“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
“As Summer Gains”
As summer gains, Ophelia’s hours heighten in the weeds
Of something special strolling in the halls as her sweet prince recalls
The love they might have had and what conceals the serpent in the walls.
In daily season’s advents loyally are born fresh notions, spring’s sweet wheats,
Reminders of promissory notes to the many for whom they strive.
Given such gratuities, these comings’ true returns exact a toll where Piping Fates
Shed seeds of future cares and carelessness that takes
Exception to themselves. What they are is mirrored in the rising suns as trials,
Lethargy, fatigue, the burdens and annual fruits of winter fade. These fresh disks
Do not forget the coming harvests to be gathered, first in sudden growing sleeves
On gracious grateful trees, then in planted bounty crops that nothing grieves,
Their season’s fruits secured, their lofts restocked, and to these ends their bliss.
When Ophelia’s gown grows grappling heavy as it must, desire melds to peace:
In time she’ll choose an autumn’s leave, the end of love and Hamlet on his knees.
Posted in Aging, Hamlet, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Autumn, Hamlet, Imagery, Imagism, Love, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Ophelia, Poem, poetry, Relationships, Separation, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spring, Strife, Summer, Tragic Flaw, Winter
“Millions Fruitless Labour”
Millions fruitless labour, spirits in the spittle,
Liqueur of strong experience, perhaps—it matters little.
Tales and superstitions ever restive rest in rains
From daily deluge, oddly spaced refrains
As ever reigns forever in the wine
Of His grace and once in every life defined
In cardinal minutes gained and lost in seconds. Mortals taste
What each man leaves to follow time-worn trails of debris and waste;
He need not think he need not breathe, but still he’s here,
And in his heart’s delight he worships daily fears
Of winters’ melting snows discovering summers’ bloods in turn,
And in the embers of his nightly fires smoldering letters yearn
To appear and reappear in nuances of rhyme renewed, the afterglow,
Transfigurations in the ash. This he knows but would it were not so.
Posted in Age, Aging, Fruitless labour, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Age, Aging, Death, End Times, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Immortality, Lyric Poetry, Mortality, Poem, poetry, Sonnet, Sonnets, Summer, Tragic Flaw, Winter
“Eliminate Dissatisfactions “
Eliminate dissatifactions in the path and grasp
A moment’s truce; given’s celebrate the certainties. Providence and proclivities
Provide a shroud to glory in memorials. Revision lines the summer’s festivities,
Dilute predilections and call it ever autumn; and, as the ever-present asp
Among the figs will play its rôle, so, too, the ass will have his tour de force.
But, ponder: dichotomies are means and never ends for pure and simple
Truths against the backdrop of change, reactions robed in dangling participles
Camouflage themselves as fortune and pollute the soul in doldrums in the course
Last-ditch hopes for busy minds for recipes for the common pundits thought.
Secluded in the country”s veins seasons’ haloed garish city lights
Are ceilings formed of stars immune from politicians in their circus tights.
Our Ferdinand will not be compromised by matadors who line the Spanish streets, nor did Socrates lay down his last drachma for one more round brought
Low in mass hysteria while sitting bulls emasculate
their sacred bovine rites in corrals designed for vicious virtual gridlock.
No, both prefer to smell the flowers, graze bucolic fields, and tend the herd,
their rule, anointed bulls for all the cows within their sheltered stock.Eliminate redaction of glyphs and scrolls, runes annotating greater lesser conduits and ask
Who, then, it might have been who wrote the given’s, the certainties;
Who salutes entitlements and rites, and myriad raucous destinies
Of personal perception that turn all certitude to doubt? The ever-present mass
For figs will play its rôle, of course,
But, ponder and reflect on simple
Souls! Against the grain and contrary to all public thought and principles,
What we call fortune does not favour the cheap, the shoddy, the coarse
And rampant office and audience of jaded channels caught
Rather in the main away from city lights
And all the progeny of media’s circuitous flight
Through superstitious commercial margins fraught
With cold corrosive gout. Of course the many will provide the locomotion
And the force of mighty change howbeit living souls require no self-promotion.
Posted in Change, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Poem, Poetry, Proclivities, Providence, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets
Tagged Double Sonnet, End Times, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Lyric Poetry, Relationships, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Summer
Nothing’s censured, everything’s gained they say
and choice is all there is and all that’s human.
Cycles shift as do devotion
and commitment and we are glad and sad
As fits emotion and the glory of the stars;
are gone by February, January’s gains illumine
What’s to come in cloistered gusts
that blight the staggered laughter of a spring’s reality.
