Category Archives: Truth

“Gandhi’s Truths”

“Gandhi’s Truths”

Gandhi’s truths are motionless beneath an image born,
A version’s accent that only seems to change; perceptions lie.
The eyes, the ears, the touch, all senses testify
Before the centre. Memories, chattels of the intellect, are torn
Between the ëgo and its mirror. He will board that train,
And see his own distinction — one-way ticket bound
Zephyrs tell him what he only thinks he knows. Hounds
And adverbs pursue him, winds he cannot name remain
constant comments as he moves through distances
That never crossed his mind. The earth is twinned,
The gears are jammed, yet breezes, golden prayer wheels, spin.
The pinnacle not the single shot of infamy―not the sun, but suns―an incident
Within a galaxy’s corruption far beyond its crucibles, hopes and cosmic excess:
Energy and matter never tire while circumstantial certainty leads destiny to rest.

“And So?”


“And So?”

And so, now what?…anon, and to what end?…and then
Again, where do we go from here? The guess:
To unify, to bend the truth and—lest
We forget the poor or to the rich lend
Credence to myths as yet unborn—transcend
The present’s lacking lights’ egress that press
Such grapes as pleasure wrath, with “nevertheless,”
And “never the more’s the merrier,” here, at land’s end.
And we all know where all this leads but, “when?”
And “Where’s the bottom?” mystifies the rest
Where most will merely chant, “It’s really for the best!”
Please!…Occasions pardon me, opine as wind,
Sequester sin and, come what may, we’ll all soon see
The ends of times announced in rhymes and newborn mysteries.

“There Is a Oneness”


“There Is a Oneness”

There is a oneness in God, one sea, one reality
In all exigencies, and so it is that we may be forgiven
And promptly forgotten for want of pure imagination. In vanity, they who live in
Fear of all things independent, who recoil from continents bound by seas
Of visions circumcised in shibboleths; those who fear their kind and its Holy See
Of horror, elevated as the Host in the cacophony of leisure’s golden trumpets
on the page or silver screen; to these much is given, these perpetually driven.
Spent, they prefer the image of the albatross, the unicorn, what thrives in
Flight, in tears, now realised now immortalised in manuscripts of fantasy;
These of fact, these of fiction hoard seats at the banquet by dint of circumstance
As they huddle together in nights of simile and metaphor; laurels, the oak leaves
Crown their worried brows with scales of vicarious habit born of years of ease,
Forsworn by tedious cloning of the suns leaving nothing to life and chance.
Given, then in specious time or choice, both now please
Their phatic lioves, emphatic in numbers yet limpid in the slightest breeze.


“He Knows”

Lake Fire

“He Knows”

He knows but one truth, shares it openly before
His own eyes. “It’s thoughts,” he says, “that are the enemies
And thoughts that spin the winning remedies
For now, forever and then some furtive moment, the more
The search for leaves of spirit and mantras soaked in peace
The more immersion in the blessings of a sage.
The added “carrot” seems to curry rage
And disappears around the bend to please
The treasuries of teachers, preachers, those who “‘know’ the age”
In which they live.  He bought the book, retired to read, and strove
To keep the incense burning on the stove,
His altar-now, or was it time to turn the page?
The longest way to truth is through the mind;
Still from mind to heart the bridge is there to what he wants to find.


“Split Infinitive”

“Split Infinitive”

Split infinitive, the cleaver cannot leave a mark;

Whither here or there, I can

Say nothing of it save that in such spaces weightlessness demands

Safe passage through the night, and dawn, the every morn as sparks

In the extremities reveal mere likenesses of divinity, an excess so easily payed

Out as if ‘twere planned or ready bought, a largesse in signs

And light diffused. Humanity’s the excuse, the very line

Drawn in sands that separate here from there as if in an arcade

Where emotion speaks for intelligence and former lovers find a place

To hide within the withered phallus, the wilted orchid for just a little while.

Who will look upon obscenity as a mask of travesty whose caustic smile

Cannot pass the lips nor wisdoms register results within the mind? Efface

From memory the protocols of inertia in the game and such a stench is discerned

That cannot in the end be seen where more than innocence is burned.


“Lady P: Yes, Well…”

In reply to a beautiful note sent to me…

“Lady P: Yes, Well…”

Yes, well, after all, at least for you and me
There’s everything and all and even more through truth and honesty;
We grope at times, yes! but never quite make or break the call
From perfection to perfection gaining ground then risking all.
But, there’s the rub, the same for everyone who breathes
To live and not the other way around: as boiling lava seethes
So, too, the will from time to time relieves itself, erupts and then must cool
To build tomorrow’s fortress in the season’s rut. Know  that fools
And angels build as well on sand as on a known caldera
Seeing safety’s but a syllable, a symbol, chimera
Of the mind or possibly a maxim born of boredom
And nothing more than light conversation over hay or sorghum
With a denizen of Hell, itself, who’s merely waiting for a train,
And you with no umbrella to protect you from the evening rain.

“Diversions Mount”

“Diversions Mount”

Diversions mount, but decisions are determined
And timing in celestial spheres and signs
Are not paused for dilatory motives nor do the blind
So easily blot out the sun. Some there are who enter
Darkness seeking the mercurial stations of the tongue, the move
From where they are to where they divine they must
Be without so much as limb or wing but straight through the dust
To strike pavilions over what is not and never could be a truth. Note all who’ve
Owned a cause to glorify the effects of blows to obfuscate, to conceive a sure
Obstruction of all evidence, nothing more. “In My Father’s House
Are many mansions,” written plainly in orchestrated independent clauses;
The caveat in escrow, the final contract awaits the ink *and “If it were
Not so,” He would have writ the mystery of galaxies and stars
as when polemic balances mark the seasons’ endless cosmic scars.

* John 14-1-9