“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
“Feel the Fear”
Feel the fear in all things blithe; death,
To see what only mystic pages sign and still it’s too damn cold;
Nothing’s moving. Reckon talismans, medallions sold
For incense and bouquet; breathe once and then the second breath,
Friend. Taste reticence itself and all things flee; barter sovereignty
And youth and place the sandals at the door. Terse and curt,
They will renege, prevaricate, and standing still
their high fives fly. They flirt
With no one but themselves, their flesh disports with rude obscenity;
Daggers, canines, grey-lined barbs of cultured mumbled sympathy
For mothers long in heat, hesitant but nonetheless disposed to saying
Judas had his reasons.
Politely cut the losses, righteous piracy embroidered on the sleeve–
The tattoo leaves no space for pores–pluck the fruit,
They’ll make you know they love you;
scratch the surface, pick the scab.
And why not? If things go wrong, all is veiled,
steeled in memory, forgotten on the slab.
“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
“She Might Have Asked”
She might have asked him if she cared.
But then it really mattered little; she’d left no room
For doubt, she’d other fats to fry in fires soon
To be and visions of her future flared
Up and out and all around her, the afterglow
Of hungry butterflies, and swarms of fireflies
Grown as clouds about them both. She denied
She’d ever known him…,”But I don’t know though;
Roads are sometimes forked, and as she’d said
From time to time, “It’s the early bird that gets the worm!”
He’d grin and smile: “You bet your booties, Girly! But get a firm
Grip on this ol’ toad before you leap, and put some forethought in your head,
You can fool a nightcrawler some of the time while he waits his turn,
But, they’s no nevermind t’arrive before the worm!”
Posted in Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Sonnet, Sonnets
“She Was Born Today in 1915″
She was born today in 1915; a Ward, a Southern family,
All the right connections, schooling privately refined.
Atlanta knew her people, reputations there so well defined.
But then, she bucked the stream, and while she found herself a simile,
Nothing close to metaphor, a fine engagement placed in all the papers,
Still, she’d play no part, and with a little cash she’d saved,
She headed west, a landing first in Alabama; braved
The second verse of formal Southern hospitality, terse in capers,
Yes, it’s true, but she’d no seat in that sweet déjà vû, and once again,
Toward the West she drove and drove and wouldn’t stop
Before the goal of all her fire hit kindling in San Diego where she flopped.
She domiciled, hung a shingle high above the door for the War, gained
Fine employment, Consolidated for the duration, and for all that slid
Through years to 1944, the day I saw the light of day:
Delivered to America as one fine male December kid.
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
Pain, and the Pacific has had its way, so many tears;
The summons; natural deities, rushing devotees of Southern waters
Join discords of the North and oceanic rivers feed because the glaciers falter.
Nai-no-Kami will no doubt dance. She needs not move far while fears
Of millions, fields and city gates are prey with every passing day.
We view their sighs and gestures, calmly watch and lunch on wonders
At the thought and misery that gorges on the plunder
Of laboured mountains duly noted while we dine. Mere screens relay
Our sympathies as surrogates before us mouth the news in bites, remote,
Confounding empathy of others with our own, and with no more thought
Than is required to vote or tolerate yet another tired announced affair
Convinced we’ve performed our sacred duties. Filtered sage suggestions float
Between commercials; who is dead, and who is dying?
We resign ourselves to daily schedules, and retreat
To mindless repetition, and support of yet another public brawl,
and trash what cannot be understood, change the channel and eat.
Posted in Age, Aging, Compassion, Existence, Gods, Lyric Poetry, Media, Mortality, News Media, Ocean, Pain, Poetry, Sonnet, Tragedy
Tagged Age, Aging, Emotion, Existence, Lyric Poetry, Nai-no-Kami, Pacific, poetry, Sonnets, Strife, Tragic Flaw
Humility–unwieldy companion to arrogance–speaks;
In time, longevity in the Philistine at last
Ignites a divine belated blessèd anger, a righteous task
Of inevitable cosmic correction, a conscious meeting
Of place, heart, and justice inward while but a fleeting
Moment entangles exponents with reality; the hour has passed;
Its purpose, certitude. Illumination in the glass
Reveals the cosign of beauty; a faith, sans gleaming
Spark leavens all and leaves no doubt wasting nothing in its evening
—A meagre point of knowledge as with a single atom addressed at last
Avoiding capture in the very act of viewing.
No substitute for misconstruing
Immortality for license, this thing must grasp
A certain concrete action plausible in similitude and innuendo
As all natural pains reverse themselves in their own crescendo.
“The Midnight Hymn”
by Friedrich Nietzsche
[ 1844 A.D. - 1910 A.D.]
Oh man! Take heed!
What does the deep midnight say?
I have awakened from a deep dream.
The world is deep.
And deeper than the day remembers.
Deep is its suffering.
Joy is deeper yet than heartache!
Suffering speaks: Begone!
All joys want eternity,
Want deep, deep eternity.
Posted in Age, Aging, All or nothing, Anger, Arrogance, Atom, Balance, Certitude, Cosmic paths, Humility, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet
Tagged Age, Aging, End Times, Existence, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Tragic Flaw
My sonnets are a simple moment’s traffic;
These mirrored people whom I know;
These verbal seeds of thoughts that overflow;
Times from other times, the mental geographic
Equivalent of where and when I may be found
At any given moment in the seasons of a single day.
These mezzanines of regression to what it is I care to say
About what it is I’ve seen transfigure echoes of a sound
I’ve heard, traverse a simple passing thought
That hits the page when after hours in the struggle
I return to what is left of me; these,
the writs of caveats redeem the portions of a puzzle
I’ve been working on with meagre wit and little claim
to cures to what it is I’ve caught;
These, the no trump bids throughout the hours’ daily
staged performances, the curtain calls,
Or worse, the musings of the moment
with little consequence at all.