A respite in the air today and news,
And down the chute comes something nice,
Some piece of fond assurance, the sweetness of advice
To justify past days and weeks of toil and views
Obscured by all that’s loud and cumbersome above;
Below, scenarios of arteries and paths
Through streets on seamless days. No dragons’ nostrils’ wrath
Knows no better than to lie between the wings of doves
Or gentle nestlings in the palms of all the psalms of fortune.
Today a gentle width in avenues and boulevards
And all the right-of-ways are opened wide, the gloss of plastic cards
In bank machines, the brighter melodies of shallow i-Tunes
Whistled in the mind on buses at the hour of noon.
A mystery witnessed in the heart, eternity cut short too soon.
Posted in Closure, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Moon, Poem, Poetry, Respite, Rest, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Moon, Poem, poetry, Respite, Rest
“A Weekend Well Affords a Sleep-in”
A weekend well affords a sleep-in, and a look
At what’s not been put to rest, and in the soft
And casual stroll through halls and closets, lofts
And corners of the home, the memories ordered, books
Rearranged, and music for the soul–the sound
Of dishes, cleaning, sweeping rugs, and then,
Of course, the nagging thought that if and when
The hours allow, perhaps a treasure found,
That deliberate search for lost and oft forgotten articles
That must be somewhere in this place.
He conjures histories in dusty, mundane thoughts—erase
The past, perhaps—and in the end to shift the particles
And portions of the present if only to reinvigorate and nurture
What’s behind the doors, beneath the floors, and repossess the furniture.
Monotony abides the inverse to eternity since we last prayed,
And so to arms and legs, and chest, a shallow glimpse into the mirror’s relay
There with all angels and their demons on track,
Mental ferris wheels to feed the ego. Creature comforts and divorce
(Whichever comes to mind) as skin and moisture, open nostrils
In the midst and mist of hostile winds and waters, lesser thrills
Than what you thought you’d find there in the tub.
But then, you’ve done it all, . . . what lamp to rub,
What nerve to prick to wake the dead within
Or titillate the whole without, and feel the skin
Of something close to human and possibly alive.
So much to do at fours and fives
In autumn afternoons or deep in winter’s snows: so creeps the dusk
Of possibles in the binding of the summer’s ledger and maybes in the dust.
“Within the Second”
Within the second, tension
Greeting and suspension
Sought by no one’s intervention
Never seen when the incision
First was made; immediately regretted,
The fisherman must pay out nets in
By miles in order to withdraw from what is set in
Stone for life and wife and children and the silence of posterity. Sunsets
Measured by exigency’s precision and jealous alacrity in moments
Of lucidity crown flights that condescend to incidents and stories
Never dreamed by this finest man or that great fish by land or sea
But in and with slightest motion’s predetermined goals, histories
Of continents and oceans satisfy Calliope
and there within their stations, torments
Boast of sacrifice for crowds where cowards
in the chorus crucify their tragic characters and epic plots
swell as sweat from depths within the pores of poets
finding every gilded ancient fear a kind of test
that does not rest but resonates as never-ending glory.
Posted in Action, Chorus, Classic, Crucifixion, Elements of Narration, Epic poetry, Fate, Fear, Fisherman, Gods, Greece, Martyrdom, Muses, Negation, Pathos, Poetry, Posterity, Providence, Rest, Sacrifice, Stations, Tragedy, Tragic Flaw
Tagged Calliope, Character, Chorus, Lyric Poetry, Plot, Setting, Sonnet, Theme
“I’ve Been Thinking”
I’ve been thinking way too much these days;
The shock, you see, the awe of threshold’s reached
At sixty-six that tells me there’s so much to see
So little time to find a hook, another book, a snag, a sway
And banner suitable for framing, something like a booth, a stall,
The wherewithal to pass what little I’ve accumulated
To the next in line, the liberated
Mass of teachers staring blankly at the wall
They think they see before them, not at all inclined
To move an inch ahead, or fall behind the hour
Of their deliverance; the not-too-distant tower
Built of babbling and distraction twice toggled and misaligned
By hucksters for bovines, clever workshop shakers, and all divines
Who swear there’s still time to form a proper conga line!