“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
The innuendo woven not so much in the fantastic,
But in experience, a living witness within a precocious cloud,
A view to forward motion, counterfeit because in itself it is allowed
To be but never adequately traced: inertia has no station; static, elastic,
Yes, but to no greater purpose. These, the chords of oneness in righteous bond
Cannot be but bastard confirmations of the spirit’s sparse but potent
Progress, motion, goal’s, the irritating “now” but well beyond the quotient
Of “then again…..” But there’s not it. There is no special wand
Nor spirit guiding, none the precious gift beyond simple accident in bands
Of language, maudlin to the ear which is to say we may embrace not knowledge, but the inordinate love of what the ear may be gifted to hear;
We may glory in what the tongue speaks, and its wonders to suspend the fear
Of dwelling on the absolute, mere ciphers written ingloriously on the sand.
And if, by chance, there is a point to these sentiments and if pernicious—these
Fine words—it is the soul and not the author, penned such thoughts with ease.
Posted in Accident, Achievement, Affirmation, All or nothing, Apostrophes, Appearances, Audience, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Double Sonnet, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
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.
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?
Take care, my friend, I’ll be gone when all
Is said and done and you’ve exhausted myriads in travelled
Roads and paths, chimaeras that solace compromise and cavil
At direction to overload the slightest wish to pray. The call
Of newborn yesterdays is rife in youthful sirens
As orisons in skies above your auguries where eagles simply scream.
Purpose breeds sedition, yes! yellowing, a tax upon all leaves;
Salacious fruits produce addictions turning virtues into vices.
Shall I remain transfixed while you decide which road is best?
Simple neighbours here will waste my heart to roll the dice
And serve the tea but once in modesty while you have tasted thrice
Forbidden fruit with no refund, no return surviving tests
of all in wit, concentric verbal feasts, and bruise your soul
on all twelve stations of the zodiac to boot, an endless unrecorded smile
seducing what is left of memory of yet another mile.
…photography by Colin Bury…
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, Delusion, End Times, Lyric Poetry, poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
“If Not a Summer’s Day”
If not a summer’s day, then let me celebrate
Some last year’s moment’s fecund random fruit, emerging produce
From repeated seasons; so be it, someone else’s seed deduced
From natural selection reduced to poverty in the actual delight. The penultimate
Arrival of the cycle’s sun has surpassed Orion’s
Yawn, a codicil of peace within the annual rut of reason. But for the sake
Of natural pleasures in the thought abused, treason within the process is raked,
Its many points become a species, then a phylum
Sealed and steeled as wrapped within a velvet robe, the ripened peach,
With subtle flavour, discrete; its ancient used aroma all but moot
Until at last the weather’s hope of heaven’s born, takes root,
And in the swath of shadows in the other afternoon its child appears
As fit for sacrifice, a single bit in some innocuous familiar rite–
The residue of autumn’s care at dusk before the coming winter’s night.
Posted in Aging, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Autumn, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Summer
…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
“Abruptness Applauds Aplomb”
Abruptness applauds aplomb, a golden draught of curt cessation
Of hostilities. Enter antistrophe, the tenuous hymn, a nervous truce enforced
By dreams that hearts discern what in the discourse
Is impossible for speech to register as a plea. Listing on a sea of abnegation,
Content, superfluous ballast, the stuffs of odes leach a certain rush of sadness
In the breach for lack of evidence on the table; withdrawn from all others,
Comes a welling of overwhelming selflessness that smothers
Second thoughts, shuns advice and admonition and opts for simple gladness
Redolent in its 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 strikes 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!” as fools react where wisdom merely prays.
Posted in Aplomb, Poetry, Raw aplomb
Tagged Age, Aging, anagnorisis, antistrophe, Aplomb, End Times, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Tragic Flaw
“Lest Led Ajar”
Lest let ajar in blindness, we must surely know
The juggernauts will move again this week,
As highways clog, evacuation buses seek
The higher ground and seeds of fear are sown
Within the airways, “Danger! Friends beware!”
And no one now may turn away and say
He’s not apprised nor moved to reëvaluate
The ground with prudence; diehards raise the fist and swear
They’ll not be first nor yet a second time removed.
But in the main, these , the sparks and fire
Among the cries, pathetic measures kill for hire
Throughout Nigerian muds and Balkan floods, and lewd
Wonders in what traffic walks the boiling streets of Texas and California.
Behold the spectres! closer to truth, of reigns of Cain in nomine Pacis Romanum.