From memory alone he entertains a pen with ease,
Awash with sundry inks and hues, now
Arresting generous portions of his brow,
Now attracted and content, a troubling frieze—
Peas with carrots, onions chopped too close
Within a future fry, not one but two with herbs allied,
Exposed for what they may now achieve, placed as rhymes
In elements combined to test his Pilate; cloves’
Oppressions no doubt forced at length albeit spare with salt declined,
And as carbon to the diamond, brine
Is changed to water, water thence to wine,
He’ll conjugate his troubled vision, his emotions intertwined,
And as she cooks, yes! even as he looks on,
to her polite laconic thoughts are tossed
As into boiling pots and frying pans, and all his thoughts are lost.
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, All or nothing, Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
Tagged Affirmation, Age, Aging, Certitude, Lyric Poetry, Sonnets
“Let Me Guess”
Let me guess who you are today; I’ll take a stab:
The dispensation of an anomaly
Among the many; truth, a Baby Ruth; an interim snack of cheese and homily
With subtle saturated satisfactions of the tongue or perhaps the drab
And balm of country kitchens of the family; no? then a likely love
Of solitude while at a sidewalk café. Then, again, possibly a calm
Redemption on hearing serendipity recitations of psalms
And poesy; a rush of elevation high above
The world in a pigeon coup atop a tenement, a private peak,
Sole witness to a gambit of fireflies in the penthouse;
you bear the marks of choruses from Bach,
The symphonies of Mahler, a von Biber mass amassed
and a never-ending fugue in stock
Of cigarettes for friends around a table
in the daily wanderquest of hide-and-go-seek?
…And all of this for your daily muse, remiss
Because God’s forgot to mention something, and everyone but you
knows exactly what that something is.
Posted in Bach, Gustav Mahler, Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Heinrich Ignaz Franz von Biber, Vanity
Supplications grow, pleased to egregious in the melée of nations―
Legions speaking―but what’s not said conspires as spectres
Of the watchmen. Some several dusty hectares
In Írán, perhaps, or even more in Korea raise expectations
Of the many-eyed ones pacing jetsam judiciously
Across the night sky as swarms of fireflies, particles of clay
That mean so much to those who pay
To know what’s not been said. Salaciously,
They grope and probe through Gaia’s private parts
In diurnal fascination to record in meticulous scales, not heights
But depths in detail and adjunct logarithms here below. Sites
Of Hell are open secrets in denial while the nocturnal
Heavens mark the edges of desire’s will in oblivion
and in the cosmic dark
Do fools require suns when all that’s needed
is a single spark?
Take care, my friend, I’ll be gone when all
Is said and done and you’ve exhausted myriads in travelled
Roads and paths, chimaeras that solace compromise and cavil
At direction to overload the slightest wish to pray. The call
Of newborn yesterdays is rife in youthful sirens
As orisons in skies above your auguries where eagles simply scream.
Purpose breeds sedition, yes! yellowing, a tax upon all leaves;
Salacious fruits produce addictions turning virtues into vices.
Shall I remain transfixed while you decide which road is best?
Simple neighbours here will waste my heart to roll the dice
And serve the tea but once in modesty while you have tasted thrice
Forbidden fruit with no refund, no return surviving tests
of all in wit, concentric verbal feasts, and bruise your soul
on all twelve stations of the zodiac to boot, an endless unrecorded smile
seducing what is left of memory of yet another mile.
…photography by Colin Bury…
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, Delusion, End Times, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
“If Not a Summer’s Day”
If not a summer’s day, then let me celebrate
Some last year’s moment’s fecund random fruit, emerging produce
From repeated seasons; so be it, someone else’s seed deduced
From natural selection reduced to poverty in the actual delight. The penultimate
Arrival of the cycle’s sun has surpassed Orion’s
Yawn, a codicil of peace within the annual rut of reason. But for the sake
Of natural pleasures in the thought abused, treason within the process is raked,
Its many points become a species, then a phylum
Sealed and steeled as wrapped within a velvet robe, the ripened peach,
With subtle flavour, discrete; its ancient used aroma all but moot
Until at last the weather’s hope of heaven’s born, takes root,
And in the swath of shadows in the other afternoon its child appears
As fit for sacrifice, a single bit in some innocuous familiar rite–
The residue of autumn’s care at dusk before the coming winter’s night.
