“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
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
“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.
“There Are Times”
There are times when rocks are all I need,
A shelter, something solid, something half complete.
No eternal covering, nothing dreamed. I just can’t sleep
Right now, and all I want to do is sit a spell, and see
Myself through what it is I ought to feel.
There is so much to think about at times,
(The lunar bride’s not called as yet) my mind’s not clear, but I’m
Not sure I care to do a thing nor move about those eels
I see that make so many close to me so utterly confused.
You know I rarely miss my ride, so, if
You don’t mind, I’ll sit and stare, and sift
Through things I shouldn’t think about, and muse
About myself till dusk. And if you please, I’ll shift
From time to time to let you know I haven’t died,
Abide a while, and let the moon bring in the tide.
Posted in Age, Aging, Biding time, Contemplation, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sea turtles, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Sea turtles, Sonnet, Sonnets
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
“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…
“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.