“In Relief”

“In Relief”

In relief and remission in the early morning traffic,
Natural and expected but somehow chafing as sporadic
Thought leans to the oblong, ambivalence routinely masters the erratic
Stampede to a perfect Thursday. What’s problematic
Becomes the norm for both the messianic and the bored,
Loosed for casual observation by hecklers mounting static
Interference fit for comment from pundits and pedestriasns, the phatic
Anchormen amongst one’s friends while excellence is ignored
And noted if at all in spite of Noah’s warning. She continues walking
Through it all, pausing to adjust a strap or two
On a shoe or replacing her sunglasses to improve the view;
She lights another cigarette, inhales, recklessly stalking
Herself and somehow in the car she questions “What’s it  for:
Why doesn’t he close the door?”

“Humility”

“Humility”

Humility–unwieldy companion to arrogance–speaks;
In time, longevity in the Philistine at last
Ignites a divine belated blessèd anger, a righteous task
Of inevitable cosmic correction, a conscious meeting
Of place, heart, and justice inward while but a fleeting
Moment entangles exponents with reality; the hour has passed;
Its purpose, certitude. Illumination in the glass
Reveals the cosign of beauty; a faith, sans gleaming
Spark leavens all and leaves no doubt wasting nothing in its evening
—A meagre point of knowledge as with a single atom addressed at last
Avoiding capture in the very act of viewing.
No substitute for misconstruing
Immortality for license, this thing must grasp
A certain concrete action plausible in similitude and innuendo
As all natural pains reverse themselves in their own crescendo.

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“The Midnight Hymn”

by Friedrich Nietzsche
[ 1844 A.D. – 1910 A.D.]

Oh man!  Take heed!
What does the deep midnight say?
I slept!
I have awakened from a deep dream.

The world is deep.
And deeper than the day remembers.
Deep is its suffering.

Joy is deeper yet than heartache!

Suffering speaks:  Begone!

All joys want eternity,
Want deep, deep eternity.

“If Not Today”

“If Not Today”

If not today, then, always the promise of tomorrow; if no respite
In the evening, the morning’s fare
Is certain. Wisdom’s care
Is folly’s knowledge in an endless night
Pursuing coming days while safeguards
Are intrinsic and immutable
If not, inscrutable
In the toss of a single die, a solitary card
Placed face up on the table. Finite
Are the gamblers and numberless
The pilgrims. That one lives who bears witness
To victory with death no more indigenous than a pilot light,
The sovereign monarch of all desire and vigour,
A messenger and scion of the Divine Decree: “Thus far and no further!”

“Oh Yes, of Course!”

“Oh Yes, of Course!”

Oh yes, of course, I hear the cymbals echoed in my ear;
The thunder’s never altogether gone.
Lyrics never cease, sets give rise to reprise and just another song.
The stride is altered, yes! but never far from fear.
And always from the invisible “A” to the ubiquitous “B,” the line
Is straight. It flows, it does not fade and as constancy is there
I am bound to find the wicket, purchase another ticket there
To picture in my mind the Gate that lies beyond the mines
And traps I’ve burried, extensions of the elemental singular.
Ignorance drawn, pleasure in life egregiously proffers
Its own demise where duplicity wreathes herself in the divine collective. Coffers,
Dogma for all occasion profits veiled within the insular.
The rock, itself, sees through all the aye’s
And knows its nay’s must always seek a public gaze, disguised.

“Step Aside!”

“Step Aside!”

“Step aside!”they all say astride their steeds
While buffaloing headlong to oblivion at the table;
Clans and tribes, streams strewn with corpses of the able
And the weak unable to satisfy the late fable’s appetite yet—needs
Be damned–they cannot nor will they ever get their fill. Seeds
Burst before planting, proclivities only wish they could. Cables
Span harvests struck by lightning, channels deadlocked, disabled,
Tailings from once mighty veins of emerald and gold drain to open seas;
Arboreal stains, their poisons leached while seasons weep that have produced
Now as would a pond or puddle, redirected, desiccated and paralysed
And no one’s laughing as both glaciers and oceans stagnate misaligned,
Lakes now the stage to nothing more than
pink flamingoes, shrimp, and stray hyenas
cruising for an evening’s snack in all that sodium and steam.

