The Revelry of Stardust
Where pools of lucidity
Swirl - the undercurrents of opacity
And the senses are deplete -
Empty.
The sails of joy lay still
in voids of movement and will
time and place abandoned; incomplete -
Idle.
The store of barrels – dry!
At long year’s end more rye
And barley spirits are need'd -
Full.
The albatross curse forgiven by a gust;
The ship’s company is blessed by stardust.
Let the consumption sparkle with hope;
Cheer.
Even if I could give you everything
it could never be lovelier
than each day full of flowers
from your garden’s keep.
A day filled with butterflies
flittering upon your heart;
A day when gentle breezes
caress your pretty face
and play the magic of chimes
rambling their notes across the woodland
where there is so much to share
because there is unending love there.
And yet, each day is a precious gift
that we are together.
What does an artist do when there are empty walls?
She paints. She brushes. She carves and sculpts her forms.
She pours and dabs her stories into their frames
and the room empties of all empty;
Never-ever to be bare
because an artist lives there.
Dedicated to my friend Jill.
As the steps of '23 draw to an end
We gather our thoughts to send
To those who will not be near
To hold & keep us - dear.
Merry Christmas everyone -
may you close out the year in good cheer.
A place is not what time leaves behind
Nor is time a thing one owns;
Along the way of being lost to wonder.
Hey Brother John, what road is this?
“This road – this ugly old road like me?
It is the tracks I left behind; don’t matter. See
Me through old eyes, my youthful plays,
My ways before the streets of bad days.
Time strewn into the debris of possibilities.
Now, they don’t bother me; this path of realities
Is my path to the wind is my new high!”
Hey Brother John, what song is this?
“This melody? This ugly old muse like me
Is like you; don’t you see me?
Don’t matter to me as my heart is pure
And my soul knows you – that is for sure
That I can see days; days I can count on
is the path to the other side; to a new dawn.
For my song was; is my bliss.”
Paladins of Poetry -
What does that phrase command?
Is poetry merely a sequence of words with rhyme
And alighted delightfully with alliteration -
set forth to declare statements of clear thought
however ambiguous their notions may be?
is poetry – song to extoll beauty
or elegies that plead to the soul
or to the soulless, with strong verse,
to detest their wrongs?
And what of Paladins –
are they knights roaming the darkness;
Are they the protagonists for romantic sonnets?
Perhaps, paladins are champions of the heart
Against all that is evil, treacherous, and too,
Word warriors aware of honey flowing
Into a mellifluous spill
Of poetry and poesy.
High priests, white knights, heralds of sense
And nonsense as well – keepers of the gates
To wander - the universe.
Delicate pupils set in a sculpture,
Discerning petals of radiant kindness,
Form a cold stone face of doubt;
Sculpture of white granite uncovered
From its ambiguous magmatic silence
Surrenders her natural manner
Into a poetic figure of beauty.
An inert standing of art and imagination
Sculptures without songs nor musings
Yet, seducing lovers and critics alike.
Sculptor Yves Pires
Image permission - Ari Castio
The old clock on the wall -
Been there; even before the room had cast.
The old face hasn't changed much except its call -
It went silent after the twelfth twelfth last.
The old face hasn’t a second
Or a minute nor an hour
Yet, time’s gasp is a reckoned
Place of power and dour.
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That a day turns to years is semantics.
A disambiguation of past stories and relics
And of all unseen, unknown mimics
Of sometime; of someplace; of somewhere -
That exist only because they eschew life’s fare.
The old clock on the wall does not care
Though it takes time; it doesn’t give time for any affair.
And now, as the timekeeper approaches, the toll sounds -
Twelve bells; calling for all dispossessed and harrowed souls;
A final roll (a paginated keep of fame and ignominy) extolls
The old clock’s obsequies left on sacred grounds
To debouch out into rills and rivers to the open sea
Where the universe brings succor - to be.
Her indomitable tendrils persisted
Twisting; weaving to recover her nature;
Her pristine floras.
The brutal unstained obelisk left standing
Stained and strained by avarice.
“More heads, more heads; sacrifice!”
The storms came in a rage
And the skies darkened all eyes
Except the third – for it is a seer.
What is language without thought;
Life without blood;
Breath without air?
And in the vase of nothingness
There is an ossuary of manic manifests -
There, and only there - is the dark gnosis.
When Sky Falls
When sky falls come as questions;
Nay! As an answer to all questions…
When what falls in front of you - is you.
Will you bother to stop long enough to look and see;
Will you care enough to understand the risk?
Will you do what is needed regardless of detours
Regardless of cost; regardless of pain?
And will you accept that death may not wait
And yet, remain hopeful that life will continue
With or without your heart and your kindness?
If a nest or a nettle should befall
upon your path;
Or upon your crazy head?
Will you save it and yourself - just the same;
From the trial; the trail; the journey; the chore; the pain?
Will you answer the rains;
Will you stand against the winds
When the heavens call your name
And invite you in?
The answer just fell from the sky.
The seas have calmed
Although not less untroubled.
The storms have quieted
Yet not less fearsome.
The clock’s face has staid
However, her time urges
Plots and plans and ploys
While the play enters a stage
Into the third and final act.
