the mind’s attempts to fly.
Whether creatures of the night or day, the need is always there
To see the next redefined immaculate conception, a codicil of beauty in the air.

“My Presence Ominous”

mirrorselfportrait

“My Presence Ominous”

My presence ominous is the Ôm in me and not the audience to what I am;
Not I, but all mankind stakes this same claim. Prophets have declared the same
When once Their cup of endless Holy Names is drained
Because They love what He has made and write it freely in the sand.
That I am not what I seem proves meaningless within the vain
And easy afterthought that vanity within is altered in the end
By every creature known to me. I am blown by every wind
And feel the breath of everyone I’ve known. I mirror that without that aims,
That feels, that sees, that barely hears the cacophony withal.
Syllables of thought from random scenes and primitive perceptions
Bond evenly in every waking dream, and sleeping memory. Keen receptions
Held together by the same cement are cosmic answers to all such calls
From without and I am here with you—though fractured—present all the same.
If faithfully you know who He is and always was and ever will be,
at once you do and will know who I am and that with you I’ll remain.

“The Weathered Branch”

EarleWinterOak

“The Weathered Branch”

The weathered branch in winter’s weariness
Knows whereof it yearns, and just so its certitude and hope;
The blossom finds no time to contemplate, its cope
And mitre, all its careless beauty reigns in azure consciousness
That time and the occasion are not long
Its beginning nor end. All its cries are ice
And burdens in the grip of midnight’s once and only vice
And heard no more. What requiem in its song
While strength in twigs and heavy motherlode
Abides in faith despite its wretched state,
A one in many who live when storms abate
Producing yet a greater majesty despite the deadly cold.
Which melody is heard, outrageous anthem moot
Within hours or living centuries made manifest in the root?

“Yes!”

Mario Gruber_pintor brasileiro _ Mário Gruber _ painter_ (23)

“Yes!”

Yes! And, whether in the present or in latter worlds
Hereafter, we’ll own nothing of what it is we think we’ve missed nor seek
A separate peace, nor cause at all to stand and stare in disbelief:
I simply always am and ever be while all else is cold calamity. The turn
Of seasons, monoliths of months in stacks, my Book of Hours glows
Though presence at the banquet here is moot. The call
Toward the Centre as with all most sacred rites makes little sense at all.
Delight me, then, in invitations only. Journeys through all rôles
from perfection to perfection puts all yesterdays as tomorrow’s dread—
The subjugation of the will to its appointment. Still, what is read
In casual events will quicken life with blessings for the living dead
And raise both death and dying to a point of pure liquidity. We are led;
We do not lead. Wait, my friend, we do inform ourselves, the eye
And heart assume new forms and places that no soul may easily deny.
Who here rises, the dead, and who here descends save the living? I ask
And whole generations flee from me. Beauty drains beneath the sun; my walls,
My will cannot contain quantities of qualities; my heart cannot recall
So much: a single letter; a word; a sentence incomplete; the task
Transcends the discipline of syntax. Yes. I dwell on mountain peaks
This side of fascination—in and of myself a centre—a light so blinding
That senses—gifts within me—must capitulate in time, the blinding
Never seen by others and not at all so broad, Enough! Containers leach,
Constructions of the minute hand do not survive through time’s evation,
Tears and laughter wanting waste the night. My flight’s elation,
The length and breadth of all I see, and nothing in me speaks
To this. I leave it where I first beheld it, glory
So intense that who it is and who saw it first no longer read the story.

…painting by Mario Gruber…

“The Commonplace”

Daud Akhriev _ paintings

“The Commonplace”

The commonplace where once was someone’s
Hospices in distances and not so very far from me,
I knew her actually
As twilight and a thousand blazing suns
Reduced to changelings, now a masterpiece
Of onyx and sardonic, now a memory and somewhere’s
Afterthoughts; a hundred places where she feared
To go—or so Millay declared—a timed release, a lease
On what she thought was love. Without the sound
Of pen to page, nothing’s left to write, no doubt knowing
I’ll never see the end of it; no glowing
Tribute in a minor poem capturing all I’ve found;
A peace and distance in the grace that somehow
I was left but scents and lint and shadows.

…painting by Daud Akhriev…

“As If the Hearth Could Not Speak”

Unrequited_Love_by_impixel

“As If the Hearth Could Not Speak”

As if the hearth could not speak, its defects say:
“Respond! Reflect! This is no place for you tonight” The log is moot, gemütlichkeit
Gleaned from ashes, kinetic glories from the naked day
As columns dance, sparks and emerald embers choreographed,
Collaborating in the orchestra pit; the overture
Neutred, ascends with no hope of reward. Smoky demons cure
Leaves and roots in vain and while the seer laughs
She claps her hands and adagios appear as if by magic.
Here beside you in these hours, I regret
The reason why I’m here; I’ll not forget
The progress of an evening’s tragic
Loss, and opt instead to waken anthems
that cannot be eternal as when the iamb eyes
Its own reward and value in trochaïc compromise.

pride_collides_with_illusion_by_impixel

…photographs by Impixel on DevientArt…