Persistence of Poetry

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

Clock on the Wall

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.

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.

Obsessions

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.