Tag Archives: Dreams

“Indentured Servants Everywhere”


“Indentured Servants Everywhere”

Indentured servants everywhere: the card’s
Been pressed, the digits electronically addressed or etched
Upon the forehead; ratings flourish, revisions texted
In shifts, then, quietly to less than nothing with no regard
For authenticity in means. The gears are greased enough―
Or so they say―but this one has wizened information
On the wing; those, the stormy petrels’ trusted affirmations,
Give him pause to guess at little more than mild revision, tough
Decisions, restrictions on the overdraft, tight transactions
By the width of flower stalls set close upon the street of walls—
The Babylonian solution—aplomb applied in torrents. Danger calls
And no one’s learned enough to savour satisfaction
In the twist of something greater than the shining bait:
For every bear a natural end; bulls, vainglory soon, and ignominy late.


“Hamlet Asks”

“Hamlet Asks”

Hamlet asks if she is honest, if she’s fair;
The question does perplex the lady staring
At him while it happens that she’s wearing
His improprieties, while it happens on the stairs;
He frequents passages in what is advertised as home.
Still the question’s moot, Ophelia has no real idea
Of what it’s like to be a thing of less than beauty cursed; she’s a
Little foreign to the notion that one roams
Beyond the confines of what is truest north—
There are but two poles proffered by Gertrude as her husband’s only clues
And north must  be somewhere near the stove,
Her safety just beyond the storage bin that holds the spoons and forks―
No, she’ll pass on both the question and his gifts to what’s beyond the arras;
Rich gifts do not wax floors, nor is this prince so careless. She’s seen the banks,
Below, the river’s malcontent; above,
the winds’ reeds’re resonant
With restive cycles in all those reasons. So many eyes intent
On recognition of what’s lately seen when all is rank.
Still Hamlet gathers evidence back and forth along the way. Her prince questions nothing honed from stationary life;
He does not own a life whose questions never fade
Remaining here but seconds in his needling days
Of endless desert silences in a crowd or in audience to an empty city’s sirens.
That one is here implies that everyone else is there along the far horizon
Beyond the accidental mistaken substance dreams and death. Ophelia slept,
No mystic talisman comes to thwart the fall; His promise he has kept
To weed the present  neglected fallow fields and lighten pressures of neon nights.
In his peerless flight is knowing nothing of this life and spending his days in sporadic search for what in death poor Yorick must have felt.


Now get you to my lady’s chamber, and tell her, let
her paint an inch thick, to this favour she must
come; make her laugh at that. Prithee, Horatio, tell
me one thing.


What’s that, my lord?


Dost thou think Alexander looked o’ this fashion i’
the earth?


E’en so.


And smelt so? pah!

Puts down the skull


E’en so, my lord.


To what base uses we may return, Horatio! Why may
not imagination trace the noble dust of Alexander,
till he find it stopping a bung-hole?


‘Twere to consider too curiously, to consider so.


No, faith, not a jot; but to follow him thither with
modesty enough, and likelihood to lead it: as
thus: Alexander died, Alexander was buried,
Alexander returneth into dust; the dust is earth; of
earth we make loam; and why of that loam, whereto he
was converted, might they not stop a beer-barrel?
Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay,
Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:
O, that that earth, which kept the world in awe,
Should patch a wall to expel the winter flaw!

William Shakespeare

Hamlet, Prince of Denmark, ActV, Scene 1

“So Easy to Desire”


“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…

“My People”


“My People”

My people came from Eire in ’47,
Two brothers from Cork Island bound
‘Ta leave the famine’s wakes and sounds
And trust the recent ocean’s fleets ‘ta leaven
Streams of freedom, scope, and newer hopes,
‘Ta guarantee a living less than grand
But more than nothin’ in the new found land.
America or bust, they took the rope
“In God we trust”―eloped and on an ark
They safely Ellis Island passed,
Thence to Illinois, whence amassed
Both wife and children till the spark
Of Civil War was lit, a captain armed
From Union’s peace ’ta carve a Kansas farm.

“These Single Seconds”


“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.

