“So Where To?”
So where to from here; tug daily grind, line
The which depends so much, so little
Upon report, rapport; cement ‘n spittle,
True juice, sap; pure, refined,
Pliant to the touch; spine
Present in the optic and so…brittle?
Caught in upper or lower case, median middle
(And then some)…or is the channel closed,
Blocked for repairs, incognito
For want of words or syntax
Or something less substantial, posed
Between just another meme; revealed though
By no means sealed o’er in blood-red wax?
Posted in Age, Aging, Change, Chaos, Cycles, Lyric Poetry, Order, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Change, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet
The age, the arc, the spectre of unspeakables
And contention; a single strike will kill, but with the honeybee
Comes purpose by the lot and ensured harmony,
“Do not disturb!” and “Multiples; Invincibles!”
Reluctantly, to be sure, but timely come the constables,
Harbingers of an hour’s solemnity
And stark reminders of inevitable uncertainties—
“A step too far!” is heard, and while the intruder’s able,
The antidote comes in hosts, swarms
And spirits in the multiples and in the interim
Kindnesses in part to save the whole.
No bellicose delivery here, no spectacle of effort to console
The soul but simple missives bearing news of certified afflictions warn
Of death: “The hive or thee, my friend: the hive or thee; attend!”
Posted in Age, Aging, Collective salvation, Contention, Honeybees, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spiritual consolation
Tagged Aging, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
Elephantine strides through memory
Anoint comforts when the mind is occupied
With choices on the breath and needs are satisfied
With so little stimulation. Revise the inventory,
Raise the stakes in fractions, ignore the signatories,
Take a stand and ask yourself, what’s been petrified,
Where’s the fractal scrawled upon the walls so sanctified
From changes soldered to eternity? Inflammatory
Selfdom pacified, perhaps, but there is no closure found in rest
Nor in the restive inspiration; what dreams have forged flamingo
Bliss that soothes the buyer’s mind or softens in the seller’s tone,
The bias toward the natural final stop or just another philosopher’s stone?
Some random kiss that lasts a thousand seconds cannot stand the test,
And never mind the consequences, nor accents in the innuendo.
Posted in Buyers, Innuendo, Kiss, Philosopher's stone, Poetry, Self, Sellers
Tagged Delusion, Lyric Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Placated in the Midnight”
Placated in the midnight for a time, softly moving, flowing purples
Prove longing in a hurried bower. Sentiments, interpreted
In their yearning by a greater sight, a gilded purity, requests to know
A deeper joy in stations far above their own. These! the strident yellows,
Richest apricots, stealth in forest greens, and in their mirrors’ prism others
In a rainbow’s richest hues. Truculence and degradation spawn another
Third, a half note difference that in the hour makes no sense. These! their fellow
Travellers pause but moments in this place and for all intents
And purposes yield to what they think has come pass. Conclusions
Mount in efforts to remember who it was could do this to whom. Confusion
Circumvents the purpose of reunion when their synergies, delayed, are bent
Distorting content, vanities and what they both have willed:
Blindness in the heart and mind while all precocious certitude is stilled.
“O My! Bejeezu!”
O my! Bejeezu! Where did I go wrong?
And where were you when I’d done’t,
And where are they all now that the audit
And the reckoning grows aloud and louder than a song
Sung in triumph withal? The shadow’s withdrawn
Further inward to the quick, the narrow brawn
Of naked thought upon a single bone, marrow spawned
Of promise, premises consumed, spent
Emotion, perhaps little more than a curtain rent
But just a step or two behind an odd comment―
Well, after all, I’m just sayin’― cement
For a Magi or thrice on a mission sent
For “Let it go at that, my friend!” Seals
Fit for a living room upon gilded open fields.
