Largesse, and aims are high perhaps but not so high
That all the world concedes the call
To extremes as must soon wane and not at all
So generously ordained as reach the loftiness of lies.
But weighed on level grounds prepared
To live and die within a tapestry
That may or may not be cause for apathy
And ecstasy in swelling ranks on alabaster stairs
To banks of realms we cannot yet see. Not first
Nor last among all are those who line
The avenues, the pedestrian mists, a teeming mankind
Spread as swarms in clouds throughout the world. Minds
And hearts cannot address themselves to what will
Out in time that every man deserves this sterling word,
This honour due to he who lives in spite of the absurd.
Posted in Age, Aging, Antithesis, Cycles, Lyric Poetry, Sonn3t
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, Lies, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet
Quietly, adventists, circumstances, events will tilt and, tossed,
Belie their source, defy all purpose,
Lost in ballyhoo and bombastic noise loosed
In garments of comedy and nether-tragic costs
When of a sudden, lack of audience
Stifles spittle churned and turned to gauze and cotton candy
In spinning queues of mental traffic; what comes in handy
Mauls the maudlin, crosses lines and fences
And while so much the better for CNN, barely scores
On Public Television. So much the better
For lessers or worse, the editor’s opt or letter
To the begetter of just another ad, progenitor of national lore;
When the edge of justice touches drifts of reason:
Even the planets and the brightest stars retain their seasons.
“I Am On or Off”
I am on or off with nothing in between
And as I speak with few, some, or not
At all, to crowds or to the wall, I’m caught
In queue to glimpse the mind seen hiding high above the catwalk, the means,
The glare of someone’s thoughtless headlamps along a cold deserted road, eyes
Ablaze, altogether missing in the sketch.
I’m on my way to Canaan Land and far beyond,
A prisoner to some casual frog in my own back pond,
Declensions of a small plot of rooms stretch
Before me pleasingly. I have at once
Both everything and nothing worth the time
To move, vague velocities and straightened lines
Within the present augurs solids’ in a liquid balance. Suns
Aligned, I maintain the weight of fingers on the keys;
With so little depth in what I say, I am the simple universe at ease.
Posted in Age, Aging, Appearances, Change, Cycles, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Change, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet
“He Sits Another Monday”
He sits another Monday…only smiles tonight. His words are glass,
Illumined, yes,…but no light strikes him and he can no longer see the page.
His hours leased over years yield nothing in eternity but sardonic age,
Invisible, a painted thought distracted by what’s been asked
Of him, years of cold neglect, and all those miles.
Still it’s not enough. If not tonight, then, when?
No doubt in time, but wait! the breezes grow to winds again,
And, where there are currents, other images, other trials.
…the summer’s wounds have found their mark…
Is this the time for words? a second poem? a signatory fire
Lit to get it said, perhaps to induce a faint desire,
Another phrase–there are so many–another cigarette’s arc, a spark
So much to feel, so much to taste when once the sap begins to seep?
Nature’s not so conjured, the outcome’s sealed and in time all thought will cease.
“He Sees the World”
He sees the world before him plump and peopled, stacked,
Ranged, catalogued, rough-strewn about on plates
Afloat on oceans of such magnitude that dates
And proper measurements are daily sacked.
He’s left the bilious tailings of the mind
To complaisant teachers who soon enough are caught
With nothing and even less in the deluge of what is taught
Is given breath for long. Knowledge blinds
When faced with fresh discoveries played
In such a manner that cataloguers pay
Homage to pernicious publishers whose veracity is weighed
In volumes, guarantees and lose disclaimers of the day
That follow close on what were tablets of stone but the night before.
There are no facts but loose allusions, illusions of the heretofore.
Posted in Cycles
Tagged Lyric Poetry
“Yes, of Course”
Yes, of course, it’s in the silences, the gaps; what isn’t there,
A kind of saving grace. Yes, it’s in the wrist and more, a second
Maiden voyage. The news announces daily the Titanic’s jocund
Journey redux, greater for revision less the ware
And less absorbing in the loss of souls from rarer thinner air
Brought faithfully to task but mind you nonetheless a reckoning
Within a construct; no! an edifice of remembrances within the seconding
Of resolutions that determines Elliot’s wave within the self-defining stare
Of relative modernity; but one tsunami in eternity amid the voids of space.
The promise of redemption’s found in balances of degrees
In praise of beauty in the sun spots’ mighty aura, the aurora in the fray
Of loose inebriating Northern Lights–try distraction while you pray–
Try the Northwest Passage in the making high above the Arctic’s former grace
Notes, rhythms in the writ, a metaphor in G, perhaps, but played in C.