‘“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Sulṭán”

Bahá’ís throughout the world gather this evening after sunset to commemorate the First Day of the Bahá’í Month of Sulṭán [Sovereignty]

“Sonnet in Honour of the Feast of Sulṭán or `Sovereignty’”

The sovereignties of celestial spheres exists to need,
The limitless has its limitations as nothingness withdraws
According to measure, star to planet, king to pawn
And back again; the elements begin eternal needs with seed
In matter or of energy–little difference the subject or predicate–
In clusters round the universal abyss. Heat and weight
Of particles in accident and  by law are so great that seismic freight
Of galaxies and galaxies of galaxies, monarchs and their asteroids, late
And early viceroys and their sycophants cannot pause or hesitate.
It goes just so with all that is and is not His every breath within His dreams
As emanations of the seen and unseen posit progression in the cosmic stream;
Still other states of being thrive as condiments used within the universal state,
Signed by given temperatures, degrees of darkest matter unexplored,
In certain trust of  sovereignty, tales of energies and matters
that will not long be veiled, belittled nor can they be ignored.



All truth passes through three stages.  First, it is ridiculed.  Second, it is violently opposed.  Third, it is accepted as being self-evident.

Arthur Schopenhauer [22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860]

“Somewhere Deep”


“Somewhere Deep”

Somewhere deep within memory before my superstitions
I knew the sovereignties of my person, the inmates of my mind,
And in this an anointing from every other station, earthly and divine.
In the beginning, ever as the boy came to his fruition,
This he knew as he had stood there, a single draught of light in his right hand.
That star appeared first within him, then his eyes, and then at Bethlehem—a sign,
The promised Great Announcement—to some few shepherds and divines,
Truths that only they perceived, as oddly as did I. Written in the sand,
The boy so soon to be a man, so early recreated there to read, a wondrous page
Illumined. How, then, could it be that no witness sighed,
No movement otherwise was seen in others since that first night’s spawning sky;
I owned within me every star and blessing that the moon possessed; an Age,
Both Question and perspicuous Answer, Interpretation even before the Dream
And yet never once craved confirmation nor entertained the thought to flee?

“The Minute Stands”


“The Minute Stands”

The minute stands, my soul does not oppress
Its hours in conference rooms, nor press neighbours close
Upon my door, nor do trusts for futures, expectations, hopes
Of lasting curb the armies of my arrogance; I am at rest.
Because I love my soul, no lasting fears breed
Wantonly because I house beside an ever-running stream
Of waters several purified within a plethora of dreams,
In potent, proper cadences and rhymes descending through the reeds
And rocks from all my memory’s distant melting mountains. Glaciers
Of pieties’ states release potencies passing to the very porch of my door
And gone, and on to others. Yes, the raging rains are there for
Correction, yes, but clouds, never trespassers; diamonds, ever placing
Galaxies in my hands. My outbuildings are full, the harvests good;
And through it all, gain and loss, my soul rejoices as it should.


“A Sonnet for Ensomniac”


“A Sonnet for Ensomniac”*

Sleeplessness, restive sanctuary
Of the damned in thought;
A constant, twice binding knot
That only an Alexander can resolve.
And even within this pale inlet, pastel
Half-lights spiral endlessly through the maze,
Redoubling trails left as haze
Of cobalt smoke, fresh fractals of the last time round; absolve
The whole, and sign for yet another toss.
But if the sleeping,  perchance the dreaming is missed,
There is what may or may not be a while, sitting
Upright, wide-awake within a trite belittling
Of what one might see if only blown
Through dusty distances, vagaries and yesterdays alone.

…* the site of an artist of note whom I admire and used to follow on Stumbleupon.com before that group shot itself in the foot and went commercial while evicting thousands of simple members amongst whom was yours truly…this man’s site is worth more than one visit…http://www.stumbleupon.com/stumbler/ensomniac

“To Walk from Here to There”


“To Walk from Here to There”

To walk from here to there requires a lane,
A path, direction, velocity in will to be
At some road’s end with courage then to see
Oneself complete and whole within the frame,
At times the fame of a desired point from which begins
The process once again toward yet another goal.
Acceptable as choices may unfold
Today, there turns the wheel that fortune spins
To cast a second, and perhaps a third selection.
Courage once again must come to see beginnings
In the ends, and visa versa to the winning
Of a goal that is, or so it seems, a mere reflection
Of a devotion much greater than a meagre mind
Contains, and less than facile circumstance defines.