Where the seas rage
Although more calm.
Paradise is ravished
Yet remains more loved.
The ships ribs bend and groan
While the sails rap soothingly.
The job – the joy – the journey
Assures that there is no end –
No one is to be found.
That he could exist; a lover and a friend;
The poet sat quietly weighing the long wait
Across the lands of love and beyond dark sea’s portend
For all certainty is lost - when cruel silence holds fate.
A poem of the lovely Virginia who loved her poetry man;
Her knight and companion through to the very end.
The poet keeps flowers in mind - along with his feathered friends
At the Sparrow Caf̩ Рit is his redemption and his great joy.
Fantasies of what might have been.
Regrets for all that was unseen.
Waiting – morning’s light
The extended nights are their own fright:
Watching; waiting; wondering if breath seeks life,
“Is she lost in there; alone; afraid of her strife?”
Preoccupied by the napkins she forms
Into patterns that still mean something; something of bliss.
“Oh, my holy god! Can you not see this amiss?
She is lost in her own world darkened by storms!”
The poet tends his garden of flowers - florets of phlox;
Budding mulberries leaving their purple stains upon an old wooden box;
Tips of day lilies and daffodils pushing forth the sleeping soil;
Hues of violets amidst a realm of Indian Strawberries blooming in yellow roil;
Clover abounds all around and tiny blue florets hint their presence – too;
Time for the Magnolia’s to dominate the foreground as the Peonies crew
A border ‘round the garden as Tulips praise the sol!
For survival is a reprieve of winter’s cold hand on newborn and old.
The great Junipers stand tall to bring forth fine memories set
Forth to flood the shores of the heart with sorrow of loss and regret
Leaving a vast void – where violet and vines stand with the cold sadness.
It is eleven-eleven twice a day
And yet, each moment is frozen to a time long ago;
To a memory; a friend with precious gifts. What say
Poet? Give and forgive what time has left behind to know.
In a room full of things that help but do not matter – much
She sits alone with her mind closed as such
To most of what life has left aside;
To hold and love a keepsake set to hold beside.
Knowing time is failing and slipping away.
“I fear the very thought of one less minute every day
Sleep my princess – I am here; I will be here
And you will always remain very near.
Shall I sing your songs once more my dear?”
The chaos of life struggling to survive
There is no time for chores; nor routines of ordinary thrive.
The drum beats ever so slowly as my heart bleats one more cry
Leaving me exhausted to continue the wait and my soul sighs.
When keys no longer open nor lock;
When songs have no key to hold on to;
Senseless hands no longer key time upon the faceless clock;
Even the open broken door begs for a knock!
The maps are all wrong - they cannot find you
Because there is no such place left;
The chimes sit eerily still while waiting a breeze to cue
And I am inside of the outside with no way in; bereft
Sewing together what is left of my shattered heart
And for the moment – the expiring of my soul
That waits to know how near is - the eternal cold.
Forgetting can be a casual lapse; taken by distraction
Or forgetting can be trauma; endured by a mind’s attenuation
Forgetting can be a gentle swim into eternity’s waters
Or a harrow in the narrow where Scylla and Charybdis wait in quarters.
The vicissitudes of change ask not for better nor worse
They simply come to be like the season’s lore
Bringing foster to regret and to remorse
Or a vase of fresh cut flowers to adore.
In midst of winter rang the dolorous bells;
Ponderous and barren of melody telling of toll
Of wives, friends and lovers sailing away in fold.
A beautiful sylph who dared the darkness.
A poet and painter who dared the darkness.
A friend stricken in silence dared the darkness.
And so, walk alone amongst the sea shells
Find light in the darkness; always the darkness.
That one may forget
And remembering is now a bridge too far set
From the shores of love and joy in all things done.
I promise it will never be too far away to abandon
Lest we all go blind and forget.
That life is a looking glass – it sees close
And it still views her classic pose.
But it is not a portal to return through or oppose
Nor own, refuse or reject – there is only one.
This looking glass can not be given nor won.
What a good cup of coffee proves;
all needed is fresh, black and hot!
That is enough – I ask, why not?
Life is a path of bumps, cracks, with many deep grooves-
No sweetener; no creamer – no fluff no stuff.
Just hot black and my familiar old cup- I am up!
Spilling sentences, thoughts, views, desires
Across a page that stands blank yet, fires
Kindled with cured dry words, rising smoke as a lovely rose
And painted with words of poetry and prose.
What words do you hold
That explain - what has happened?
Do your powers of prose rise to the moment?
Can a poet’s mastery of words satisfy
The plaintiff cries; the tears; the messenger’s dour?
Do your PoeTrees say enough
About her loveliness that led you away
From the woods - away from darkness
And into the clearing of joy.
Until one day the darkness kept her hand
And left you to walk alone with a book of words.
Alone at that table with the coffee stains
Distilled by the many tears fallen
For her music - stopped playing.
That he could exist; a lover and a friend
The poet sat quietly weighing the long wait
Across the lands of love and beyond dark sea’s portend
For all certainty is lost - when cruel silence holds fate.