Posted in Age, Aging, All or nothing, Appearances, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Emotion, Lyric Poetry, Phatic conversation, Sonnet, Thought
“Bathetic Moments’ Voiced”
Bathetic moments’ voiced, a tremolo; a single cigarette, a candle
In a valley, the briefest transfer from so little matter
To so innocuous a spark is seen perhaps for miles, the latter
End of someone’s random afterthought, the ancient mantle
Of exchange expressed in grains of sand,
And this so far from source, so utterly homely
Yet brilliant in its insignificance and still the only
Vindication of its kind through fogbound skies on land.
There is a barrier between the two
An enigma, twice a paradox,
Two thrice wounded souls within a box
That sits astride a gleaming paragon of simple views
And simpler decisions. Dilemmas offered to the least in time
Retain their energies but sacrifice their matter in a simple rhyme.
…art by AirForc3 on deviantArt…
Damn the copula indictment! Imprecations in the votive voice
Give an air of desperation, habit, addiction to extraneous
Mass when systems beckon. Harden knowledge and trust
With perjury steels mere faith with the gift of certitude. Thus choice
And immortality, twin crowns are ever known. Hoist
The ensign; then, scan Scrolls of Scripture for evidence thrust
Upon the few and swallowed whole, rejected in disgust
Toward the end before the opening note defines the cycle and foists
Credulity upon what is species captured in the draught by dint of time,
Tradition, and the annual hajj along the Yellow Brick Road to hell.
But know this, friend, the natural grammar of the Newborn Era
Holds sway in all seasons, discovers in ebullience all that’s said in camera:
And what’s done in spite caroms against the palate and staggers rhyme
In tokens of support but at last yields powers to the ears to break the spell.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet
“I Could Be Fooled”
I could be fooled and have been
Through hours née seconds stretched
By wrote, taut upon the strings, etched,
Payed out within an evidence seen
On parchment, heard on vinyl, weaned
From air, gleaned, winnowed from weeds
Of thought, weavings from chaff while the meats,
Their former meanings set aside; conduits, streets
That lead to heights and hills now weakly leaked to seas.
But whether the fool or wizard, used as seams
For wools and lesser fabrics waters for sale or spilled as screams
From simple onanism, flotsam spill on American streets and streams,
Effects remain the same for highs or lows or curses,
The cause for former victories, turned ingredients for verses.
“This You Chose”
This you chose, you know, the lethal wound, external fire,
Internal final cut the cleanest; the choice was never mine.
This you chose; your arms, your scent defined
The borders, walls, the floors, the exposure. Your desires
Say nothing past the yesterdays of pre-dawn, and glad
I was to rest the while, and glad you are that I am gone.
But nothing’s rendered in the late night’s song,
The me in you, and yes! You know the sad
Result: that moon’s pain can not know a sequel.
The senses, these you know , with no contempt,
But radiant resignation in the hours of heat and pure idolatry. Spent,
The sentence stands within this world. These final sentiments rule;
The veil, the truths we’ve always known; the hourglass, the idols of our nights,
Its sands, a closing hush of breath at daybreak when all our meteors take flight.
Posted in Age, Certitude, Death, Delusion, Detachment, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Idolatry, Illusion, Imagery, Imagination, Imagism, Immortality, Infinitity, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Patience, Philosophy, Poem, Poetry, Reality, Relativity, Samsara, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Art, Death, Delusion, Emotion, Existence, Fidelity, Illusion, Imagery, Imagism, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pain, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
Stylish scandals serve as fodder in mists of lotteries just so
For use in apparitions and delusions of synergies,
Lubricants that cushion stress and emerging currencies
Of incremental confusion bestowed
On callow mettle once more greatly desired than gold
And spun in threads of obsequious obstinacy,
cocoons of comfort from birth to birth I took to be
Death and dying in the failing in my years of fire and snow:
In short, I will always fell. Pride postponed and sentiments excused,
Somewhere in my purchases rest a greater need
To arrest all that is before it’s brought to naught
And put away and forgotten, the pedestrian slipper and clog untried, unused
With no need to embroider, exacerbate or mark the erstwhile Golden Rule
Of simple certitude’s aplomb well beyond the need of classic paths and shoes.