Tag Archives: Patience

“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.

“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…

“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?

“Justice as Potentials”

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“Justice as Potentials”

Justice as potentials invade the hearts, affections cede their own
Fields and those of others in specious urgencies ill defined
Beyond the anxious worm within the soil and some few voids come to mind.
Embroidered organs, muscles, bleached and raw impressions, bones,
And tusk breakers; the clues are endless. Of all conventional thought―
His, notwithstanding―sometime crowns are all cast down and qualify
The spaces ‘twixt the aces, king and queen as any Jack will pacify
Presumptions and asymmetrical assumptions and all those tragic flaws
To wave dismissals and the right to speedy trial with a nod
And as with wisdom—in itself, a whisper of truth in balance—is free to breathe.
Even planets reveal themselves in phases and effects, their pawns.
Continue, then by all means to conclusions drawn
From genius wrought in chimeras of beauty and golden Nimrods
In cloister. There is equity in all that is and distraction in the breeze.

“The Recipe”

Climate_Change

“The Recipe”

The recipe for change is simple: depth of thought
Weathered by the tethering fires of wizened time. By depth
Is meant profundity, the weight of steps
Experienced wholly without cessation before the juggernaut
Or that sweet transformation in unctions freely caught
As thoughts of separation from necessity, and in the run
Of things, events and visions—all that comes
Within bailiwick of justice. Objectives sought
Will in their natural way become the irrepressible root,
The seed made manifest in shoots and further outgrowth of the thing
Until it simply wants to be. Expect and measure nothing in the spring
But in its summer seeing argument and premise rendered moot
Before the gravitas of what has lasted after all and what has grown
From doubt to certainty, what conviction must produce if wisely sown.

“Sisyphus Consigned”

Sisyphus and Jacob at the Well

“Sisyphus Consigned”

Sisyphus consigned to fruitless spoils
Willingly approaches his sacred chores; his noble views,
Along the ledge of things, the crust, consensus, news
Of what the gods have built, his litany of foils
To all that is of him that was or ever will be.
His ambition moot. He has no equal in his toil;
He glories as he stands, his sweat, the oil
Of yearning for perfections never rightly seen
And never consummated in the breach.
He oversees his crown of thorns and spies the puny forms
Beneath the clouds far beneath his station as he mourns
For lack of company and for the less blessed so well beyond his reach,
Preventing touch to fingertips or comfort and from his lips a farewell kiss
Touching nothingness but briefly, he turns his back on all he’s missed.

“Thursday Nights”

Stressed Over Money

“Thursday Nights”

Thursday nights we cull the whole damn lot or leave ’em be;
What remains of this week’s haul exhausts itself. At least
It tends to hit the sack a little early and as for me, it’s just past
Ten o’clock, when all that is is but doesn’t matter anymore. We’ll see
Some snags and hooks in all these hours till the magic hour tomorrow afternoon,
When what-the-hell is sent to hell, returned to sender as the cheque comes in.
For all that, sin and scales will tip so slightly, gratefully toward the weekend.
Thursday’s ripe for paying bills and calls for loose ends that soon
Stretch too far into the deficit of the night for comfort or written off without
A breath however token, howsoever small, a just little social elbow grease
To ease the list of “Things to Do” that clear, released,
A hill of sums to creditors and friends who bid to pout
Because they swear you haven’t been the same of late and called;
This Thursday’s what it is to reconnoitre weekly chits so easily dissolved.

“She Appeases”

sharon-sprung-1953-american-figurative-painter-tutt39art-1357755527_b

“She Appeases”

She appeases, others simply please
Themselves with platitudes, refined. Reeds
Produce a tone, but, lacking song, excel
Themselves with piping. She treasures seeds
Produced but placed in barren soil
That come to nothing. Patience finds
Reflexive fields that take the sun, define
A resilience in clouds and makes them boil
To shed redeeming rain from discards
Of the winds, and melodrama in the shadows. She cares
For these her tender ones. Her signs she shares—
Her fruits, her flowers in the fragrances of winter’s snows: far
From smothering her gifts, she lifts them up and leaves them free
As imperfection and reticence , the sacred rites of sanctity.

…painting by Sharon Sprung…

“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….

“I Would Have the Time”

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“I Would Have the Time”

I would have the time go speedily along this route
En route from where I was to where eventually I’ll land;
Suffice to say the lines are blurred, the view is bland
In neither heres nor theres nor trump nor suit,
Nor does any greeting interest take root
Sith every measure now outlasts the plan
And the schedule’s long on weeks, a span
Of months in absentia, stalled,  questions moot
Or dead on the floor as congress adjourns
For the holidays. Yes! patience, yes. Guess again….
But there are times that test
The tether well beyond its best
And after all,  refills are required, memories burn,
And in the meantime, sandwiches and tea are served
…but on the other train.

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