in the mean of the blue
there known but few true
constants except for the run
to find the infinite one;
for each realm is its own
constant and will traverse home
to return to where the heart waits
for its star-crossed fates.
in the mean of the blue
there known but few true
constants except for the run
to find the infinite one;
for each realm is its own
constant and will traverse home
to return to where the heart waits
for its star-crossed fates.
That which slept away
in the warmth of earthy loams
awakens now from the stillness;
from throes of a winter’s stasis.
The clarion of nocturnal and diurnal
voices sing: “Arise April’s muse of folly!”.
The first point of Aries fires the soils;
And the crownings of purple-yellow crocus.
Serendipity shall dance her fertile favors
upon lachrymose skies - to rain; rain; rain
and fill the streams of supple; flow tangible the rivers;
for a fool is never too far from dreams of Spring.
That love and love of love shall seed
the dormant and vacuous gardens
that his one true yellow flower
becomes a love bouquet for April’s fools.
: Distance :
I just stumbled across another colon;
Didn’t see it. Did not even think of it.
Even though its presence is the distance
Where time separates her incremental
Reign of the costly hour
Against the casual minute…
Why! Oh, why is life stolen?
Didn’t see it. Did not want to speak of it.
What miser chose such a remittance
When no second remains; is it transcendental;
Are sixty spaces spent to own one hour;
Is that : placed to keep right every minute?
We must be humbled by the distance
Between the two dates and the one final dash;
How can that line speak of life’s rhyme?
Our place apart is not a world but a breath.
Didn’t see it. Did not understand it.
And now this : stages the final act.
Look to the watchtower for an existence;
As the bells sound out their keep - in clash
Exulting our congruent nature with time
When mortality and immortality meet at death.
Did not see it. Did not wait for it.
And thus, the colon disappears from the tract.
Ides of March
What does one do on a cold and snowy path
After the sun’s warmth has left and the reindeer
Must follow the flocks of geese flying to the southern hemisphere.
There are reasons to believe that there is an aftermath
To be found beneath the blankets of snow
Where the ground is swollen with life and limb;
There is beauty, even in the decaying process, ‘though so grim.
Praying at the row and to names that no one really knows
And then, one moves away quietly and ever so gently
With and through the detritus of age - in tow.
The path there and back obscured by fog.
Now and then the woods rail so intently.
The wolves gather at the edge of the bog
Sniffing – smelling the air for a scent
Beware of the calling scritch of bete-noire dogs!
They will howl and snarl for life to relent.
Hide - be very still or flee; set in flight
For this day is not the time to carry on the fight.
Why does one walk alone on a cold and snowy day;
Is there some untold truth in the love of honey?
Some touching moments before the wintry bite slays.
The silent forest where the woods hold pray
For sacrifices and forgiveness by djinnis
While Delphyne songs enchant all into a final rend.
The long dark tree lines glimmer under the winter’s moon
It is uncertain whether all his poems were lost there - too soon
Before they were understood to portend
How phantasmic beasts track him by the light of the moon
Across the clearing of vagueness;
And confront him with the starken face of death;
A maquillage lineament of heinousness.
His heart slowed with each deep breath
As his mind twisted and retwisted in harrow;
His incongruent senses were lost in the narrow
Glen of mystery and of a vanishing point
Where the timpani sounds faintly as their last resound.
For the handsome prince is but a thin vagabond
Lost again to the vail of wonder;
Still seeking a place to rest and sleep.
Why does one wonder out on a cold snowy path?
After prayers are said at the gravesite of strangeness;
While mordant halos spin in counter of the antithetical arrow.
And the tracking eyes, along the tree line, follow
Closely - waiting patiently; their hunger will speak the final say
Of where his soul’s flight and repertory will be found.
The appall is not that one may fall or crawl
But more a fear that one may not be near or here at all;
The plight is to fight or take flight from the dying of the light.
Are life and death nothing more than perceptions;
Ideas formed in a cave and painted into images of rhyme.
The old sundial, at the entrance, a hyperbola in time?
The dark universe reformed by Kafkaesque inceptions
Plasmonic deviations; ephemeral and ephemera of pretensions.
The latent edges of fear slowly emersed from stolid eyes:
Livid skies loom quietly across the vale waiting the storm front
To consume life; as hungry wolves howl for their brotherly ties.
Why does one never return from a cold and snowy day?
When the Colossus knows your name
there is infinity in the voice
asking, “Was that the choice?”
Shall I reply “In what frame
is there left
where fortune is bereft?”
That cosmic promises are deft
when reality encounters mortality
and ends immortality.
Tomorrow will be the only infinity
to complete the story;
To write the poem of life’s glory.
Don’t look to find meiosis
in the eternity
there is nothing that is lost.
What you may understand
is, at the moment,
Understatement.
There were never
any senses; no matter
how common.
The travails of being elemental,
When the church of allotment calls,
Are both reductive and extravagant
Arguments for the circumspect
Balance between hydrogen molecules
And the universe of all reason
That states - value is abundance of utility.
Let the waters of life flow
To their source –
A toast to the goldfish In the bowl.
Why do you live so carelessly
In endless holler and scream;
Flowing from the behemoth granites,
Across the snow-covered plains,
and to my front door.
Why can you not feel the silence
Beneath our baren canopies
and understand the deep sleep
of regeneration.
Your roars may humble the beasts
But these woods –
These ancient woods will come alive
Long after you have passed.
The figure sits alone by the window
Upstairs in the house by the bay.
Day after day with nothing to say
To the closing horizon with a drowning sun;
The empty frigates and the tall ships -
They each follow along with silent lips.
As the daily procession of each morning
Pleads with the sky to reason with sign:
“Why! Oh, why has the sea
made a widow out of me!”
If she could only take back time
And return her wanderer’s rhyme.
With the first two notes, the heart fluttered
At the thought of that Summer of ’42 -
When death sought comfort in my arms.
And your heart lay on the floor -broken
Like so many glimmering seashells along the shore.
Telling stories of a lifetime that never lived
That now walks in, with a tattered book of poems.
A phantom of lost love
That resides in a book of verse
In cold reticence;
And I, in warmth, holding a book of poems.