Stealing glances, yes! and desire overcomes
All common sense that says, “You cannot stare!”
Sensations pleased, and sure as hell with greatest care,
The opening and final shot above the knees, a loaded gun
Forevermore. It can blind you and you know it. Jealous suns
Make loans that can never be repaid. Still we yearn for nightmares,
Never-ending glories in eclipse that skip the stairs,
Traverse justice in arrears, forfeit choice and stun
The heart with lasting images of naked blasphemy no fig leaf ever covers.
Ponder this, that with that next eternal kiss, no holy lovers
Through lean and inner miles, no continent can bear the weight
Nor estimate the station of any other soul in any other rôle. We navigate
By day, apprise ourselves of little in the gloom
while nocturnal rainbows bleeding colours
In the blinding hours remind us that we need
no more than candles in the darkest room.
Posted in "Mene, Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Meme, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, Emotion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
…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
They await some helpful word and know the news
Their fear falls short of what it is they want to hear;
Days’ delays, too much backlog must disappear
Before the silence and its echo can renew
The striking of the bell within this people. Still
It falls within the natural healing that smatterings
Of longing, waiting, hoping in and of itself brings
Spasms of a healing psalm to the many, and for the few no chill
Will touch the man who holds the triumph of the will to heart,
A movement, distant, upward, outward toward
The next plateau, a freshly minted meme within a percolating promise, forward
Always–never moving yet never still–magnificently arched and carved.
As with a steaming rainbow, himself the crown to every several cloud
While he succumbs to resignation and relief that only ignorance allows.
Posted in Addiction, Age, Aging, Appearances, Belief, Common sense, Cynicism, Denial, Distraction, Double Sonnet, Dunning-Kruger Effect, End Times, Ends, Folly, Genii, Hubris, Illusion, Materialism, Media, Meme, Negation, News Media, Peter Principle, Poetry, Pyrrhic Victory, Samsara, To be or not to be, Wizard, Yearning
Tagged Astrology, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets