He suspects that wholes are a matter of long and at times Seemingly endless waiting for the Host to open the door; an Overture to conclude so that we may at last hear an Expected symphony; an operation to be rhymed,
Sufficient recovery so that we may smile once again upon The patient; at the mailbox, vigil for the postman so that one May be apprised of the bill, near enough to the telephone For that important call; the last day of work so that run-on
Vacations may begin. I know of no one who awaits nothing Unless in fact he is either lost or distracted, or simply Cocooned within protracted dreams or worse, a panoply Sufficient to expectation of change, there is the running
Just before the door to what is surely in the next room. Glory the very least, nothing all that boring.
“You Own the Year”
You own the year and years before you
As I the year and all that’s passed;
Your signs are rising; eternity is steadfast.
Quo vadis, then? I who serve eternities am overruled
By sheer numbers, countless previous dispensations viewed
In retrospect and circumspect as vast
And spacious notions of impermanence and impasse.
I see before the fact in part— imperfectly at present—pursued
By spoils of wars and rumours coupled with a dubious acquired taste
For bitters, acerbic memory gained close at hand or lost at sea.
Nothing in this world is or is so stable
That it is not utterly dependent, created, removed and recreated on the table
Of bounties throughout creation; what God has willed to use or waste
Shall be not be more or less than what it is, and what is not shall never be.*
* “Protect me, O my Lord, from every evil that Thine omniscience perceiveth, inasmuch as there is no power nor strength but in Thee, no triumph is forthcoming save from Thy presence, and it is Thine alone to command. Whatever God hath willed hath been, and that which He hath not willed shall not be.
There is no power nor strength except in God, the Most Exalted, the Most Mighty.”
–His HolinessThe Báb, Selections from the Writings of the Báb, pp. 190-191
Posted in Age, Aging, Certitude, Change, Civilisation, Covenant, Destiny, Detachment, Duplicity, End Times, Existence, Experience, Fate, God, Hegira, Hope, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mankind, Mortality, New Year, Poem, Poetry, Providence, Pyrrhic Victory, Reality, Samsara, Sea, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spirituality
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Eternity, Existence, God, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
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
“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…
That moment, these several when
The nothing further can be done, no real choice,
No option, no rest , no celebration; tasks, the last of many—voiced,
Now silent as were the über-years of work—will one day bend
The purest light, memory’s prism’s massive missive of relief and thanks
In weighty sentiments and fondest farewells, cheer
And season’s musk to see me on beyond reticence and fear
To take some few steps–arrogantly, yes, perhaps–toward paths that rank
Above all present trumps and common peculiars of this earth:
I have the fewer moments through to the very ends of means, I know,
And will it so for these hours. The unwieldy flow
Of days are proof enough that life’s lavas might well have spent their worth
Just so. Miseries of days beyond this present brief strife,
Born within the urgencies of time, are seeds of beauty
harvests from shadows and their hints of an even better life.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged lavas, Lyric Poetry, massive missive, miseries, Mortality, Poem, poetry, reticence, Sonnet, Sonnets
Suppose evolution the ablution of time as revelation, but gather why
We migrate. All know, of course, or should, what land
We live in, what the borders to the dream, the strand,
The stream of all acts, axioms, atolls of sanity sealed in wax. Try
Reason cupped in raw emotion in the Courts of History, ours
To bend and cherish in or out of season in the time
It takes to be or not to be the first and possibly the line
Drawn in haste in quicksand in the briefest span in feeble hours
Of loss and victory. L’Chaim! A toast to fine
Distnctions drawn between the posse and the Law!
Repeat the gaze, Govinda, and if you see the flaw
In personal salvation, seek penetration through strength of heart and mind,
Hubris in negation and his sibling’s futile crops–annihilation in rage and greed―
While Abel lies silent in the eye of Cain’s infernal whining in the weeds.
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“We’ve Been to the Mountain”
We’ve been to the mountain; we’ve seen the other side.
Elephants, no matter how little time apart,
Greet loudly one another, trumpeters in the lordly arts
Of proper nouns, like Persians in their Naw-Rúz pride
And passion in the ancient annual Spring-tide’s
Boasts amongst the pronouns, the years’ arrests in arrears,
With all the false and withered premises, weird
And natural bond together, yes! The ides of zodiacs abide
With such amazing grace, their verbs will override
The wholes of months that each, their seasons call
To order, seize opportunities where none exist at all.
Who is’t gazes into mirrors on these walls? “’Tis I”
Say all! Who then answers whom as they leave these rooms
And who beys at whom as they stand before their moons?
Posted in Abyss, All or nothing, Childhood, Chimæra, Circumlocution, Circuses, CNN, Consolation prize, Crito, Crucible, Denial, Denizen of Hell, Earthbound joys, Education, Election 2016, Elephants, End Times, Ephemeral pursuits, Lyric Poetry, Mammoth in the room, Maudlin sentiment, Mayhem, Negation, Poetry
Tagged Lyric Poetry
Leviathans suffer willingly the wastes of lessers with the spoils
Of forage in awe of their minions’ rout. Leavings
Of forests—minutia in the seas—objects in multitudes of breeding
In billions lay as quarry; breathing only halts the intake, precious oils
And storage founts in awful majesties as but bubbles will numb the foils
Of the deep with little thought of being prey; no other path is possible as to seek
Escape evaporates in the stupor of the stampede and mindless feed,
Ephemeral images of affrighted numbers and omnipresence. The serpent coils,
As consternation’s measured to the length of ineffectual peers
And in the chaos and confusion, venom—the elixir of a momentary sun—
And mere instinct lights the way for both hunter and hunted, in tandem
For the hunted, “In sæcula sæculorum,” say the hunters
In deft detection; great ones of the kelp and boiling seas remain true,
The enemy of few, so much the reward, relentless, so limitless the purview.
Another page, another mother’s light
Turned away; turn again, then, see! A win, another loss
To justify another’s blinding of the night’s costs;
The morning’s do’s, —the evening’s don’ts made right
When viewed upon a back-lit screen—might
Within a child’s eye, be plucked, tossed
From purgatories to the heavens, back, and lost
Again then plunged, expunged from memory, tight
Below the bow and just beneath the river’s wave, bright.
She’ll deny all accusations; he’ll deny her nothing’s crossed
Like fingers hid behind his back to wound the world, the floss
Of millions, possible glories in billions to the wizened rite
We’ll not toast the host of this tabernacle,
The last at the national altar to democracy’s debacle.