“I’m Not So Cavalier”
I’m not so cavalier, you see; I’ve heard, I’ve lent a hand and bowed
To acid rains and lurid wastes and elements stacked,
Deranged, spewed, sprawled and rearranged, and I’ve attacked
And married Buicks, Saabs, and Fords and I’m not so very proud;
My many homes are bought and sold with not a thought
To living in them. Mine eyes have seen the glory of a myriad of pulpits,
Certified accountants and a pride of priests whose pious culprits’
Books are cooked in scarlets, blood-gelt orders in their sanctities taught
To serve the venal equinox between the self-sequestered fetid clans
In every land who have no ticket, pass, nor ever need to walk
When they can ride, nor ride when they can darn the stocks
That fuel the jet streams’ markets, currencies, and family plans
To lengthen gas lines leading lambs to houses built more or less on sand;
Three coins tossed in every fountain is the trend
while the Fed and Humpty Dumpty transcend The Wall Street Journal briefly
just before they hit the fan.
Posted in Humpty Dumpty, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Materialism, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged anti-Green, Ecology, Economics, Economy, End Times, Green, Humpty Dumpty, Lyric Poetry, Market, News Media, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife
From this most august and exalted station, and from this most sublime and glorious plane, the seeker entereth the City of Immortality, therein to abide forever. In this station he beholdeth himself established upon the throne of independence and the seat of exaltation. Then will he comprehend the meaning of that which hath been revealed of old concerning the day “whereon God shall enrich all through His abundance”. Well is it with them that have attained unto this station and drunk their fill from this snow-white chalice before this Crimson Pillar.
–Bahá’u’lláh, Gems of Divine Mysteries pp. 71–72
“These Icy Waters Penultimate”
These icy waters penultimate, comforts’ flights through fingers, soothing,
Recollections from the four extremities to the single temples, cacoëthes,
Familiars to peculiars within from ceilings above the abyss below; yes, ease
To what will soon be here to take on form and body, the coryphaeus choosing
Some new chapter, or yet another verse as will burn the notebooks, pages
Surprised with vagaries and beads that track the progress of thoughtlessness
In waning weighty midnights; even without the prodigal kiss, confinement less
Refined induces eternal possibilities of that one last question: to the sage,
Reprieve, to the master, his own breath and nothing short of venom for the fool.
Of course, I raise the hour glass to honour wasted days as though I’d paid,
My friend, while you succomb to every passing witness who at his pleasure sees
Nothing as everything; you, no recipient, no pontiff for the spirit in the pool,
No immersion when the waters are troubled —”Too cold,” you’ll say.
From time to time I’ll pass by this extreme and found another single book,
A signature of disappearance from this régime to time, recalled,
and not so bound by what we learned but how we used to look.
The test is in its gauge, a poem’s weight, nothing equitable but fair,
In and of itself an offering, a discrete particle in an innocuous conceit
Upon some higher power in the substance that in its sleep
Has left the path and all the usual signs and banners with little thought or care
To what it means to shoot the sun, its moon and know that they came
To pass as a mirror’s movements in the moment; receivers quickly feign
Reaction to the pen and page and all such shibboleths as questions beg the reign
Of order in a desperate bid for substance and recognition, inertia that sustains
Momentum in the swamp and swell of ownership by simple dint of will:
Mindless arbitration comes to mind as sparks defining truth spill
Words and destinies and budding paradigms, the seed and fruit of every hill.
Both will measure every valley undetected, unrestrained.
The eye, the plume, the generations of the word itself must all reveal
An effortless encounter of win and lose no matter what the deal.
Posted in Age, Aging, Evolution, Fruit, Imagery, Imagism, Inertia, Life's gamble, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Revolution, Samsara, Seed, Sonnet, Sonnets
Limbs, appendages, extensions, sinew stretched
Across chasms, voids, and axles;
Creation’s foam will occupy the mind; cosmic jackals,
Vain imaginings spun from fractals, etched
In plaited mesh and skeletal remains combine
To people thought and populate whole scenarios—
Nothing ever quiets the machine. The interim’s need will borrow
Legitimacy and gravitas from life’s singularity, refine
Their use within the era, penultimate lines in rhyme
Penned to presage the tentative, simple strokes of time.
Transition’s in the air, my friends, and next in line
For what’s about to come to pass might well be curses
For the speed with which the world embraces change for its mistakes.
Creation weds the art of accident to apposition for its own sake.
Posted in Astronomy, Change, Existence, Experience, God, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Providence, Relativity, Religion, Sacrifice, Samsara, Selflessness, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spirituality, Stations, Universe
Tagged Change, Evolution, Existence, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Selflessness, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Spotless No Doubt”
Spotless no doubt, thrice polished
Marauding tensions—emotions’ nomads—yet nothing moves―
There’s no breeze, no grievous moon, no licit solar meeting in the groves
Of smothered cradle songs, no childrens’ adagio. Uselessness polished,
Memory is detained in the waiting room in peculiar movement
While destiny and fate consult on who’s left wanting in the atrium. These
Foolish thoughts of weightlessness and spiritual sclerosis augur well to please
Wallpapers and clocks left crucified upon the wall. Mindless queues atone
For any lack of purpose with no hint of propinquity. Then quite naturally
The caterers and guests soon arrive and someone has to answer the door.
As the long day’s counsels end, ignition’s off, feet flat on the floor.
No need to move the mountain; the benchmark: The will has atrophied,
We’re there. Then, of course, we return or break the deadlock
So let’s get on with what the fox intends and who will watch the flock.
Posted in Donald Trump, End Times, Endgame, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw