Category Archives: Fire

“Silversmiths”

“Silversmiths”

Silversmiths retrace the fire; sweats
In rivulets down brawny arms, twin bushes
To the chin and through the valley of the pectorals; and he pushes
Gyres in the waters;
determination defeats defect, fatigue, frets

Along the instrument mould the

shining of a gentle mind’s design,
Undone, the fist and fingers as hammers in the process
Till the thing that was not is and what little rest
In thought becomes the thing, itself, the line,
A cut above a cusp between inspiration
And its final destruction. Destination, oh! the beauty of the thing
Will guide his hands securely and the synthesis, the ring
Of something new or newer makes its run from mental registration
To obsession in the finishing and glories to polish a wondrous sign,
A medallion of conception, some fine image formed of inner space and time.

“Tonight, a Silent Message”

“Tonight, a Silent Message”

Tonight, a silent message, I can hear the pleading
Through the trees and branches of my old friend; my companion sings,
And I am somehow comforted. The fluttering of wings
Accompanies the rhythms of the encore; and you, again, repeating

“Into…” “Out of…” Lift, release so softly,

gentle summaries wreathed in whispers,

Musings of what is not and never seen; tunnels and their tributaries,
Rushing, relentless repetition, applause, obituaries
To the spent and useless, harbingers of blisters
And the frostbite, erosion and fresh volcanic flood
And in the ancient chanting of a million
Dirges of the past and now redundant death–civilians,
Now–the arm’d legions follow closely through the blood
Of daily martyrs to the rescue in defense  the furthest reaches of the empire.
And I’m still here, I’m still here, and I still feel the fire.

“Did You Think…?”

“Did You Think…?”

Did you think it pays to read between the Holy Lines
That spoke with outward-bound and bonded particulars and austerity
In eloquence to which the gray-scale decibels of earthbound clarity
Speak volumes if only to the ears of dogs or elephants; defined
Somewhere between the womb and coffin, clearly signed
Within the matrix, nothing; to all else
exquisite in the melody of choice, metonymy
In fear, perhaps, but action put to wind chimes, pure and unrefined divinity
To souls of children and the penitent in prayer, yet the object undefined?
Within composts of saints and poets supernal senses  are recused, none refused, and far beyond, their Prophets,
Hounded and reviled within their own brief imprisoned span,
The single particle becomes the raging legion
in cycles newly framed in paradigms
So far from what was or seemed to be convenient both to litigants and followers,
All concave mirrors turned to Truth. Their attentions birth
as the premature in understanding puts the match

to kindling fires of corruption in the land.

Yes; even the word holds sway in beauty just as be and come and go as always in concert with all beauteous words seem to hold some affinity to one another that begs for more; it is the glory of affirmation; negation is its inverse holding fast to less as nothing seducing while it shuns to die as though to love is somehow related to a force of hatred amongst the other sovereignties  and prerogatives of antithesis, and, while integral to physical existence, are nevertheless peculiar to this world only and can draw no conclusion beyond the present natural illusions of form. Such fellowship is its own demise as is all that occurs in the material universe.

“The Midnight Hymn”

Friedrich Nietzsche
[ 1844 A.D. – 1910 A.D.]

Oh man!  Take heed!
What does the deep midnight say?
I slept!
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.

“He Lingers”

“He Lingers”

He lingers to the left then for years and more;
She satisfies herself with seconds to the right and even less,
A glance or two at captive lantern lights and sparks addressed
To moths who do not know the reason for
Their fascination nor what sweet dangers lay
In this or that confection spread between days and weeks with little time
To verify the obvious–candles all but disappear
in sunlight and words that rhyme
With fire usually point the way to fatuous invection,
the pox of every yesterday;
And in the convalescence of the early dawn,
her doubts evaporate like myrrh she’s quite forgot
When she airs her rooms as if the purpose
in his witness were merely balm for pain–
All her earthbound joys share the momentary contents
of a rural mailbox, shelter in the rain
For those who still receive their letters with the circulars. Caught
In fantasies defined in galaxies that disappear at sunrise
there remains the death knell of worlds,
The casuistries of nouns and adjectives
that sue for peace beyond the pale of words.

“One Breathes to Read”

“One Breathes to Read”

One breathes to read the ancients say, and what a mighty wind perfumes
The nothingness of air and thence to wit? The writ; certain proofs,
And so on, and so forth, and notwithstanding that, far beyond, to refute
What dross may be forthcoming from all natural luminaries in the skies
in no time flat, fumes
From either, pure hyperbole. Perhaps, it’s true, but then again the books
Bear genesis from breezes while the wise collect the residue.
So great an urge to be at one within oneself cannot be soothed
So easily nor guided nor delayed for want of kairos. The gods took
Their ease of access from Eastern mists to proclaim the roof
Of life to be a satisfaction gleaned from lust and table scraps.
For Greeks,
The holiness of Eros tendered resignation to disorder;
the source of creeks
And icy streams in time gave form to Mighty Ganges
and the Mother Truth
That we are not what we so loudly claim. Its light ignites the flames
That burn away the veils and we ascend to God by way of holy Names.