Belief

Belief

The greatest irony in man is this:
That primal fears abound imagination.
Yet, that which he contrives them to dismiss
Is often wrought from like fancification.
For willingly does he embrace delusion
When acumen and reason can’t aspire
To produce some commensurate illusion
Of purpose that is meet with his desire;
And comprehension gleans but a few drops
Of knowledge from the sea of mystery,
Then noesis ends where understanding stops,
Unleashing boundless creativity.
    When ignorance gives rise to fear’s commotions,
    Imagination conjures up nice notions!

The Thinker

The Thinker

Voices in the Mist

Voices in the Mist

Line 1: Anapestic Trimeter – – / – – / – – /
Line 2: Dactylic Tetrameter / – – / – – / – – / – –
Line 3. Trochaic Hexameter / – / – / – / – / – /
Line 4. Iambic Pentameter – / – / – / – / – /

In the first living hour of my day
Even in infancy destiny called to me,
Sweet the voice that drifted from beyond your shores
On misty Irish seas o’er Mersey Bar;

And I knew in the heart of my youth
She would not suffer for me to remain with you,
Softly she would call my name one fateful day
And take me over ocean waves afar;

As the hour of my day approached six
Destiny’s yearning was burning consuming me,
August’s balmy waves echoed distant cries
With passion I embraced the nymph of fate;

On the wings of adventure elated
Borne across oceans of darkest profundity,
Into crimson skies where setting sun declines
To lands of carefree days and starry nights;

Then at noon on the day of my life
Far from the land of my ancestors legacy,
Boldly in exotic fields of passion’s fruit
I harvested sweet bounties of desire;

But that lady of fate is capricious
Destiny’s fealty endures only fleetingly,
Cruelly she imprisoned me in my delusion
To drift a northern isle in Carib seas;

Left to drown in the depths of contrition
Caught in a vortex of turquoise-blue misery,
Breathing long forgotten threads of carefree youth
Recalling mid-December’s summer days;

In this last living hour of my day
Gazing through mist in the North the pole-star I see,
Sweeter still your voice that drifts from those fair shores
O’er misty Irish Sea from Mersey Bar.

Crosby Beach, Liverpool By Will Daviess

Crosby Beach, Liverpool
By Will Daviess

Autumn Loaf

Autumn Loaf

 

A plastic bottle and a well-licked
tuna fish can, both flashing topless
in shadows that strobe the gutter
on the street below my balcony.
Between them, misplaced,
A leaf.
My shirt sticks to my back like cling-film
on well-kneaded, well-risen dough;
a languid simile,
but it’s far too humid for cool metaphor
in the suburbs of Santo Domingo
this mid-September.
Even the simile doesn’t cut
—tap-tap,
hear that hollow sound?
Means I’m done.

I Do Not Pray

I do not Pray

Gorse blossoming in snow Image: healingherbs.co.uk

Gorse blossoming in snow
Image: healingherbs.co.uk

I do not pray to increment my days
Nor plead to ease my modest situation,
I care not for a life of lavish ways
Nor seek the power to rule over a nation.
Though least among the blooms the gorse revive
To flower midst the winter snow; yet I,
Who bear no bloom and in my seed must thrive,
But struggle forth and in one season die.
To what then might this mortal weed aspire?
Made less than gorse—ambition is but vain,
But ah, mortality, my passion’s fire!
You are my joy, though you shall be my bane;
For gorse is neither virtuous nor trite,
Save framed by mortal eyes in passion’s light.

Catador

Drinking-bacchus by Guido Reni Image: wikipaintings.org

Drinking-bacchus by Guido Reni
Image: wikipaintings.org

Catador

The bottle, to the wine, is of small matter;
Can pewter not conserve as well as glass?
The wine will either disappoint or flatter,
Fine crystal makes cheap fare taste no less crass;
But when I pressed the rarest of my vinery
In your exquisite vessel to ferment,
My cup (befitting, gem-encrusted finery)
Brimmed acrimonious quaff to my lament!
For bitter is the cup served with deceit
When poured from cherished vessels of affection,
To penalize the heart’s naive conceit
And taint love’s sweet bouquet with rank deception.
By this, dear Catador, you are forewarned:
Keep fine reserves well-corked and unadorned!

