Transitions, troughs and floodgates
Swell before the crops are in;
Appointments rough-hewn begin
From centuries’ wealth in soils. He hesitates.
Lamentations of the classic farmer’s touch
Bestowed on something that was expected
Neither to outlast the seed nor tip the balance but once elected
Audit landscapes from the past and serve the sudden rush as much
As circumstance permits a well to gush and choose another path.
He was a teacher; was, and no doubt
Will continue to apply the torch to oils of souls
Whose mission is to lance the boils of youthful wrath
And freely prime the wells of mass miscalculation of the myths,
The babbling and cursive powers of hubris and its shibboleths.
Posted in Age, Aging, Centuries, Crops, Farmer's touch, Floodgates, Hubris, Imagery, Lamentations, landscapes, Lyric Poetry, Miscalculation, Myth, Oils, Past, Poetry, Samsara, Seed, Shibboleths, Soils, Sonnet, Teacher, Terrorism, Transitions, Troughs, Wealth, Well, Wrath
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Youthful wrath
“The Peace, That Is”
The peace that is, some sense of fortune, love
Of life, that is, the promises that dwell in hearts
Whose beacon is the present. Darts
And shafts, phantoms’ arrows, doves
Of superstition and the flights of eagles not yet dreamed
Become the weights of weariness, embellished chains of thoughts,
Of past and distant memories; all these are. The nought’s
Outweigh the should’s, the clarion chorus of what seems
Will drown the melody of what is as patently, the past
Is nothing more than magnification of future’s cold deception.
Certainly, who’s to know but that at conception
What was sure to be could never really last
And what endures is petrified in quicksands of false alarms
Because we dwell so near the morning’s light and yet so far.
Posted in Conception, Future, Hope, Immortality, Past, Poetry, Present
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets