The many who remain to wait
Silently for some benign constriction in the state
Of things, some sinister situation in the molten core
Of what it is they hope that God forgets to do or say.
Oh, yes. There are the borders to defend,
Concessions, lights within the processed prisms bend
And warp–so many suns are strong–schemes to calculate
With nests to build and chicks to feed,
but come the harvest, guests, the gathering
And celebration, the stories to be sold across the newsstands of the land,
The hands all sit here waiting with the others in the band
And ask themselves why grace and bounty seem so much like common tragedy
When in the once desired brilliance of the promised summer’s yield
The time for satisfaction never comes and the crop’s left in the field.
Posted in Change, Chaos, Cycles, Death, Ecology, God, Greed, Lyric Poetry, Materialism, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, State of Being, Tragedy
Tagged Economy, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Strife, Tragic Flaw
…a revision of the poem…
Swept aside, all moments and celestial mementos collide
And waste no never-mind on credence and retention
In the wake of greater cosmic rinds and supine celestial reflection.
Mortality by definition lies; not so through what histories imply
But in the daily interaction of missives from the Goal
And penultimate ilunga * of the Source or
Sanctions of interaction in the triumphant triad of the coarsest
Ores of time, of space, and all that matters. Time, the cosmic linen folds
Of space and active order; space, the theatre of experience at the heart
Of the observer; matter, but an audience, a phenomena in passive
Active shadows of Creation and its nemesis. Simplicity is massive,
Complexity but a word; a question’s languages are art
And science while the answers form the pathos and the abstract.
What is more pathetic than to be and yet be nothing in the act?
Simplicity in the classic form requires
The prefects of a perfect vacuum
Combined in such a way as compliments the acumen
Of a strident meme, the jealous zeitgeist, tests that to the whole inspire
An urgent need to pause, to linger over bodies no longer really there,
A little more than a half a generation’s substance in a given time.
So granted this, so beautifully and tragically resigned,
Aloud comes the elegies of episodes to “Move along!”or “Retire!”
With such a cry inscribed, there was and always is
A here and there in rapid profit worshipped, fierce
As gallstones of desperation: “This, our chosen age, rehearsed
Upon a cross of memories little more than lyrics of an ancient tryst!”
And, equally, the many crowned and catalogued, remain aloof
Through symmetries of perfection in a sacred dynasty of embroidered truth.
*The word is ilunga, from the Bantu language of Tshiluba, and means a person ready to forgive any abuse for the first time, to tolerate it a second time, but never a third time.
When there is this, that is.
With the arising of this, that arises.
When this is not, neither is that.
With the cessation of this, that ceases.
His Holiness The Buddha
Posted in Affirmation, Age, Aging, Antithesis, Arts, Buddhism, Change, Classic, Cycles, Double Sonnet, Elegies, End Times, Ends, Generations, Hubris, Hustlers, Hyperbole, Idolatry, Matrix, Meme, Memory, Negation, Nostalgia, Numinosum, Pathos, Poetry, Posterity, Pragmatism, Pyrrhic Victory, Relativity, Retirement, Samsara, Sciences, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Synthesis, Thesis, To be or not to be, Tragic Flaw, Tshiluba, Yearning, Zeitgeist
Tagged Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
The cells call out their scholarity,
Mighty spires reach for skies
That live seasons in the earth’s penumbra and expire
Forever, so they say. Turn, then, to odd peculiarity,
Particulars in ornate stone formations possibly deliberate
When once they housed a single evening’s temple
Built by want and ignorance of what is simple,
Worshipped by multitudes within, immediate
To some, an intimacy of bodies petrified
And sprung from some light’s supple
Flight that had a need for nuptials–
She, the goddess; he, the priest. So sanctified,
They possessed a night that launched a myriad cliffs
And in that blackest of shadows, its oceans shifted.
“The poem… is a little myth of man’s capacity to make life meaningful. And in the end, the poem is not a thing we see – it is, rather, a light by which we may see – and what we see is life.”
~Robert Penn Warren
[April 24, 1905—September 15, 1989]
Posted in Affirmation, Cells, Energy, Epiphany, Imagery, Imagism, Light, Matter, Mythology, Night, Numinosum, Poetry, Poets, Providence, Sciences, State of Being, Yearning, Zeitgeist
Tagged Existence, Lyric Poetry, Robert Penn Warren, Sonnet
“Summer Like the Lion”
Summer like the lion has so little time;
Reflections on horizons only seem at rest,
Refractions, hungers in the higher grasses are at best
A blind, a routine introspection, attest to sun and pride,
Alike as natural season’s slightest change rewards the prey
Of both with perspicuous signs and insecurities but nonetheless
Concrete enough to cause a wonder in the every power; less
Than single clouds occlude the sun, the slightest hint of grey
Upon the main, both signal gain and loss. Clearly crowned,
They have no equal in selection’s schemes
Save Death, itself, yet each pays out in measured penalties. Extremes
In greatness and renown sustain but reasons, diadems and crowns
Subject to circumstance of cycles in the main—in means
A certain end—in cosmic tragedies beyond the need of seasons.
Posted in Animals, Cycles, Death, Destiny, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Matrix, Mortality, Poetry, Providence, Reason, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Tragedy, Tragic Flaw, Zeitgeist
Tagged Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Summer
“This Earthly Vision”
This earthly vision has no sequel–traces of blessed tealeaves,
I suppose–perhaps a some day catalyst for random thoughts in minutes
In the aftertaste, little more. My sometime friend, the spider spins his
Web and hopes but can depend on nothing more; his weave
Is carelessly placed in a vacant room where nothing flies,
And nothing’s gained–I do believe that no one knows
What spiders gain in being there. Flaming blue, the floes
On Northern Seas achieve as much for all the seals in mating season while It lies
To fate and sorry accident arranged or possibly ordained that in their time
The innocence of hapless polar bears sows ancient annual paths with dangers,
Weeds of freedom there among the jagged swords, the Arctic winter’s rage or
Where smelt and herring are the food of something even greater hidden, divine
And very much alive; all are victims. All are caught,
seduced by lethal circumstance within the tundra’s crystals’ crisis spread
Of rich absurdities and matchless ironies of living freely here among the dead.
Posted in Animals, Detachment, Patience, Poetry, Pyrrhic Victory, Samsara, Selflessness, Servitude, State of Being, Stations
Tagged Lyric Poetry, Sonnets, Spider
“Between the Particles”
Between the particles, seeds, whole galaxies
With beings monstrous in physique by grace
To be or not to be of any consequence; a place
Of high dramatic action, energies, prolixities
And all that is the chaos and confusion here
Among us there between the millions, there
Where no present eye beholds the plan; fair
Throughout minions of the wide arena sated, dear
To those whose measures are diminutive
But in such numbers as we cannot command,
Or catalogue; and even here may be the death of man
In servitude to what is life to them, disease to us, illustrative
Of powers to the nano only recently imagined:
We seek where there is nothing; we see mountains in grains of sand.
Posted in Appearances, Ecology, Evolution, Existence, Matter, Nature, Poetry, Reality, State of Being, Universe
Tagged Economics, Lyric Poetry, Sonnets