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.
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.