Posted in Aging, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Autumn, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Summer
…a question of mood and atmosphere…
Someone questions; in the soul who asks,
A sense of limitless flight, as in a light cast against
A cosmic scrim, a naked form made indisposed, concupiscence
So well hedged in that even snakes and asps
Imagine kingdoms, place and calling. One seeks
Solace in the stars drawn loosely in the dawn in meadows where the lark
And scissortail fly with grace and prudence safe within the dark
And moonlit bosom of the ether side of night. These may speak
In early evening mists as harbingers of loss or sparks, a dawn’s execution’s stay
For both are lost at first appearances of the other’s prescient rites.
Someone’s asking too many questions, standing, stupid in astonishment―slights
To similitudes, approbation of the moon in the cold blue light of day―
And while away their twilight hours in repetitious casting of the bones and runes,
Hers the scarlet crystals, his the blue.
Posted in Colours, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Colours, concupiscence, Double Sonnet, Emotion, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife
The feet commend the escalators, wise,
Perhaps, yes. No hurry here.
So many trains, so many things to fear
And nothing moves but lies and alibis
In search of something less than action
More than brief delight, a slight distraction
In a brief but numbing journey from less to satisfaction.
Cables flash, that sudden lurch, light abstraction
Sends them tumbling yet they stand their posts
And are not moved unless it be some final
Transfer from incarnation through the wall; a spinal
Tap away in increments, epiphanies in search of hosts
Who until now have given less than ought
To how they lived or what their sanity has cost.
“Well Met this Thing”
Well met this thing, a solace
To the whole as in a natural rhyme, a seedling
Leaning deftly, sifting energies, a grace note from the sun, breathing
Freshly gathered light, a sacrifice of self to self to manifest largess
By choice; a certitude robed in servitude, sweet volition made
Weathered, shrunk, and wedded to the greater or the lesser daylight gains.
Swelling actions often stagger in the night’s timed shadow’s pains
As simple growth, or guided by the healing spade
And shears—a graft, perhaps—something more substantial
Than what nature had bestowed and then some; a fertile
Gift of place to place and thus in time, itself, beyond the servile
Sum of all its parts; a mortal substance thus a circumstantial
Harvest of perception, there because it’s seen, a simple story
Asking nothing but an audience in brief pedestrian glory.
“Lest Led Ajar”
Lest let ajar in blindness, we must surely know
The juggernauts will move again this week,
As highways clog, evacuation buses seek
The higher ground and seeds of fear are sown
Within the airways, “Danger! Friends beware!”
And no one now may turn away and say
He’s not apprised nor moved to reëvaluate
The ground with prudence; diehards raise the fist and swear
They’ll not be first nor yet a second time removed.
But in the main, these , the sparks and fire
Among the cries, pathetic measures kill for hire
Throughout Nigerian muds and Balkan floods, and lewd
Wonders in what traffic walks the boiling streets of Texas and California.
Behold the spectres! closer to truth, of reigns of Cain in nomine Pacis Romanum.
With abruptness comes the uplifted fist, a draught of curt cessation
Of hostilities. Enter parados, the tenuous hymn, a nervous truce enforced
By dreams that hearts cannot discern nor in the discourse
Is it possible for speech to register a plea. Listing on a sea of abnegation—
Content, superfluous ballast—the stuff of odes leach sadness
In the breach for fear that smothers
Second thoughts, shuns advice and admonition and all evidence on the floor
withdrawn from all others.
Comes a welling of selflessness for simple gladness
Sealed in radiant acquiescence, futures steeped in martyrs’ crimson inks
at first stirrings of anagnorisis. Here dwells dull
But conscious resignation to what appears to be defeat of all mottoes
Writ in luminous capitals: “The Thing’s Not Working!” And in the grotto,
Then, the chorus spells the penultimate invocation; the last bull;
The space between the lines, in turn the very eye of so vainglorious a day:
“This cannot come to good! Fools react where wisdom merely prays.
Posted in Anagnorisis, Ballast, Donald Trump, Election 2016, Hymn, Lyric Poetry, Martyrs, Parados, Poetry, Second thoughts, Selflessness, Sonnet
Tagged Donald Trump, Election 2016, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Sonnet