Elevation to a legend, some distant memory
Within a sutra following surely but words that pace themselves
In chalk on blackboards or filling multicoloured leaves in shelves,
Gemutlichkeit in the every room of schools. Their halls must now be
As filled with youth and years as mine have been,
The hours and back again, the morning smiles, the greater lesser thought
By thousands scribbled more or less in haste that are or ought
To be the natural quota on desks and doors. Beauty rests still and unseen
Within the fragile folds of lives and fortunes and in what was planted there
For generations; precursors to a sometime cause begun within my room,
Virtues nurtured, multiplied, and now extending beyond those stalls, and soon,
So very soon, beyond that august spot, the state and bailiwick of mirrors
That were my teachers and what I became to all I knew and all I had to teach:
The world need not wait now for what I gave to every child I ever reached.
Questions mount in compliments, the third’s irrelevant:
To be or not to be, to seek the seen or unseen or not to see
at all; so, what’s a circus in a world without eternity?
Then, again, even if no one’s here still the monitor’s adamant
Unequivocal nothing has happened–so what’s the point?
And were you here beside me, would I then need sleep,
Awake but to open my mouth and sing? Would I seek another deep
Abyss within, impose a curfew on the thing or casually anoint
The latest impasse with a casual kiss? There’s a Judas in this;
His days are numbered with the dusts, the rust of wrinkled
Inevitability with excess housed in reliquaries of gold
Whence comes the latest least expected crop
Of shibboleths, coined and counted; there we’ll be atop the list
Some two branches on the tree, twin tokens found, no other sound,
And when I go you’ll miss the show, and who’ll lay me in the ground?
…art piece above by Robin Kranitzky & Kim Overstreet
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Double Sonnet, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
Bahá’í’s throughout the world gather today to commemorate the First Day of the Month of Masá’il [Questions]
“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Masá’il or `Questions'”
Of sons, divinity required sacrifice;
Both obliged presented gifts, yet one
Found pleasure in the Judgment, son
And God were pleased; but, that the sacred rite
Eluded what was offered by the second
Brought an anger and a fire in Cain,
The fruit of envy, rancour, and desultory disdain
To both the elder brother and the God-reckoned
Greater of the two. Asked the Light,
“What hath made thee wroth?” silence was the answer.
The question posed, there rose no reply but cancer
Deep within the marrow of he who in his flight
Deduced the primal human action of the will:
Unbridled passion and the naked urge to kill.
Posted in "Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Masá'il or `Questions'", Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged "Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Masá'il or `Questions'", Certitude, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
The Deluge by John Martin (1806-70). 1834.
“So Who’s’t Knows”
So who’s’t knows the end in such benign beginnings,
The coming floods that fallow flow from all that snow
And ice held hostage by the cold alone when any fool knows
That what comes down must in time admit a hit in later innings
The last whose time is preordained, the added sweater helps but winning
Nothing ‘gainst the close exchange that comes within the glow
Of this year’s logs piled high at the hearth, the comfort zone
Cannot endure another fiercer facing, just another frieze in reasoning
When all that matters now is reduced to splinters
In the opening hours of the wake of powers beyond a stream,
Beyond the hopes of wagers strung on nothing more
Than readings from the runes or yet another card pulled before
The Gipsy’s deck was shuffled or wrinkles of the winter’s
Palm were read, too little information here for dreams.
“In the End”
In the end, they knew no more about the other
Than they were led to believe;
Their minions’ hearts on sleeves
Will please the local rag, the corps or sundry brothers
Everywhere from “Z” Town in Lincoln to Kansas City,
Kansas across that great Missouri Divide from the Plaza seen
From Independence through to the streets of Ferguson screened
(And we all know what that name has come to mean), facility
To felicity for some, agony to millions, and death to some few.
But, who’s to know what really came to pass that afternoon
Between the teen and the less-than-seasoned officer marooned
In destiny to make a difference where there was none, the glue
To evolution in the mainstream of what to date has only seemed
To flow from cause to effect, but is and never has been truly seen?