“There was peace and the world had an even tenor to it’s way. Nothing was revealed in the morning, the trend of which was not known the night before. It seems to me that the disaster about to occur was the event, that not only made the world rub its eyes and awake, but woke it with a start, keeping it moving at a rapidly accelerating pace ever since, with less and less peace, satisfaction and happiness. To my mind the world of today awoke April 15, 1912. – Jack Thayer, Titanic Survivor
Posted in Affirmation, Ôm, Balance, Certitude, Chaos, Civilisation, Cycles, End Times, Eternity, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Ships, Sonnet, Zeitgeist
Tagged End Times, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Northern Lights, Sonnet, Sonnets, Sun spots, Titanic, Tragic Flaw
The many who remain to wait
Silently for some benign constriction in the state
Of things, some sinister situation in the molten core
Of what it is they hope that God forgets to do or say.
Oh, yes. There are the borders to defend,
Concessions, lights within the processed prisms bend
And warp–so many suns are strong–schemes to calculate
With nests to build and chicks to feed,
but come the harvest, guests, the gathering
And celebration, the stories to be sold across the newsstands of the land,
The hands all sit here waiting with the others in the band
And ask themselves why grace and bounty seem so much like common tragedy
When in the once desired brilliance of the promised summer’s yield
The time for satisfaction never comes and the crop’s left in the field.
Posted in Change, Chaos, Cycles, Death, Ecology, God, Greed, Lyric Poetry, Materialism, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, State of Being, Tragedy
Tagged Economy, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
…a revision of the poem…
Swept aside, all moments and celestial mementos collide
And waste no never-mind on credence and retention
In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine celestial reflection.
Mortality by definition lies; not so through what histories imply
But in the daily interaction of missives from the Goal
And penultimate ilunga * of the Source or
Sanctions of interaction in the triumphant triad of the coarsest
Ores of time, of space, and all that matters. Time, the cosmic linen folds
Of space and active order; space, the theatre of experience at the heart
Of the observer; matter, but an audience, a phenomena in passive
Active shadows of Creation and its nemesis. Simplicity is massive,
Complexity but a word; a question’s languages are art
And science while the answers form the pathos and the abstract.
What is more pathetic than to be and yet be nothing in the act?
Simplicity in the classic form requires
The prefects of a perfect vacuum
Combined in such a way as compliments the acumen
Of a strident meme, the jealous zeitgeist, tests that to the whole inspire
An urgent need to pause, to linger over bodies no longer really there,
A little more than a half a generation’s substance in a given time.
So granted this, so beautifully and tragically resigned,
Aloud comes the elegies of episodes to “Move along!”or “Retire!”
With such a cry inscribed, there was and always is
A here and there in rapid profit worshipped, fierce
As gallstones of desperation: “This, our chosen age, rehearsed
Upon a cross of memories little more than lyrics of an ancient tryst!”
And, equally, the many crowned and catalogued, remain aloof
Through symmetries of perfection in a sacred dynasty of embroidered truth.
*The word is ilunga, from the Bantu language of Tshiluba, and means a person ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.
When there is this, that is.
With the arising of this, that arises.
When this is not, neither is that.
With the cessation of this, that ceases.
His Holiness The Buddha
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, Antithesis, Arts, Buddhism, Change, Classic, Cycles, Double Sonnet, Elegies, End Times, Ends, Generations, Hubris, Hustlers, Hyperbole, Idolatry, Matrix, Meme, Memory, Negation, Nostalgia, Numinosum, Pathos, Poetry, Posterity, Pragmatism, Pyrrhic Victory, Relativity, Retirement, Samsara, Sciences, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Synthesis, Thesis, To be or not to be, Tragic Flaw, Tshiluba, Yearning, Zeitgeist
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Nothing’s censured, everything’s gained they say
and choice is all there is and all that’s human.
Cycles shift as do devotion
and commitment and we are glad and sad
As fits emotion and the glory of the stars;
are gone by February, January’s gains illumine
What’s to come in cloistered gusts
that blight the staggered laughter of a spring’s reality.
As autumn’s indiscretions rush to judgement of the past
Occluded by the soul’s embarrassed need
to face the present last,
And yield a future’s wanton wastes
in raw October’s costs and call it natural morality.
Of course, all the world’s put right within
a pale Pink Moon’s delight and we are here tonight
And know damn well we’re gone tomorrow from the diaries of the estuary;
Dawn’s first kiss–the eternal pardon–will arrive behind the execution day,
Delayed a single hour for the sake of show and mere appearances, flights
Of angels sprinkling spores of wonder in the newly pollinated skies. We’ve lied
Again and while we ponder why it matters only heaven knows we tried.
Posted in Censure, Cycles, Devotion, Months, Moon, Poetry, Seasons, Stars
Tagged Autumn, February, January, Lyric Poetry, October, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spring, Summer, Winter