I am my feet, my history tells me so;
My shins; dexterity amid the rocks reveal it may be true;
My thighs; their balance in distraction sees me through
Illusions at the level of the groin’s most pernicious foes,
Receptacles as voids in need of better news; and though
I am my mother’s navel, my father’s love left so many similar clues—
The evangel to what was otherwise ignored—that the view
In any given moment’s blocked. Here, then, my heart maintains its flow
In reasonable annuity, and I’ll be damned if I am weak,
But if you ask my legs, you’ll find a sometime potent posse,
Nothing else. My once proud pectorals could
Never act alone―as if they thought they should―
But laboured twice the time for heartfelt evidence
That given time I would succeed―
And so I have as I can plainly see.
I am my eyes whose rivals in the ears
At times have overcome the world and all its fears,
But though twice born view both here and our eternity
I see but vanity served that while I eat, I hesitate and feed
On noise and what is after all experience in arrears.
I am my mind; “Cogito!”— the mantra’s cadence shows as through the years
I’ve dined on fine receipts and tallies that what I meant most certainly should be
The outcome of all my powers to deduce a spark from what I’ve seen,
A truth in what I’ve done and glean from what I’m told I’ve been—
This, despite what I know I am,…but let that pass. I am
In fact conceit, itself, and in its place I stand
And where I sit and both but simple remedies to all I’ve gleaned:
“I am,” the Ancient Sage made replied, and “that I am,” shall be
a fleeting moment’s apostrophe to truth and not at all what I believe.
3:14 And God said unto Moses, I AM THAT I AM: and He said, Thus shalt thou say unto the children of Israel, I AM hath sent me unto you.
Posted in Aging, Arrogance, Born again, Father, Feet, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mother, Navel, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Shins, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Asking nothing, pride itself knows no shame
But that it is not easily offended
By its authors, lasting aeons never once rescinded
As they bear hard against themselves with holy arrogance. Abel’s fame
Was no more great in folly than in triumph; blame,
The greater satisfaction, feeds upon itself, suspended
High above its frozen haven’s wasted heaven, extended
Low and lower than the expectations of his brother, Cain:
“Why,” then, “art thou wroth?” is heard with “What hast thou done?”
And in that instant, seconds into centuries cast their burdens
Leaving only fools to gather and surmise how long it’s been
Since innocence so easily spent itself pursuing means to every end.
If we breathe, we cannot be more anxious than the moon and sun,
And stars whose certain execution and anastrophe scribbles embroidered patterns equal to the physics of a nano-drop, as well, the roaring war of infinitives bound in verses primed that rhyme with energy and matter in the greater cosmic run.
Posted in Abel, Arrogance, Cain, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Pride, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, religion, Sonnet, Sonnets, spirituality, theology
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.
“The Midnight Hymn”
by Friedrich Nietzsche
[ 1844 A.D. – 1910 A.D.]
Oh man! Take heed!
What does the deep midnight say?
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.
Posted in Age, Aging, All or nothing, Anger, Arrogance, Atom, Balance, Certitude, Cosmic paths, Humility, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Gold dust in what’s become a bathtub, a rhyme for greater peace
In polls and averages on the Great Black Board, a greater rôle
For what must pass for city life and incarnations of the nation’s worthy goals
For all those married folks. No myths this time round, no words to please
The multitudes; no gilded maps and travelogues to find the Golden Fleece
And guide constituent parts to sums much greater than the whole.
Another bank dissolves and yet another twisted shore must fold
Before the revelation to the public where the ends are guaranteed at least
A fighting chance before deceit and means unfurl and Rome dissolves
Once more into yet another unexpected thousand-year repeat
In all its arrogance. The latter-day recordings of a second darkest age
For schoolboys must be registered to decipher on a dog-eared history page
Of retrospection and contempt of how such apathy and lethargy must leach
From purple markets’ majesties within the brew to miles to go before we weep.
Posted in Apathy, Arrogance, Black board, Golden Fleece, Imagery, Imagism, Lethargy, Lyric Poetry, Maps and travelogues, Markets, Poem, Poetry, Rome, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“The Changeling’s Off”
The changeling’s off degrees from centre stage;
Regrets but he neglects quitting early, spurns all but firm resolve
To be what he must be and in evasion and denial dissolves
In endless traction in the newborn age
That leaves him far behind,…or so he dreams.
He is the less for it; it’s true, but greater in the breach,
He leaps or lunges toward such goals as were never his, the reach
Beyond what was intended only days ago. Hours, he deems
His monumental costs delayed as what amount to pearls strung, displayed–
Themselves but miniatures, schemes so grandiose that rival truest choice
In actions innocuously exposed as are his works that cannot find a voice–
The either side of which are more commanding than the plays,
Themselves, no more nor less demanding on the patronage of audience:
Such bubble baths of bathos spawn endless hopes, awash in incidental arrogance
and to within an inch of anger and doomed, perhaps, to decadence.
“The child’s fallen through the cracks,”
They say, and sure, he knows it! Neither factions
Nor an infinity of purple lines, nor silence as a sanction
bring his thinking past the moment of attack,
The root, the centre of delight and gravitas
And at that age? Amazing! Teachers raise
Their hands and he applauds the praise
Of cause to no effect. He will salute the animas
Of every passing spark without a thought
To ground the notion. Lightning strikes
Inevitably–obverse of confirmation– to light
A path to pains that cannot be contained nor bought
And wonders how it is that others neither flatten nor allay
His ignorance and, leaving, lay to waste his salad days,.
The catalysts detached, and safe from harm and apathy
Reduce integrities to nothing more than sport. Liabilities, he earns; enjoined
Or praised: he treasures troubled space but only when purloined,
And, bowing low, he surgically removes the parasites of hosts. Relief
From all that’s supine trumps perception of the hand that’s dealt with deft
Disclosure hidden in the modus. Others merely operate and analyse;
The oil they seek is crude; his sensibilities refine the blatant lies,
And all those wisdoms as from boils are drained. The bereft
No longer fool the wwise, nor falsely warn the fool!
His simple confidence entrapped, he walks away, displays no sympathy
For maudlin sentiment, and, drowned–as was Voltaire!–
in trivial pursuit, antithesis, and antipathy,
He confidently scorns all suckers born upon A ferial day; the hours cooled
In cauldrons, the stench of raw indifference is masked in nosegay;
Satisfactions realized, the succubus smiles and simply steals away.
Posted in Animas, Arrogance, Audience, Centre stage, Changeling, Confidence, Confirmation, Decadence, Denial, Dreams, Evasion, Factions, Goals, Gravitas, Hours, Liabilities, Lightning, Maudlin sentiment, Newborn age, Pains, Parasites, Patronage, Pearls, Plays, Poetry, Schemes, Suckers, Teachers, Voltaire, Zeitgeist
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Pain, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets