“Gold Bars Soar”
Gold bars soar that may or may not be there as dollars rise and fall
While doves and hawks lose feathers and the bourgeois stain
Their corporate tablecloths; numbers genuflect as mortgage rates
And candidates trade places in the spin. Who sleeps in the caterwaul;
Who stampedes for attention in the networks’ nightly call
To arms not heard since Boston; whose cotillions root for the notorious? Bait
And bombast never fails; the remedy is ever there and altogether late,
Meticulously timed by someone out to fill the stadia and malls
With never ending seasons’ greetings and wherewithal
To keep the vital signs of spinning polls and sardines at the gates,
Martin’s dream is deemed appropriate for the calendar and numbers integrate
The use of steroids and youthful thrall so no one drops the ball.
Who needs another change for heaven’s sake as one size fits all:
…And who really gives a damn with elections in the fall?“
Posted in Change, Dollar, Dross, Duplicity, Fear, Gold, Hubris, Idolatry, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Inflation, Lust, Lyric Poetry, Materialism, Media, Morality, Obama, Poem, Poetry, Pyrrhic Victory, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Business, Dollar, Gold, Imagism, Immortality, Inflation, Lyric Poetry, News Media, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
“I’ll Not Wait”
I’ll not wait till dawn to praise the sun;
Shadows follow closely where I sleep; this night must end:
I’m guaranteed as much. What, then? Tomorrow? What? Again
A word’s delay a world away is all, so, patience me. The midnight trains still run
Their course–stampeding to the east to crawl back westward–and catch
The rising or the setting cosmos all along the local milk run. Coaches
Matter not, jettisoned or newly recreated in the Milky Way, we approach
Our destinations, dusks or dawns in proper times; passengers dispatched,
Who only seem to arrive at destinations previously booked
And so we do not blithely cease to live because we wait
Upon a final station or dream of tracks not even built. Medusa guards the gate
That turns all nightly plans to stone, and we her momentary shades that looked
To make the journey know the Night Train only claims a means to ends
Through mirrors while season tickets mark what joys the daybreak sends.
Posted in Age, Aging, Astronomy, Destiny, Ends, Existence, Experience, Fate, Helios, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Infinitity, Lyric Poetry, Means, Midnight, Nightrain, Poem, Poetry, Providence, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Sun, Trains
Tagged Age, Aging, Change, Destiny, Double Sonnet, Existence, Fate, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Night Train, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Sun, Trains
“So Easy to Feel”
So easy to feel, to seem to be, to know at last propinquity
As if the light declares the coming glory of the sun at daybreak
Redundant. But as that disk cannot be seen for more than seconds, I take
That certainty of coming morning within me,
Knowing that midnight’s richest prize in ivory
Is forever fixed as is the station of the sun; the moon an intimate
In someone’s flight, perhaps, but even so, as she reveals herself in states
And phases never hers, agitation gains nothing in the motion save in memory
And affectations of the sea within me–force upon another force,
Measured consequence of a functionary that renders boundaries
Of continental pride and the ocean’s doors
Cast aside in the riot of the tides, a natural stampede, no more
Than thresholds of natural accident, the stream and river’s course
Now rising, now again a swelling to apostrophes, eternal inertia born of gravity.
Posted in Change, Destiny, Existence, Experience, Fate, Image, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Isolation, Lyric Poetry, Midnight, Moon, Night, Ocean, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sea, Sonnet, Sonnets, Sun, Tides, Universe, Walls, Wisdom
Tagged Age, Double Sonnet, Existence, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tides
How soon? I would be rid of rooms and paperweights
That cheat the scales and calculate the tales of whatever I’m about.
And when the last hour’s phatic pleasantries are made and I am out
The door, I’ll be charging headlong for the fields beyond the artificial dates
Of screaming calendars to feed on endless smiles,
The natural harvests of grasslands stretched beneath my feet. I’ll greet
The memories and naked weathering winds on new-plowed yields to seed,
The freshly mined scores of sapphires, lavenders in wild-flowers though miles
Of crisp and fresher verse, the swelling pregnant soils between the harvest
And the husbandman. For just so sweet a pause as this, oh, yes!
Nebraska’s wheaten seas sustain the subtle sirens of the shallow Platte and west
Beyond the borders of the sandhills; here, the meadowlarks nest
And little else. But, no, I’ll not hold the birthplace of these sonnets’ true rebuttal;
And labours at the loom, the weaver’s warp and woof that’s lost his shuttle.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
“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!”
Posted in “Thus far and no further!”, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, “Thus far and no further!”, Death, Delusion, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Sonnet
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]
Posted in Arthur Schopenhauer [22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860], Dark matter, Elements, Energy, Feast of Sulṭán or `Sovereignty’, Galaxies, Heat, Light, Lyric Poetry, Matter, Nothingness, Particles, Planets, Poetry, Predicate, Sonnet, Sovereignties, Stars, Subject, Sychophants
Tagged Arthur Schopenhauer [22 February 1788 – 21 September 1860], Dreams, Existence, Feast of Sulṭán or `Sovereignty’, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, spirituality
“I Understand the Problem”
I understand the problem fairly well.
I am three-score years and more, I have one good eye
That still perceives albeit with an unpolished lens–skies
Are not more blue. Your eyes are young, you barely spell;
Your face is wrung with feigned abuse,
And when you write, you care nothing for the form,
The page, the colour of the ink. The cover of your book is worn
Not from age, even less from practicum of use,
But prominently, proudly displayed as if a medal, something won, someone’s gaff,
Proceeds from a raffle, a righteous rage inherited closer to a family door prize,
You’ve become a coupon, a rain check for some far-flung bold surprise.
“And what are your credentials?” you ask. Reply: “What is it makes you laugh?”
“I see no reason to give credit to the past, nor have I any need of laws!”
“‘Here am I’ should be enough; my life, my book, my word, my staff!”
…painting/photographs by Gottfried Helnwein…
Posted in Aging, Angels, Causes, Imagery, Imagism, Infinitive, Inflation, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Powerlessness, Samsara, Search, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spiritual connection, Spiritual consolation
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
“There’s Nothing in Neruda”
There’s nothing in Neruda* that’s not been said,
No subtle hint, no helpful word, no turn
Of phrase, no bold assertion that to earn
A place beneath the skin one must be bled,
Detained, flattered in the stacks of libraries, betrayed,
A Caulfield** in search of what Bukowski***never found
in hopes of finding hidden pearls among
Unnatural grains of sand before the oyster’s song was ever sung,
And all before his cock crew thrice—You know he never paid
Beyond the going price. Are we not forgetting something here?
The witnesses? Another round of hemlock, please! and as the academics cheer
the proceeds of yet another idle idyll, a second glass of wine, perhaps a clear
And unequivocable glance at the mirror sitting there to interpolate
the riddle loaves and fishes of enigma or the positive benefits of fear.
Ah, yes! Neruda may have told the tale, but who was he to give us hope,
And from what box he now quotes himself and never
gives a river’s damn about what it was he wrote?
Of course, I can’t be sure of it, but from here it looks
For all the world that in truth I am you
And you are me and there’s the misery, the mystery, the view
That’s missing in the metaphors and similes, the clue refined from brooks
And seas, the bakers’ scales and finely tuned anomalies,
the national sport of news and fresh cacophanies, hooks
By which we are urgently define and hone the truth askew
From certitude, and based in faith that separates all from each, proved
Or unapproved in swarms of groups and nations, the accidental nooks
And crannies of every greatness, every generation, seminar, religion,
Clan and sanctified plan proposed, to accent ancient schools and families.
All experience expresses the inverse from Hammurabi to our beloved Ramses,
Seen as freaks and distant relatives and relegated to exceptions
With a shot of charisma or some other social clot, profusion
In the masses of exclusion throughout of all the spies of life that seek.
So much to say with so little time to speak,
Whether for the self or for the same in orderly confusion.
Still larger loans from banks of life’re sired from brothers,
Even greater obligations and demands from mountain peaks,
And beyond the heights, the snowy summons of the higher roads and streets.
The recreating lights that cut the edge of fear of sacrifice in grieving mothers
Leads the restive albatross to discover, possibly to smother
In the blasphemy of his own need and greener pastures elsewhere―
a weak and weaker Icarus―in search of tests that cannot keep
His lightnings’ glories save in darker South Georgian seas, blunders
To suspect within his breast and nothing when at last he sleeps:
He discovers little more than what the drop within the puddle seeks.
*Chilean poet and diplomat, Pablo Naruda [12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973]
**Character from the novel The Catcher in the Rye, a 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger
***German born American poet Charles Bukovski [August 16, 1920 – March 9, 1994]
…Art at the top of this post, Liu Bolin 刘勃麟 – Photography of China
Posted in a 1951 novel by J. D. Salinger, Age, Aging, Albatross, Charisma, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Material connection, Oneness of mankind, Pablo Naruda [12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973], Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spiritual connection
Tagged 1920 – March 9, 1994], Age, Aging, Charles Bukovski [August 16, Delusion, Double Sonnet, Existence, Illusion, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Pablo Naruda [12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973], Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
“The Primate’s Eyes”
The primate’s eyes; where the gaze at whom or from what womb’s
Grief’s expression’s etched in citrine? Vision’s gyre in darkest sapphire,
Ablaze, marooned in time for burial in creation, strings upon the lyre,
Horizontal beings taut across the vertical; gracious, shy, sagacious; rooms
Congested, from drought to flood and back in countless variations bootless
Here to ponder but in the moment, impossible to ignore; but, who?
And in this gesture or that glance whose blatant emerald kingdoms’ pool,
A polyglot of crystals form patterned clots from earthly lesions, useless
To explore in less than eons on the continental shelf or lapis ocean floor.
Whose is it to the connect the dots, whose exponents, multiplied, sustain
Emotion in a single star-blown stare? Actuaries–the epitome of the lion’s main
The eagle’s wing, an amazing grace in the ballet of a sloth intent on more
Than what he grasps–marry systems and in their perfect rhymes, tokens
Not that far from destinies that speak not until their Lord has spoken.
President Herbert Hoover [1874-1964]
Reticent; yes, with you still gone and fading posters piled,
I snag a moment’s thread while you tire of lightning rods—
What? Gentle greens, you say? Acidic teardrops cool your face, pods
Of bloated croaking frogs still lowing legless in their noxious streams on miles
Of floating bleachers scrutinise Inaugural prizes
sought by cheerless choral crows
Who flirt with impunity together; tireless efforts, distractions from
All pious convocation, their shamans–mystic petrels–entertain the sum
Of ancient lines of seers, their nests left unprotected still and breathing shallow
There against the charcoal sky in absolute denial of the obscene call
To let the bulls stand tall–who remembers who we were before descent?
And you wonder why I ask, “Who pays the rent?”
You see nothing between, you and me and Humpty Dumpty on the wall.
“Life is life and Obama smiles,”you say, and nothing in between refines
The thin red line behind that smile and Hoover’s curse in 1929.
President Barack Hussein Obama II [1961 - ]
Posted in Economics, Herbert Hoover, Herbert Hoover [1874-1964], Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Obama, Poem, Poetry, Reality, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Barack Hussein Obama II [1961 - ], Economics, End Times, Herbert Hoover [1874-1964], Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Obama, Poem, poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw