Daily Archives: August 17, 2014

“Who Denies the Virtue?”

ferguson1

“Who Denies the Virtue?”

Who denies the virtue of a single act
Of charity and thoughtfulness, or instinct
crowned by mindless bigotry at the going rate?
Is there some subtlety, some sardonic smile,
some eleventh hour of business while late
And grainy nights come out to play that shares aplomb
while force-fed deadlines prove lethal to the facts?
Witnesses rush to queue the feeding gate;
The talk is endless, stale and flat, debased debates
That lap up honesty and truth as hostages to obfuscate
Collusion in the elect? “One moment, please!” contumely before one’s fate
Is ever known. Comes a jaundiced breeze that begs the gangrenous thought:
“Shall I do myself the honours, or shall I wait?”
Fools enough will bid for time designed to waste
The troubled waters in the rush to publish what’s been bought
And what’s been stolen. “But, there’s the rub, the standard, is it not?”
A man will broadcast expectation in a polished mirror of himself and rot.
“So damn the polls,” say sentinels on molehills; as nightly scenes
Of raucous petrels in profusion draw the strangest notions.
Propinquity in multiples of flawed emotions
Nominate the place, and no one weeps
For them because they are too small
To ponder. Inflection will pursue
A difference here and no one wonders notwithstanding revenue
Against expenditures what weighty enterprise. They’re all
About their their fathers’ business whether in stampede
Or at a crawl or motionless in the hall. They will what they will do
To some determined end that in the esoteric eye
Of the beholder need not make a lot of sense.
“Are we not but squirrels?” they query on the defense
Keeping watch for enemies with eyes that never leave the skies.
“And we are here as on a darkling plane,” recites the leader
While the troops remain at full alert and no one reads the metre.

“By Day, the Toil!”

Wrting

“By Day, the Toil!”

By day, the toil.  Just so. At times the ache
Returns, but somehow, nightfall must come. Perhaps
It is the hour, or something in the newly evening breeze, but laps
Throughout the day are then for someone’s sake
Forgotten, and he simply sits before the fire,
Or there, outside beneath the bluer, richer hues
Of cares and harsher edges of desire
To carve, to whittle, to embrace a life at once recused
In poetry, metre askew with so  little harmony, alone
Not so much in sparks, but in the riot of results.
He waves his hand and even owls listen; bolts
Of lightning in his voice again do not groan
But gently call to sit beside him in the light
Of distant days remembered in the call
to rest with him through the vanity of his night.