A poem of the lovely Virginia who loved her poetry man;
Her knight and companion through to the very end.
Dedicated to: Virginia, Phil and Bill
Written for: Ken
Turning and turning in the widening gyre
The orange beast squirms and digs in
For hell heaps open reaps of fire.
That an honest hand points to the liar
Who snakes in - not afraid of sin
Turning; turning in the widening gyre.
For hell heaps open reaps of fire
False words wording round a cup of tin
Dredging doers with dollars conspire.
The dungeons are full and feel dire
As judges with old laws spinning a last spin
Turning; turning in the widening gyre.
The news is not new - yet we tire
Things fall apart; the center has no win
For hell heaps open reaps of fire.
Friends and enemies both abhor the sire
A repulsive and repugnant fool in orange sway
Turning; turning in the widening gyre
For hell heaps open reaps of fire.
If all the oceans roiled
in fear and hate
then be the single drop of rain
to distill them into seas of love...
Allow the quiet to guide
Wait- Wait and transform
With new Wings - glide
The moment is your life form.
It is not the coldness
That should be shun -
Instead embrace the first warmth
That illuminates the sun
And life's boldness.
Wait quietly at that dark place
And be persistent to that face
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For dawn will break - with a trace
Of hope and time to find grace.
The night's love
Bespeaks the passion
The moon light
Has for shadows
And other things secret
Beneath the covers of snow.
What promises made
Or why regrets
Will be taken - grave.
A litter of letters appeared at the door
Seven sole symbols severed from the Alpha
Bet,
Lord and litigant of all language
rudiments.
Three were paired however, only one
married.
They each and all claimed membership to one
word;
Yet not one of them could define a meaning!
Nay! None knew any coherent alignment
Much less offer one reasonable, sensible
utterance.
Their lack of pronouncements was indeed
their very wholeness!
Such shameful attributions they enjoined
to.
Who leads; who follows and what ends?
This terrible type and mis-type behavior
They do tell of a place of detritus
Where fragments lie in their destruction
On some odd or even day -
“Ragamuffins all! A mélange of misdeed
A motley mess this crew of collage and
clutter”
Said the Master Gallimaufry Spellchecker,
Dictator of All Dictionaries - Official
of the OED.
And at once, the symbols scrambled
To unscramble their meaning: Agglomeration.
And thus, all brokenness was coherent in
the universe.
Inside the outside and at the edge of a day...
the love shadows have for the light
a balance of imbalances
between then -
now
and if....
The ocean moves away from my feet
Enticing the heart to move into her waters -
Slowly at first until the cold feels warm;
Like returning to an amnion place of peace.
Fluidity is mesmerizing – taking away all polarity.
As the edge of the mortal beach
and the immortal horizon
Become one
A singularity of existence with the sea;
The waves thunderous claps silenced;
Stilled into an equation of impermanence.
What do you say - when old comes to stay?
Do you ask, what bairn is there left to see?
Is there wonder and fantasy of a child’s play;
A spinning top; a box of precious rocks; a feather’s pray?
What do you say - when time claims its toll?
And the youngster has crossed into the woods
With a flying imagination and a knapsack full of goods
That will keep the old man warm from the cold;
For mirrors never lie but pains do - it is told.
What do you say - when the train has long left the station?
Leaving only the luggage of gain and regret
To ponder, over a tea, how life turned like a roulette
And how the dancing ball never found fortune’s salvation.
And now, nothing is left but the train ticket’s destination.
What do you say - when it’s time to pray?
For friends and lovers who wait at the nook
Where memory belies the eye’s distant look;
Longing for one more distraction to play
Yet, the warm tea will become cold - at end of day.
pods hold everything that was
and that never will be again
as a worship to the moment
breathe; inhale the universe
for everything holds
what will never be
nor ever was
except for this infinite moment.
In the ancient forests
the things that are rooted there
are also the things that touch the sky
and together they hold life -
together as one body
and yet, it all fragments
and falls away into universal dust.
“What place holds you here?”
The siren seemed to say with her sigh.
And so, the lad, who had no pad in place;
Whispered,
“Whilst I sit wetted in cacoethes
And knowing not – any place to be home
Nor ever thinking of thee
in wistful romantic Brahms interludes;
nor nudes of Romanesque bask!
The place I am -
is not the place I hold”
“Why do you require such fires –
when this place is dark empty space;
lace with nominal case
an uncommon place;
a faceless mask.”
The silvery siren sipped
At the lad’s collapsing desires
And then, slowly slipped away
Singing back, “Le moment est un lieu.”
“A fond farewell to my illusions of you!
Torment me no more you shrew!”
The lad mused regret of his reject in place.
Guilt tends to seek punishment
and reject acceptance yet,
pains in both -
Oscar Wilde
"The soul is born old but grows young
That is the comedy of life
The body is born young but grows old.
That is life's tragedy."
Quadrants of symmetry
contrast; dissonance;
interfuse; earth;
ether - all in one infinite -
union
Breathe in to inhale presence
and breathe out to expel nonsense -
The fluttering mind
is upset and restless
gravitating to the sense of impressions
and pursues frequencies in zest
for denial is an imagination
stilled in death without flutter.