Dragon

 

Image: facebook.com/dragons

Image: facebook.com/dragons

Dragon

A claw to gouge the craggy feldspar face,
A fang that’s meet to chew the brittlest flint,
A scale to thwart the cleaving cutlass trace,
Through sparks and brume your fiery eyes a-glint.
Behind hooked-claw, a jealous rage serrating,
Behind sharp-tooth a taste for mortal flesh,
Behind bronze scale a thrown-down gage awaiting,
In scathing eye a hungry look of death;
And looming on the threshold of your parlour,
Intent to raid and steal your hoarded treasure,
Two-score and ten of juicy men in armour,
To satisfy and stay your hunger’s pleasure;
For thirty-days you’ll dine on manly grub,
But where to put the bones—now there’s the rub!

Barcarola

 

Nach-dem-tornado by Winslow Homer Image: wikipaintings.org

Nach-dem-tornado by Winslow Homer
Image: wikipaintings.org

Barcarola

A craftless ship afloat ill-tempered waters
With neither star nor compass to avail,
Blown on those wintry gales far from safe quarters,
Caught-fast upon a reef my yawl did flail;
For tempests of the heart will hard pursue
On passion’s tides that run love’s ocean deep,
Those ships of lovers seeking harbours new
In ports where love’s rare booty they would reap;
And wisdom’s compass is no guide for lovers,
Infatuation’s stars do but deceive,
To foil intrepid sailors, like all others,
And dash them on those ragged rocks to grieve.
Lament no more my barcarola triste,
For love is least where doleful tears persist!

Fashion

 

Gala-Evening by Carlos S. Tejada Image: wikipaintings.org

Gala-Evening by Carlos S. Tejada
Image: wikipaintings.org

Fashion

My passion I had tethered in disdain,
Denied for higher virtues to fulfill,
Denied I say, but to no greater gain,
Pressed to compel with such a blunted quill.
What folly I endorsed to my lament
Possessing such a rapier never drawn,
How worthless was that coin I never spent,
If not to virtue’s then my profit’s scorn!
But beauty did in you my blunder heal
And cause my stoic heart to brim with verse,
That sword—my quill—now keen with ardent zeal
To vanquish all things trite and dull and terse!
Neither for love nor vanity, but passion,
Your beauty, while it lasts, will be my fashion.

Aurora

 

Doña Aurora

Doña Aurora

Aurora

The scent of Eos lingers in her wake,
A rare Shiraz—uncorked, releasing tones
Of aniseed and cinnamon; bouquet
Whose redolence drifts down the alleyways
And blends acerbic-sweet with notes of coffee and cacao
That percolate through slats in unglazed windows;
Infusions.
The sun’s oblique and penetrating rays
Defy the lofty, jealous fronds, and squeeze
Between the crowded planet’s oak and concrete bastions,
To poke through breeze-block slots
And highlight cracks in flaky-pastry walls;
Diffusions.
Aurora, time-derided, eroded, cracked,
Heart pitted like the hands that wield the broom,
Downtrodden like the object of her enterprise,
Plays out the litany of morning ritual
And, smiling, sweeps again the crumbling path;
Wherein she sees beyond each bristle’s stroke
A cloud of musty memories exhumed
To briefly spritz, and fall in motes of dreams
Long dead, and now reburied in the dust.
Oblations.
But clouds will gather in the afternoon,
Convective gusts will dissipate stale spice
And August rains will flood the rutted ground
To sanitize with petrichor anew;
And all shall lie in readiness for tomorrow’s
Infusions, diffusions, oblations and sorrows
Ablutions.