“He Savours Moments”
He savours moments in memoria:
The heart is sound, the legs still able,
Potentials swell, situations inescapable.
In short, the runway’s clear, opprobrium
And approbation balanced, and once again,
It seems horizons’re reasonably cloudless.
Were he any younger he would see a seamless
Future with every reason to remain
Calm and confident that enigma’s kiss
Had blessed the road and rung the bells
Of something less than heaven and little more than hell.
Aquarius, it seems, is rising, yes, but no guarantee of bliss.
Ignore the flaw in yesterday’s patterns in the weave
And stitch of isolation’s tapestries with passports up his sleeve,
The blossom’re missing, ’twere not the flowers
But the setting; nothing in the fragrance
But the thought puts a rush of ambivalence,
Perhaps a flood, doubtless a surge of hours
That leave no room for contemplation
But simple interaction feeding on a dream of action
That can not nor ever could bring satisfaction.
But, O such sweet misfires! Oblations
In the last act of living. ‘S true! We only think we love;
So easily we dismiss the warnings of so many lifetimes
Sailing out to seas beyond the reach of actual experience, lifelines
Cast to each of us, an incessant revelation; discovery, the tug and shove
Of pedestrian traffic that tells the heart it’s time to leave.
Ecstasy can wait when all that’s really needed is to breathe.
…painting by Paterio…
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Love, Lyric Poetry, Memories, Nostalgia, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Detachment, Dreams, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
“What Softer Melodies”
What softer melodies heard the other side
Of mirrors, doubled, perpetual in returns
To both the seer and the seen, burn
Memories in the afterglow. Waves obeying tides
Remove all witness out to sea, erasing steps, colliding,
Reverberating―as if we must be told we never learn
The first time―revisiting familiar images, taciturn
Reminders that apparently we, astride the shore abiding,
Encounter in the flood the restive need to keep on moving.
Inevitable, too, the image in the glass reflects the light
That cannot pause but in the subtle notion
Of someone suddenly defined by some tragic emotion
Spelled in comic ciphers only catalysts and radicals can read,
Effects remembered only vaguely in the anguish of the night.
Posted in Aging, Anguish of the night, Ciphers, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Memories, Mirrors, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tides, Waves
Tagged Age, Aging, Detachment, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
“And In the Timing”
And in the timing looking toward the left or right
I am arrested on a cliff, bereft
Of reckoning what is left
In me beyond the trappings of a simple light
And memories catalogued, together bound
In burgundies and beige, and with the odd in olive green,
The velvets of their spines lean this way, seen
Like houses on a narrow Upstate Albany block; I’ve found
It so, conveniently I guess. There is no slight adherence
Here to regimen, no lesser well-warn track to rhyme
With hours or days as I would have them, nothing timed
In what I spy within the closet or the dreadlocks of my clock, but clearance
And permission to proceed through standing weeds my gentle paces
As if bound by who it is I am, and nothing more than what my bulk displaces.
Furtive futures, tokens of the late night flower
And as he smiles, a common thread of thought, some random
Virtue and its knee-jerk negative recusal form régimes, their regiments set neatly in tandem
Each day with time enough to feed the guests between the hours’
Harvests. Memories posit foibles calcified from past
Proposals of support and action in what was always just around
The corner. Patience, saddling his ass, object to wastes grown profound
In almost every instance with innocuous verses that running circuits last
In time while losing time defines itself in terms of time, itself, and nothing stops
The show unless a rare and casual kindness from a stranger to the flock,
Or simply not who or what must have a right to be. He views what’s on the dock’s
Consignment nd recalculates the costs of baggage and accessories; the rock,
Within remains the same, of course; witness, yes, but still he is both what he is .
and as he was before he found his tests
To he the very meaning of his every breath; a gift, a bounty, an eternal yes
is there, but nothing closes close to closure. There is no subtle hint of rest.
Posted in Adagio, Anchors, Ballast, Dust, Foibles, Futures, Internal clock, Joy, Libraries, Lifelines, Melodies, Memories, Momentoes, Passions, Poetry, Tests, Thread of thought, Time, Verses
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets