Happenstance and glory of a measured breath, the sun and moon
And distant scintillating light deranged and rearranged
To suite the insignificance of magnificence of a single scene and page.
Another sentence, a paragraph in which I find myself within a backlit room
To mark the hours the Doppler shadows all misfortune casts.
I have revelled in these signs, these periodic tedious monotonies,
Their very rising at once the thrall before the fall, monopolies
Of time and times again that only now appear to mask
Because when all that is has come to pass I happen to be standing here
A witness to creation’s synergies newly birthed. In the cold stare
Of noonish sunlight I sense with fragile accuracy the beneficial glare
Of all my peculiars, entities and particles that occupy the ear,
Delight the eye, and not so subtly remind me that I am,
And need not doubt the ground on which I stand.
…painting by Catherine Manchester…
Posted in Accident, Affirmation, Age, Aging, All or nothing, All that is, Anagnorisis, Anguish of the night, Anticipation, Lyric Poetry, Mirage, Myth of Sisyphus, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Delusion, Detachment, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw
The mirage moves comfort
When truths in volumes fail,
As winds in doldrums seduce forgotten sails,
The mousse, the whipped cream of the sort
That fattens the appetite in consumption
But flattens with rapidity in use
As its natural abuse argues justification and excuse
To to reign but seconds only while crude absorption
Reconnoiters seamless swift returns to the predetermined mark
The very limit of experience hat fickle fascination claims
Is wisdom albeit relentless common sense and reason wanes
And interests drain as the catalyst of desire departs.
What more do fools expect from denial and delusion
Than that instincts greed define what spirits call illusion?
Their mouths are never closed, their policies and words
Like noxious clouds forever block internal securities
In external declarations of truths whose missions are insecurities.
These, the foam and refuse, the gathering curds
Of failures gleaned from mother’s milk, exacerbate the many coloured quilt
Of blessed existence, provide the nourishment for fellows
In the hydræ of ancient deadly causes, a bellows
For pernicious anaemia, the fires of self-destruction, deceptive silks
In Chinese red and imperial yellow glory in what otherwise is so easily tainted.
Eyes though sightless, ears though blocked,
Rudiments and remnants, plaque and pittance locked
Away for timed released by those whose painted
Images rehearsed by those who know no peace,
Whose appetites are not satisfied will never cease.
Yes, of course, there were the mysteries and questions in the mind, if not, the heart of Cain. In those few seconds of lucidity with his brother before his passing, Cain was asked, “Why?” And Cain replied, “what was so precious about your sacrifice to Him. Was it so different from my own?” Abel whispered. “There was no difference, my brother; why are you so wroth?” “He asked the same of me. How was I to bear the weight? What would you have done?” Abel whispered, I would have asked what I could do to make my sacrifice acceptable.” Cain’s reaction was the first premise of history; it was Abel’s last.
…painting by Kyle Ragsdale…
“The Balm of Blame”
The balm of blame relies on shame
While fools amass in cloisters; clowns, their terrors
Grouped in choirs as with fires sired in hell. Errors
Come as natural as breathing, while their eternal flame
Afflicts the every man, and cannot be concealed.
How, then, does the crown not fit
As when in the thick of smoke and mirrors bells peeling
Not from above or from the side but fulgent, sealing
Heaven’s signs in record time, the eyes, the gait, the every gesture
Bold prophetic witness as the Eastern Prophets’ Word is echoed in the West,
Their lights snuffed out in increments that underline the tortured tests
Of wills and structures of the Occident in bulging bank accounts–sequestered,
Belching fallacies–metered by the hour that all but scream for want of closure?
Yet, the line is long and longer for ambient mists of deft exposure.
They will not hear the key left limp at latch–the entrance
Or the exit; they cannot see the rising
Or the setting of the complaisant star, its restive analysing
Of the land and sea at midnight, the telling glance
Of creatures who stalk their prey in the foyer of the edifice;
The temporary seating exceeds the number of the tombs is evidence
Enough that in all creation few defy the mirage; the fence
That must divide the space above a phantom’s presence
Of this planet from the gaping hungry star-filled void
Of all that passes for imagination.
Connoisseurs of matter taste
Nothing but the venom of the fang in hours of self-defeating waste:
That posits purpose in pursuit of the outrageous, they speak of decoys
And photographs in place of simple memory and obsolescent joy.
Posted in Appearances, Bank account, Bells, Blame, Celluloid, Closure, Connoisseur, Decoy, Denial, Double Sonnet, Duplicity, Ediface, Error, Everyman, Fallicies, fancy, Fire, Flame, Havoc, Heaven, Hell, Imagination, Joy, Key, Land, Liar, Logic, Magesty, Materialism, Mayhem, Memory, Mirage, Modernity, Moon, Occident, Poetry, Prophets, Samsara, Sea, Star, Tomb, Waste, West
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets