“But at the Centre”
But at the centre, in the middle, somewhere near
The eye, a briefer moment’s respite as well—yes, in sleep
You see a reticence, a full judicious leap,
Perhaps an extra lap between the truth in me and fear
In the new year, that wanderer along the narrow streets
Of cities where I am; albeit truth is here, there is no storm
Since nothing earthbound moves where angels swarm.
Where I am neither earth nor heaven retreat.
The man is circumcised; search the eyes,
What flies, what armies do you see?
Search the skies for what it means to be
Or not to be and there’s the torch raised high above the lies
Of heart and mind. From one or from the other, in solitude no one clearly sees
But eight seconds’ distance from the sun, and slightly less from me.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Double Sonnet, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Allegories of the people ordain mere distractions and survive
The shared and ampler avalanche. Zeitgeists in the light of compromise
Through ages bleed to epochs and thicken in the rhyme
And cadence of the bounder; all is measured, finding strength in ties
Of mutual conceits and sentiments patterned and designed
To clear the balance sheets, embellish columns in the ledger
Bound in leather while practitioners mumble golden mantras: “Together
We’ll survive; our blood is blue and bonded, resigned
To fire as might—our gods continue to survive!” Just so, perhaps.
Substances that people traffic through the veins
Are indeed both grief and loss to happenstance that reigns
Reliquaries of the shaman
drain the humble shepherd’s cup of sap—
The blood of lightless suns—and fill the same from acrid rains.
Imagine, then, a people petrified in joy and wholly sheltered from pain.
…painting by Stephen W. Douglas…
Posted in Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Strife, Tragic Flaw
“What Is Even More Sinister”
What is even more sinister
is a certainty, a pensive sense of foreboding
in dealings with the others
point blank, face to face;
shades who address
everything and everyone in two dimensions
as if they never leave their living rooms reviewing
what they think they see
on one of several pods or receivers
with or without screens,
with or without speakers,
with or without this firewall or that font
and that I can be deleted
as easily as noticed
in an instant, not even a moment’s hesitation.
Default comes to mind where love should be.
If not or should I insist on being addressed, despised,
I am entertained as a possible virus
or some kind of Trojan that needs watching
if only for that reason and no other.
“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.”
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
Supplications grow, pleased to egregious in the melée of nations―
Legions speaking―but what’s not said conspires as spectres
Of the watchmen. Some several dusty hectares
In Írán, perhaps, or even more in Korea raise expectations
Of the many-eyed ones pacing jetsam judiciously
Across the night sky as swarms of fireflies, particles of clay
That mean so much to those who pay
To know what’s not been said. Salaciously,
They grope and probe through Gaia’s private parts
In diurnal fascination to record in meticulous scales, not heights
But depths in detail and adjunct logarithms here below. Sites
Of Hell are open secrets in denial while the nocturnal
Heavens mark the edges of desire’s will in oblivion
and in the cosmic dark
Do fools require suns when all that’s needed
is a single spark?
…a question of mood and atmosphere…
Someone questions; in the soul who asks,
A sense of limitless flight, as in a light cast against
A cosmic scrim, a naked form made indisposed, concupiscence
So well hedged in that even snakes and asps
Imagine kingdoms, place and calling. One seeks
Solace in the stars drawn loosely in the dawn in meadows where the lark
And scissortail fly with grace and prudence safe within the dark
And moonlit bosom of the ether side of night. These may speak
In early evening mists as harbingers of loss or sparks, a dawn’s execution’s stay
For both are lost at first appearances of the other’s prescient rites.
Someone’s asking too many questions, standing, stupid in astonishment―slights
To similitudes, approbation of the moon in the cold blue light of day―
And while away their twilight hours in repetitious casting of the bones and runes,
Hers the scarlet crystals, his the blue.
Posted in Colours, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Colours, concupiscence, Double Sonnet, Emotion, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Strife
The feet commend the escalators, wise,
Perhaps, yes. No hurry here.
So many trains, so many things to fear
And nothing moves but lies and alibis
In search of something less than action
More than brief delight, a slight distraction
In a brief but numbing journey from less to satisfaction.
Cables flash, that sudden lurch, light abstraction
Sends them tumbling yet they stand their posts
And are not moved unless it be some final
Transfer from incarnation through the wall; a spinal
Tap away in increments, epiphanies in search of hosts
Who until now have given less than ought
To how they lived or what their sanity has cost.
“Well Met this Thing”
Well met this thing, a solace
To the whole as in a natural rhyme, a seedling
Leaning deftly, sifting energies, a grace note from the sun, breathing
Freshly gathered light, a sacrifice of self to self to manifest largess
By choice; a certitude robed in servitude, sweet volition made
Weathered, shrunk, and wedded to the greater or the lesser daylight gains.
Swelling actions often stagger in the night’s timed shadow’s pains
As simple growth, or guided by the healing spade
And shears—a graft, perhaps—something more substantial
Than what nature had bestowed and then some; a fertile
Gift of place to place and thus in time, itself, beyond the servile
Sum of all its parts; a mortal substance thus a circumstantial
Harvest of perception, there because it’s seen, a simple story
Asking nothing but an audience in brief pedestrian glory.
With abruptness comes the uplifted fist, a draught of curt cessation
Of hostilities. Enter parados, the tenuous hymn, a nervous truce enforced
By dreams that hearts cannot discern nor in the discourse
Is it possible for speech to register a plea. Listing on a sea of abnegation—
Content, superfluous ballast—the stuff of odes leach sadness
In the breach for fear that smothers
Second thoughts, shuns advice and admonition and all evidence on the floor
withdrawn from all others.
Comes a welling of selflessness for simple gladness
Sealed in 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 spells 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! Fools react where wisdom merely prays.
Posted in Anagnorisis, Ballast, Donald Trump, Election 2016, Hymn, Lyric Poetry, Martyrs, Parados, Poetry, Second thoughts, Selflessness, Sonnet
Tagged Donald Trump, Election 2016, End Times, Existence, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Sonnet
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!”
Posted in Age, Aging, Collective salvation, Contention, Honeybees, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spiritual consolation
Tagged Aging, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw