This poet’s muses are not passed that he Need seek in Asphodel his sonnet’s fashion; Though were it so and in that place they be, What meadow rich to nurture blooms of passion! Yet not to descant praise for that perdition Nor frame in gild the state of such repose, But cantillate in triumph life’s transition That transcends earthly terms in it’s transpose; For whom at rest in that so cold embrace, Bereft of life in death’s eternal night, Whom could they breach the void of time and space Would not ten-thousand godly sonnets write! When passed beyond this mortal realm’s divide, All souls are poets on the other side.
French Pendant with Monk and Death
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!
I do not dwell on time; but time on me Imposes thought that distracts meditation, With chiding memories of what can not be, A man derided by his own creation. While high above infinity’s endless ocean Where, from temporal realms, no echo rings, The angel of existence orders motion And time is but the beating of her wings. She flies along the shoreline of mortality Where waves of life break ever on the beaches, Her touch imbues the living with vitality, Her shadow is the threshold of death’s reaches. Her flight is clearly audible in the clock: Those silent booms between the tick and tock.
Interred within the soil of youthful prime A willow seed lies sown in dormancy, That with the daily watering of time Grows old and dies, a withered, weeping tree. And years are petals on the bud of life That when she blossoms unfold to display A sapless flower; her petals, passed and rife, Hang virtueless, bereft of sweet bouquet. Yet what possesses virtue, worth or reason Save framed within this frail mortality? Or whence derives one’s passion for the season If not from this temporal symmetry? And if in life I find a love to cherish, Then I shall gladly live and love, and perish.
Weeping Willow by Claude Monet Click Image to visit WikiPaintings.org
all my life you have stood between me and my dreams obsession possession you are my life’s bane every time i see you seeing me my heart screams the tears i now weep for the tears and the pain in the souls that I love when i’m gone you’ll remain reflecting
This morning I discovered a hair growing on the tip of my nose. I’ve always cast myself as the bearer of an unblemished nose, attractive even, in the manner of those perfectly symmetrical marble appendages adorning the gods of Rome. Oh well. Tweezers flashed. Pilus expelled. Antinous again, sure enough; but the nose reneged its place and refused to cede to vacuous space the foreground of my consciousness– Clever nose. It sensed, in a whiff that wafted on the noontime breeze from across the expanse of time to, somehow, emerge from my neighbour’s kitchen window, the redolence of school meals. I am sent. An eternal instant: I’m a happy, clever and extremely cute little boy, standing eagerly in line in my grey short pants and pullover, holding my dinner plate and breathing deeply the delicious aroma of cheese pie ‘n’ chips, now transmuted into the poignant essence of youth. Gone. Yes, my neighbours cooking can certainly get the juices flowing!
The “Lansdowne Antinous” Image: Wikipedia Click on image to visit
Image courtesy of Steeve Wheeler at Learning with ‘e’s Click image to visit
You ask me what is love, I say it’s naught. For love can not be framed in logic’s reason; What mind can comprehend those yearnings wrought In hearts enraptured in love’s vernal season? Behold the rose in bloom ‘neath summer’s sky, Drenched in the morning dew, her fleeting fashion Sparks fission in the musing poet’s eye, His quill is filled to brim with ardent passion; For passion’s root lies buried in mortality, Yet love transposes finite mortal measure, A moment shared becomes perpetuality, A stolen kiss, immortalized forever. Two mortal hearts flushed bright with love’s vermilion, Walk boldly, hand-in-hand, into oblivion.
‘She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew?’ Image: DLady, pixabay.com
The Virtue of the Rose
The rose does not esteem her generations Nor marvel in the beauty of her fashion, She can not prize her fragrant emanations, In her, vermilion’s hues incite no passion; When on the bush her virtue counts as pleasure, Though thorny brambles make no plush brocade, Yet she transforms exquisite beyond measure When picked to fade adorning my love’s braid; From where ensues this virtue she defines? She, this rustic rose, now drenched in dew, If not that though she fade a thousand times Those many times shall she travail anew. Immortalized when kissed by mortal breath, The rose’s virtue lies in mocking death.
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.
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.