As autumn’s indiscretions rush to judgement of the past
Occluded by the soul’s embarrassed need
to face the present last,
And yield a future’s wanton wastes
in raw October’s costs and call it natural morality.
Of course, all the world’s put right within
a pale Pink Moon’s delight and we are here tonight
And know damn well we’re gone tomorrow from the diaries of the estuary;
Dawn’s first kiss–the eternal pardon–will arrive behind the execution day,
Delayed a single hour for the sake of show and mere appearances, flights
Of angels sprinkling spores of wonder in the newly pollinated skies. We’ve lied
Again and while we ponder why it matters only heaven knows we tried.
Posted in Censure, Cycles, Devotion, Months, Moon, Poetry, Seasons, Stars
Tagged Autumn, February, January, Lyric Poetry, October, Samsara, Sonnet, Sonnets, Spring, Summer, Winter
“Summer Like the Lion”
Summer like the lion has so little time;
Reflections on horizons only seem at rest,
Refractions, hungers in the higher grasses are at best
A blind, a routine introspection, attest to sun and pride,
Alike as natural season’s slightest change rewards the prey
Of both with perspicuous signs and insecurities but nonetheless
Concrete enough to cause a wonder in the every power; less
Than single clouds occlude the sun, the slightest hint of grey
Upon the main, both signal gain and loss. Clearly crowned,
They have no equal in selection’s schemes
Save Death, itself, yet each pays out in measured penalties. Extremes
In greatness and renown sustain but reasons, diadems and crowns
Subject to circumstance of cycles in the main—in means
A certain end—in cosmic tragedies beyond the need of seasons.
Posted in Animals, Cycles, Death, Destiny, Existence, Imagery, Imagism, Matrix, Mortality, Poetry, Providence, Reason, Seasons, State of Being, Stations, Tragedy, Tragic Flaw, Zeitgeist
Tagged Age, Aging, Lyric Poetry, Sonnet, Summer
“Plans; the Summer Vapours”
Plans; the summer vapours through livings while they last
And wonders of a sudden clime where suns beat furiously through
The year and winters never come. They share eternities and views
Of strife that feed on life, or then again, the days become the year, the past
Is yesterday buried in deposits, today, in streams of sweat and constant growth.
He’ll never know, of course, because his choice prefers the seasons
To the season and the many to single lives they breed. His sanity his reason
Tempered only by the change of venue, moods by grace bestowed,
And whom he’ll know for just a little while. Loneliness; no.
Alone, but, yes, of course, and is there any better company
Than what just came strolling down the lane or some symphony
That’s never finished, what was heard but moments in the rain? The “lo!”
The turning of a page and there scribbled in the margin
The word, the phrase that spoke but once is missing in the bargain.
And once again, the rocking chair is carelessly placed
There beside the balcony rail along with some makeshift table,
Discarded relics from a marriage vow, so worn, so outcast yet so able
To the task and uses of a former front page story from a case
Of misplaced destiny and that last unbroken glass. I stir the brew with ease,
The instrument an orphan from the spoons
she used in warm Nebraska noons and jars
Let years ago to contemplate the morning
beneath the clothesline by my mother’s hand:
A bag or two, the backyard sun, and some few hours to see
Three gallons full of topaz in the fridge; scars,
Perhaps, or something dear, a badge of honour
In the meaning; I was of one of hers. She’s gone the distance so much farther
While the mighty Platte’s gone shallow, but magic brews within my hardened
Heart’s plucked tranquilities in hyacinths of memory and thinking deeply on her
Comes as simple as lemon laced with sugar in the brew, and afternoons in amber.
A word of caution…when I was still living at home with Mom and Dad, there was nothing quite like the sun tea my mother made; it was always perfect, it was always fresh because she made it every day in a two or three-gallon jar with two teabags left in the sun for several hours. Delicious as it was (and probably still is) it has been learned of late that it is not a good idea to let the sun do the trick on the tea; it sits there at just the right temperature to allow the nurturing of bacteria in the water and the tea leaves normally eliminated by the longer but more healthy boiling of the water to make the tea. I was surprised to learn this; yes, well, obviously I escaped from my parents kitchen (or backyard where she left the sun tea to brew) and am still alive to tell the tale. As a matter of fact, I don’t remember ever hearing of anyone getting sick in my hometown or in my state from what they caught from drinking sun tea, and of course, my mother would never have served me anything that would harm me….but of course, there was always my Aunt Lillian’s fried chicken…and Mary Kitchen hash….by the case….