Tag Archives: Aging

“The Innuendo”

Alone_In_Fear-406524

“The Innuendo”

The innuendo woven not so much in the fantastic,
But in experience, a living witness within a precocious cloud,
A view to forward motion, counterfeit because in itself it is allowed
To be but never adequately traced: inertia has no station; static, elastic,
Yes, but to no greater purpose.  These, the chords of oneness in righteous bond
Cannot be but bastard confirmations of the spirit’s sparse but potent
Progress, motion, goal’s, the irritating “now” but well beyond the quotient
Of “then again…..” But there’s not it. There is no special wand
Nor spirit guiding, none the precious gift beyond simple accident in bands
Of language, maudlin to the ear which is to say we may embrace not knowledge, but the inordinate love of what the ear may be gifted to hear;
We may glory in what the tongue speaks, and its wonders to suspend the fear
Of dwelling on the absolute, mere ciphers written ingloriously on the sand.
And if, by chance, there is a point to these sentiments and if pernicious—these
Fine words—it is the soul and not the author, penned such thoughts with ease. 

“And What Is Selflessness?”

“And What Is Selflessness”

And what is selflessness if not what one
Is and sees fit to do as good as what it’s sown alone?
No encouragement distilled from boiling stones,
No obsequious fluid aplomb’s applause is wrung
From those who stand to fan the flames, no frowns
In nightly meretricious circus clowns that advertise
The wonders of themselves as holy spies
Whose close opinions eagerly set down
What is or is not righteous, whose voices through the prompters sound
Alarms, if not, their disappointment; their networks cheerfully announce
The bias of their purposes and in the end will pounce
On weaker minds, the likeness of themselves from tea and coffee grounds
And all to raise this holy man or that to seed opinion and its minions, feeders,
Of the put-your-hands-together gospel shouts as praises for their leaders.

“The Finite Question”

the-finite-universe-richard-ortolano

“The Finite Question”

The finite question—Thank you very much!
Will do me fine, my friend, nothing more’s
To grasp; not “Why?” but jewels of “Who?” or “What?” The core’s
Chorus at my reach within a lifetime. Touch
A heart within my passion’s fields and ask me “When?”
Or “Where?” or even “How?” and I am whole
No more than any man must be, for when I troll
The deeps for useful answers to finite human ends,
I come equipped as any in the crowd
Because I walk the earth, and from the mind
And human blindness come all answers to the blind,
…And be assured we are all blind. The infinite, the “Why?”a loud
And brash defiance in defense within the foam, “I am no fool,
No prophet! I speak nothing from divinity,
but from a simple earthly rule.”

“From Memory”

Propagation of Inner Thoughts

“From Memory”

From memory alone he entertains a pen with ease,
Awash with sundry inks and hues, now
Arresting generous portions of his brow,
Now attracted and content, a troubling frieze—
Peas with carrots, onions chopped too close
Within a future fry, not one but two with herbs allied,
Exposed for what they may now achieve, placed as rhymes
In elements combined to test his Pilate; cloves’
Oppressions no doubt forced at length albeit spare with salt declined,
And as carbon to the diamond, brine
Is changed to water, water thence to wine,
He’ll conjugate his troubled vision, his emotions intertwined,
And as she cooks, yes! even as he looks on,
to her polite laconic thoughts are tossed
As into boiling pots and frying pans, and all his thoughts are lost.

“Take Care”

sand

“Take Care”

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…

“Abruptness Applauds Aplomb”

aplomb1

“Abruptness Applauds Aplomb”

Abruptness applauds aplomb, a golden draught of curt cessation
Of hostilities. Enter antistrophe, the tenuous hymn, a nervous truce enforced
By dreams that hearts discern what in the discourse
Is impossible for speech to register as a plea. Listing on a sea of abnegation,
Content, superfluous ballast, the stuffs of odes leach a certain rush of sadness
In the breach for lack of evidence on the table; withdrawn from all others,
Comes a welling of overwhelming selflessness that smothers
Second thoughts, shuns advice and admonition and opts for simple gladness
Redolent in its radiant acquiescence, futures steeped in martyrs’ crimson inks
at first stirrings of anagnorisis. Here dwells dull
But conscious resignation to what appears to be defeat of all mottoes
Writ in luminous capitals: “The Thing’s Not Working!” And in the grotto,
Then, the chorus strikes the penultimate invocation, the last bull,
The space between the lines, in turn the very eye of so vainglorious a day,
“This cannot come to good!” as fools react where wisdom merely prays.

“So Where To?”

liner

“So Where To?”

So where to from here; tug daily grind, line
The which depends so much, so little
Upon report, rapport; cement ‘n spittle,
True juice, sap; pure, refined,
Pliant to the touch; spine
Present in the optic and so…brittle?
Caught in upper or lower case, median middle
(And then some)…or is the channel closed,
Blocked for repairs, incognito
For want of words or syntax
Or something less substantial, posed
Between just another meme; revealed though
By no means sealed o’er in blood-red wax?

seals

“The Age”

“The Age”

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!”

fear

“O My! Bejeezu!”

light2

“O My! Bejeezu!”

O my! Bejeezu! Where did I go wrong?
And where were you when I’d done’t,
And where are they all now that the audit
And the reckoning grows aloud and louder than a song
Sung in triumph withal? The shadow’s withdrawn
Further inward to the quick, the narrow brawn
Of naked thought upon a single bone, marrow spawned
Of promise, premises consumed, spent
Emotion, perhaps little more than a curtain rent
But just a step or two behind an odd comment―
Well, after all, I’m just sayin’― cement
For a Magi or thrice on a mission sent
For “Let it go at that, my friend!” Seals
Fit for a living room upon gilded open fields.

“Damn!”

certitude-vikram-franklin

“Damn!”

Damn the copula indictment! Imprecations in the votive voice
Give an air of desperation, habit, addiction to extraneous
Mass when systems beckon. Harden knowledge and trust
With perjury steels mere faith with the gift of certitude. Thus choice
And immortality, twin crowns are ever known. Hoist
The ensign; then, scan Scrolls of Scripture for evidence thrust
Upon the few and swallowed whole, rejected in disgust
Toward the end before the opening note defines the cycle and foists
Credulity upon what is species captured in the draught by dint of time,
Tradition, and the annual hajj along the Yellow Brick Road to hell.
But know this, friend, the natural grammar of the Newborn Era
Holds sway in all seasons, discovers in ebullience all that’s said in camera:
And what’s done in spite caroms against the palate and staggers rhyme
In tokens of support but at last yields powers to the ears to break the spell.