“So Few”

“So Few”

So few, then, whose substance lasts beyond the light
Between the gathering suns and planets rising, falling, inexorable gifts
Of expansion and contraction ever in arrears, unsung universal shifts
Of natural sequence in the unobstructed view of all that matter’s blight,
Rehearsed and then again reversed by relentless periodic growth.
By God! all that is and isn’t catalogued, may just as well be total loss
Since nights are only final rites of circumstantial sentinels at best, embossed
In silver shadows robed in golden inner fires loathed
To show their faces in the darkest dearth
In greed for their own purposes. To the living, rest;
The dead, mere repetitious rioting in recreation from the West
To the East and back again. Abundant wastes are here and who on earth
Avoids the accidental? Providence translates for most to costs and altercation
Lasting little longer than a clot; wisdom, but perspicuous public masturbation.

…art by Mark Evans of deviantArt…

“Selflessness”

“Selflessness”

Selflessness–flesh of arrogance–heeding, breeding
Longevity in philistines, reaching to the point of ennui at last
Ignites a fire in the blessèd, the righteous task
Of truth’s correction, potentials in a conscious meeting
Place—the heart—and outward while fleeting
Instruments presumed consume themselves in the the hour past
Its purpose, certitude. The catalyst—Illumination of the glass—
Reveals knowledge, faith, and prodigies of the gleaming
Arc that leaves no doubt, no time to delegate.
Discoveries addressing themselves as adagios
And like atoms terminate in the very act of viewing.
Markers, signs and metaphors are no substitute for misconstruing
Immortality for license; no laughing matter culminates
In action, nor in subterfuge beyond the grasp of simple innuendo.

“‘The Bed,’ She Said”

“‘The Bed,’ She Said”

“The bed,” she said, “the bed!” So, comes another day
And so she sighs and says, “He only lives within his head!”
Of course, there’s a smörgåsbord of truth to what the lady says,
As through a medium, a vehicle come what may
To preordain what I must do today; declarations force the hand,
And I’m obliged to use a naked word or two in my defense
A little trouble to be sure, but nonetheless the recompense
Between what is and what most surely was; consistencies in  sand;
Behind a cloud, and then again, another hour on yet another dune.
Yes! Ahead, perhaps, as broad imagination leaves its mark
I plunge through rushing waters, rolling rivers, and board the ancient ark
Upon a swelling sea beyond all starry streams although marooned
In my small room as fits a disaffected orphan here among the sycophants,
With thoughts, the width and length in heady musth, a simple elephant.

“Crossing Rubicons”

“Crossing Rubicons”

Crossing Rubicons’s a passing phrase,
The wearing down of souls, of votaries; grinding
Fears, discretionary gifting, gilded bindings of blinding
Pages as in an age of hasty erratum to displays
That weigh all patience, maintenance and labour.
The pox of times as pleased with accents as for ellipsis
Marks that overlook what escapes the lips
In what is better left unsaid. Mountain valley neighbours
Will discover what shepherds in the lower highlands would
In time, but for the moment, testaments,
Reproofs of an ephemeral senate, pious objections, estimates
Of what’s to come must bend to what cannot or should
Not last in solid states, and as economies’ periodic futures rise and fall,
Antony calmly takes the woman while Augustus takes the call.

“My Sonnets”

“My Sonnets”

My sonnets are a simple moment’s traffic;
These mirrored people whom I know;
These verbal seeds of thoughts that overflow;
Times from other times, the mental geographic
Equivalent of where and when I may be found
At any given moment in the seasons of a single day.
These mezzanines of regression to what it is I care to say
About what it is I’ve seen transfigure echoes of a sound
I’ve heard, traverse a simple passing thought
That hits the page when after hours in the struggle
I return to what is left of me; these,
the writs of caveats redeem the portions of a puzzle
I’ve been working on with meagre wit and little claim
to cures to what it is I’ve caught;
These, the no trump bids throughout the hours’ daily
staged performances, the curtain calls,
Or worse, the musings of the moment
with little consequence at all.