Transitions, troughs and floodgates
Swell before the crops are in;
Appointments rough-hewn begin
From centuries’ wealth in soils. He hesitates.
Lamentations of the classic farmer’s touch
Bestowed on something that was expected
Neither to outlast the seed nor tip the balance but once elected
Audit landscapes from the past and serve the sudden rush as much
As circumstance permits a well to gush and choose another path.
He was a teacher; was, and no doubt
Will continue to apply the torch to oils of souls
Whose mission is to lance the boils of youthful wrath
And freely prime the wells of mass miscalculation of the myths,
The babbling and cursive powers of hubris and its shibboleths.
Posted in Age, Aging, Centuries, Crops, Farmer's touch, Floodgates, Hubris, Imagery, Lamentations, landscapes, Lyric Poetry, Miscalculation, Myth, Oils, Past, Poetry, Samsara, Seed, Shibboleths, Soils, Sonnet, Teacher, Terrorism, Transitions, Troughs, Wealth, Well, Wrath
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife, Youthful wrath
“Strike a Pose”
Strike a pose and pillars weaken.
Even woods seek relief
From centuries at attention; beliefs
Untimely ripped from books are beacons
To the ignorant if in their prime
They take the place of true experience.
If blessings prove demur, the moon and sixpence
And all the king’s men define
A life more aptly than simply being
There. Rare then the man who seeing
Turns his back on benefits of the eye; the ear is pleased
To take the longer route to Grandma’s house; lips endure the breeze,
And risk an honest blister, a righteous burn beneath the sun.
Rarer still the philistine who sees a book and does not run.
And who exactly was this Orwell, who
The Churchill; again, who’s Picasso’s mistress when
Blue glib-waxed and guernic figures penned
The fuller bosoms to birth a monolith another cyclic clue,
Some few lucrative curios steeped in formal caricature?
Who pretends to know, who will show
The afterglow of action, the majesties of fortunes’ fugues and blow
It all in deco lines enamelled–white with golden rafters
carved from ancient pines–or, then perhaps, the Persian
Rugs that graced the White Star Line’s new polished floors
…whose luck mewed up did not add positive to the good?
Well, someone knows or might well know another that could,
If in his eyes there lies the knowledge of a sturgeon,
Stylised, her taste is treasured as through the decades pass
All kaleidoscopic observations of her history under glass.
…painting above by Picasso; below by Jan van Kessel…
Posted in Age, Aging, George Orwell [1903-1950], Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Pablo Picasso [1881-1973], Philistine, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Shibboleths, Sir Winston Leonard Spenser 1874-1965, Sonnet, Sonnets, Sturgeon, White Star Line
Tagged Churchill, Double Sonnet, George Orwell [1903-1950], Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Orwell, Pablo Picasso [1881-1973], Picasso, Poem, poetry, Sir Winston Leonard Spenser 1874-1965, Sonnet, Sonnets, \p