I’m told that wells within some few
Of us contain the purest beverage, powers,
Potent afterthoughts of light in consequential showers;
Spirit butterflies, random valleys’ blessings’ dews.
There’s no subtlety in this, but some
Confusion insofar as water has no colour,
No perfume but the inverse of its catalyst, the sure
And lasting remedy that comes
To all who ask, and cannot be ignored.
And when the letters of the common drink
Address the eyes, the spelling links
The abstract ciphers to the concrete word for evermore:
I speak of shame and effects that stem from reason;
Not all possess this gift, but save for the sun
there are no changing seasons.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Certitude, Delusion, Existence, Illusion, Imagery, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Seasons, Selflessness, spirituality, Sun, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
“Abuses of the Flax Seed”
Abuses of the flax seed, innocence in fruits
To sooth the stomach, clothe the back
And something close to comfort in the haystack
Come to mind to suite
The times while I lie wasted.
I am in need of rest from all I have,
A kind of promissory ointment beyond salacious salves
To moisten gross reliefs from what I’ve tasted.
Here it comes, then, repetition once
Too often off the mark by widths
Of little more than flaxen hairs. Maudlin myths
Give rise to hopes that round circumferences
Of any given globe lie peace and wisdoms
Enough to neutralize desire and indecision.
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Nature, poetry, Relationships, Selflessness, Sonnet
A scintilla—a thinnest notion
Separates the light from fire, determination from desire
Without from something swimming deep within. Awe alone admires
Uncertainties of dangers in the undertow, the swelling of the ocean
As it seeks the moon—no hope of union
There, above, of course—a subtle breath of mitigation by disaster, mists
And darkest moulds in what the night sky insists
Is yesterday’s irrelevance, contaminating illusions
Of the present smiling on the past: we must move forward.
Notwithstanding, neither more nor less, in spite
Of evidence to the contrary and well beside the point. Insight
Dictates needs that lean towards or leave behind rewards
Of unknown futures veiled, obscured, preferred at last
Above the sanctions of the status quo and the energies of the mass.
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Detachment, End Times, Existence, Illusion, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, poetry, Selflessness, spirituality, Status quo, Tragic Flaw, Unknown future
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…
Posted in Imagery, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet
Tagged Love, Lyric Poetry, Patience, poetry, Relationships, Selflessness, Sonnet, spirituality, Tragic Flaw, Wisdom
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…
Posted in Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Premonitions, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Bukowski's curse, Detachment, Emotion, Fidelity, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Premonitions, Relationships, Selflessness, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets, spirituality, Strife, Tragic Flaw
But what can be the food of slightness blown
Against the wind with little ness’s high
For them and nothing’s for the lightning sky
But isms in the prisms of a nano-second; better seeds atone
For size in what they surely will become:
Some sweet germ, some potent yeast, some erstwhile thought
Which in itself must come to naught,
Which is to say its universal kiss, and in that bliss run
Riot in creation’s store. Ought
May be but what is created in vain save through
The fine and binding union born of living interim’s glue.
This man’s or that, his vanity is his thought though not
Within his own or in his lover’s bower-nest of tiny spies:
It’s in her skies the beauty of his opinion flies.
Posted in Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Relationships, Selflessness, Sonnet, Sonnets
At sixty-eight, so much eludes him in the future plan.
The seals are broken, and in these interims, he humours
Little in his day but tokens and rumours
Of the life to come with what’s left to him of choice; élan,
In fact. At the gate, there’s no room for ghosts
Beside his own in dialogue, no splendour in the thing
That spreads its wings, no venerable bin
Of thought, no fond remembrances. He knows
They’re disingenuous; perhaps, but styled in proper tones,
They only think they wish him well, but they’ve no clue.
They all have so many decades, many moons to pay their dues
With what they call eternity, and while they sow their oats, he’s on his own.
What choice, then, but to avert the eyes, turn, and walk away
With all but yesterday to pay, and even less to say?
Posted in Age, Aging, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Sowing oats
Tagged Age, Aging, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Selflessness, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets
“Bees Bear Witness”
Bees bear witness far beyond a spider’s gossamer
Infatuation ; they navigate portable priorities
In ways that armies only dream of. Here minorities
Are not a factor in the office nor the officers
Within this prince of many species. Simple factors
Dictate elemental courses in reaction
To proper exigencies in the moment while the march of factions
Plays no part in these designs beyond the actors
And the actresses who wait willingly in the wings to exit
From their point of view if circumstances merit
In themselves massive conflict with no hope of climax; they ferret
Meaning from a single will to live, and if they find the need to edit
What’s been fit with a brand new queen, the press is forward and alive
With fresh resolve; a simple recipe, drive, a drone, and designated signals
. . . that it’s time build another world, another hive.
Posted in Bees, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Ecology, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Nature, Selflessness, Sonnet, Sonnets
“And What Is Selflessness”
And what is selflessness if not what one
Is and sees fit to do as good as what it’s sown alone?
No encouragement distilled from boiling stones,
No obsequious fluid aplomb’s applause is wrung
From those who stand to fan the flames, no frowns
In nightly meretricious circus clowns that advertise
The wonders of themselves as holy spies
Whose close opinions eagerly set down
What is or is not righteous, whose voices through the prompters sound
Alarms, if not, their disappointment; their networks cheerfully announce
The bias of their purposes and in the end will pounce
On weaker minds, the likeness of themselves from tea and coffee grounds
And all to raise this holy man or that to seed opinion and its minions, feeders,
Of the put-your-hands-together gospel shouts as praises for their leaders.
Posted in Holy spies, Media, Networks, Poetry, Selflessness, Stir fry
Tagged Aging, Double Sonnet, Lyric Poetry, Selflessness, Sonnet, Sonnets
The sum of yeasts expand the dregs of moments in the mould
Of images to come, some of use, most are not and so the breeze
In gentleness recalls; the times are short; the fee,
What stands stolid in the stamen that cannot yet unfold.
But, at so great a price, nothing enters, nothing leaves this place; nothing’s free and yet there is no looting, no Granny Weatherall
To fear that in the groaning, smoothly flowing
Movement, here to there, both fruit and flower never knowing
Unity of purpose, no consummation in the delicacy
of dwelling too long on what must be
A glory for the anther in the night,
auspicate in favour of shadows of their mutual fate
While a lighted path from here to there spells a restive, wearied state
In hours―minutes and seconds, really―and the weighty knowledge
that what augurs in the grace of beauty comes too late,
“. . .And I’ll be going, now!” The pistil whispers this. “I am too late!”
The stigma augments as the fruit becomes too ripe,
and aspirations of eternity expose their flaws
In auroras and rainbows as substances within themselves
one and all abandon fleeting glory in the name of natural laws.
” Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherised upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent To lead you to an overwhelming question …
Oh, do not ask, “What is it?” Let us go and make our visit.
In the room the women come and go Talking of Michelangelo..”
The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock