Tag Archives: Death

“This You Chose”

“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.

“Oh, I know”

“Oh, I know”

Oh, I know it”s been said before but bears repeating:
Unless a man embrace estates, his sense
Of eternity, his gifts of endless strife and goals of regret intense
Enough to merit periodic casual to shameless open weeping
In the corridors; unless the deadly abyss of every night’s sleeping’s
Prone to breach and rupture within his dreams or by the clock;
unless ‘neath the lens,
His page is thus combustible by the light focused upon a spot,
his joy depends
On something well beyond his own heart’s contumely,
his gates–his paradise, his weeping–
Fall well beyond the storehouse of his eyes and its catalogue of fears,
His light is changed to fire in tragedy and myths of talismans that guide his way.
Again, unless all this is welcomed well before the final hour, his pride will swell,
His vanity implode, and circumstance becomes
a euphemism for all he sees as hell.
Remember please that breath and breathing signify that death is ever near
And in these final years, satisfaction’s just another word for nothing left to pay.

“Not That What It Is”

“Not That What It Is”

Not that what it is is what it is, but what’s occurred
Is yours and yours, alone, while you insist
That curses blessed are blessings on a sometime list
Of what’s been missed and what’s been left behind these hoary curls
Belongs to you and you alone. Bliss bereft within your world
Is what I am because I know what love isn’t and what’s dismissed
In what we can so easily resist. You’re too good to me in all of this;
I know because I’ll be leaving soon and we’ll be hurled
So far out there that none of what you said and what we did
Will be remembered further than a passing glance
Through pages in some anthology or in a leaden book
Of poems with a long brass chain and hook
That keeps the leisure hours from outright theft
Of memories and souvenirs of what was left
Of us before the curtain fell with no place else to dance.

“So Easy to Desire”

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“So Easy to Desire”

So easy to desire these miracles. But think
On this! Where’s the catch? the marvellous sleep
That comes to mind? what promises can keep?
What tests in time the price in days to come? These drink
To fortune, progress, and better days; these Sadducees of success
Attract millennia condensed within a briefer purse of seams
And hedges, hems round all for whom and what dreams
Of self and eternity? Beauty;s forplay and something’s earned but divine redress
Requires questions in the hours to come, those latter thoughts of distress
And wonder on some encounter in the looming longest night of nothingness,
Nemesis in paeans, time and endless waiting; rhymes are stress
Enough! these poesies and all that scansion in between lie flat, a wilderness
Of costs in hasty elevation of hymns that breathe the urge to to right a wrong
While in the time it takes to read this ode, its pen is dead and gone…

la plume de ma tante, indeed!

…art by Nick McKnight…

“These Single Seconds”

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“These Single Seconds”

These single seconds, presentiments of all
And nothing in eternity, everything in being
So alive; so much ado for yet another death in Venice, the seam
Of what is past as in a single passion’s pall
So sharpened in the moment that its cut
Is never noted until the point of infection. Minutes and the hour
Record a simple causal pause, time enough to harvest flowers
That surely wilts conceived so thoughtlessly. But
In the common flush of extremities, the blush, the rush, the flow,
This now is always yesterday’s dream, tailings of self-deception,
Always what has happened just before, some weak inflection
Of realities and truth but crudely reckoned, a seed yes! newly sown
That only time can nourish through nearly seven times ten in years
In swaddling veils of unmitigated grace and holiness in arrears.

“If Not Today”

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“If Not Today”

If not today, then, always the promise of tomorrow; if no respite
In the evening, the morning’s fare
Is certain. Wisdom’s care
Is folly’s knowledge in an endless night
Pursuing coming days while safeguards
Are intrinsic and immutable
If not, inscrutable
In the toss of a single die, a solitary card
Placed face up on the table. Finite
Are the gamblers and numberless
The pilgrims. That one lives who bears witness
To victory with death no more indigenous than a pilot light,
The sovereign monarch of all desire and vigour,
A messenger and scion of the Divine Decree: “Thus far and no further!”

“A Moment To Reflect”

“A Moment To Reflect”

A moment to reflect, these several when
The job is done, and there’s no real choice
But rest and celebration; tasks, the last of many, voiced
Throughout the years of work will one day send
A massive missive of relief, and thanks
With weighty sentiments and fond farewells; cheer,
And weathered tusks to see me on beyond, and further than fear
To take a few steps–arrogantly, yes, perhaps–down paths that rank
Above all present trumps and peculiars of this earth:
I have the fewer moments through to the end, I know,
And will it so or else the hours, the weekly flow
Of days and nights, prove life’s lavas might well have spent their worth.
And what of miseries in days beyond this present strife,
Born within the present, laced with beauty
in the shadows of the latter life?

“My Presence Ominous”

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“My Presence Ominous”

My presence ominous is the Ôm in me and not the audience to what I am;
Not I, but all mankind stakes this same claim. Prophets have declared the same
When once Their cup of endless Holy Names is drained
Because They love what He has made and write it freely in the sand.
That I am not what I seem proves meaningless within the vain
And easy afterthought that vanity within is altered in the end
By every creature known to me. I am blown by every wind
And feel the breath of everyone I’ve known. I mirror that without that aims,
That feels, that sees, that barely hears the cacophony withal.
Syllables of thought from random scenes and primitive perceptions
Bond evenly in every waking dream, and sleeping memory. Keen receptions
Held together by the same cement are cosmic answers to all such calls
From without and I am here with you—though fractured—present all the same.
If faithfully you know who He is and always was and ever will be,
at once you do and will know who I am and that with you I’ll remain.

“These Ends”

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“These Ends”

These ends, pedestrian beginnings clearly seen from bloated pasts and miles
Expressed in days as chapters’ peopled souls I never meant to meet
And whom I surely will forget. These months must end as presently they greet
Me as this last one has as even now their coming cousins swell in all my trials
And comforts in these last days of the year. Destinies in time are worn.  Surely,
Material brick and straw of yet another era’s eulogy, some stillborn edifice
To be erected howsoever in the coming hours’ awakened, duly braced
To house the maidenhead of still greater powers and accolades. So purely
These and those before provide a common pageant as prologue
To my latter verses, carefully revised, well advised, and those
That in the worlds to come will never end nor nor close.
I engage them all with me today, their homeliness and fragrances, simple songs
Hemmed in soft refrains. Their flavours form the coronets of current themes,
Embroidered borders of what it is I seem to be and what cannot be seen.

“Vapid Movements”

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“Vapid Movements”

Vapid movements, the moth descends and finds his pain will cease
But only as he ascends with no complaint as food of spiders, seed of birds.
The journey’s appointed end comes with no sound heard.
Scarlet warnings of darker wisdoms breed
A pilgrim brought to naught when only light attracts
This mindless wandering epitome of ease,
A drawing to what he cannot use and which he cannot even please.
The question’s not been asked, it seems, the simple act,
The noble task, the trek from nothing to the summit’s
Glory proves the goalie’s goal―to annoint an apex as in an art.
The point of vanishing desire’s the only worthy arc
And comfort in this world; its prisms’ glow, the slow attrition in the wick
Embracing richest flow in moments here sans thought to hesitate;
Forever’s soon enough, the pas seul reveals itself but far too late.