Tag Archives: Selflessness



Conceptual image with a businessman on top of a maze.


Limbs, appendages, extensions, sinew stretched
Across chasms, voids, and axles;
Creation’s foam will occupy the mind; cosmic jackals,
Vain imaginings spun from fractals, etched
In plaited mesh and skeletal remains combine
To people thought and populate whole scenarios—
Nothing ever quiets the machine. The interim’s need will borrow
Legitimacy and gravitas from life’s singularity, refine
Their use within the era, penultimate lines in rhyme
Penned to presage the tentative, simple strokes of time.
Transition’s in the air, my friends, and next in line
For what’s about to come to pass might well be curses
For the speed with which the world embraces change for its mistakes.
Creation weds the art of accident to apposition for its own sake.

”The Sum”

“The Sum”

The sum of yeasts spell the dregs of moments in the mould;

Images to come, some of use, most are not, and so a breeze:
Gentleness recalls; the times are short; the fee,
What stands stolid in the stamen does not yet unfold.
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’s night—
auspicates in favour of shadows of their mutual fate
While lighted paths from here to there spins restive, wearied states
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 thus. “I am too late!”
The stigma augments as the fruit becomes too ripe,
and aspirations of eternity expose greater 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
T.S. Eliot

“And What Is Selflessness?”

“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.

“Just What You Meant”

“Just What You Meant”

Just what you meant is not too clear today
While all the world feels indisposed but then, aside
From that, it seems the effort to decide
To see must equal if not dwarf the weight
Of longing to be done with this and out
The door and down the street, and gone.
You might well ask what siren draws me out along
A path to worlds away from you, when the route,
The melody we felt, inevitable as the juggernaut of dawn
And all we pledged through pale eternities in this
Fresh day still shone. Together, a certainty that ruled those early mists
Throughout the early morning’s night, what had drawn
Us so close with lightning’s grease to both our spirits’ light?
Instincts lost left walls of thought, but in the end,
all actions dulled as the sun rose and both of us took flight.

“I’m Told”

After The Rain

“I’m Told”

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.

“Abuses of the Flax Seed”


“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.


“A Scintilla”


“A Scintilla”

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.

“She Appeases”


“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…

“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…




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.