Tag Archives: Fidelity

“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.

“Sad You Say?”

“Sad You Say?”

Sad you say? I knew you meant it;
Yes, my sadness drained through your fingers
Leaving little more than moisture. Something of me lingers
With you that you own is yours. Summits
Of either joy or pain remain to use the heart, the limits
Of the body—anywhere will do—from head to toe; these, the singers
Intone its presence, equations flatter integers
Enough to anoint themselves exclusive in finite intimates
And variations for the sake of form.  These flights of melancholy
You mistook for yours; as well,  your joys I imagined mine  in the mirror,
And neither of us were the wiser in the final calculation.
If one of us is right, we’ll see our satisfaction and salvation
In what little time remains to us in life; the eternal holy
Light is never long in coming. If one of us is wrong,
…there is no deliverer.

“His Witness”


His Witness”

His witness stares blankly at the glory of his station.
No interloper, no misinterpretation, no sweet confirmation
Of another’s fantasy; he has no genuine ostentation
In the claim no, nothing in the upsurge, nor delicious elation
In the simple fact: he is and while he is,
His heart does not forget to beat, his breath is steady,
The observer knows he is not ready
And therefore records of his
Being notwithstanding cannot be viewed as false
Insofar as he is not yet seen. His is an etching not in stone
Or glass, nor is it traced in memory; alone
And in majestic company with ineffable effects, the cause
Remains as do his signs that have no need of confirmation or reply
In answer for their presence; when his name is called, he says, “Here am I.”

“It’s Evening”


“It’s Evening”

It’s evening, and the tale begins but even before
I’ve arrived, I know in my heart that noöne
But noöne wants to be in that home
Save the wildest ëgos there heretofore
Already established in the local lore,
The keepers of the word in multiples, one
Long loudly proclaimed blasphemy—the Sun
King, the Lord Protector of the Princes in the Tower.
But still I made the journey to the baptistry’s end,
And while I was late, I made good time along
The Path from here to there; they awaited
Me as well they should have. Silence abated
What hope I had once there that I might transcend
The curse and no ways hear the same old song.

…sculpting by Beth Cavenor Stichter…

“She Drops Her Mysteries”

Fabian Perez 1967 - Argentine Figurative painter - Tutt'Art@ (34)

“She Drops Her Mysteries”

She drops her mysteries, her veiled hints,
And off! “And I’ll be back,” she says, she will
Return with more. The wineglass chilled,
He’s left to savour what remains, discarded lint
From promises that have no manners. What remains
Is no concern: “We’ll touch on that when I return…”
And in the vagaries of something learned
In all of this lies a pattern, some blue vein
Of thought, a misnomer finely wrought
In filigree though no one really cares to hear the tale. Here,
Perhaps, the story should end, so then of course he waits, preferring fear
To anger in the end to fuel the blight and conjure bitter thoughts
That were the table turned there’d be a fresher start,
A simple dinner leaning more toward matter and very little art.

…painting by Fabian Perez….

“She’s Never Gone That Long”


“She’s Never Gone That Long”

She’s never gone that long. But sift
The moon in sure and certain phases and she can count
On me to take the blame. She mounts
Her memories, recalls her beasts and I am left to shift
From bested  bowers to the shifting towers of her Babylon
Whereas she thrives in corners swept by footsteps
Only. At times the odd leaf or flyer, some windswept desire left
By chance behind these days or weeks ago–a forgotten
Stocking or mitten–and I am smitten by the sight
And lose too many precious hours staring
At it all in disbelief. The simple wastes and nothingness, the glaring
Truth be damned, if nothing is but nothing lasts beyond a single night,
As all Gethsemane or Broadway slumbers in the hour of He Who never sleeps;
And something in my soul is saddened, something weeps.

Richard MacDonald1

…sculpture above by Richard MacDonald…