What fate torments you, spirit of twilight, Forever cursed to chase the setting sun And be pursued by spectres of the night Borne on that cobalt shroud from which you run! Your wake cuts like a knife through coalescence Of colours bleeding out from sunset’s prism, To drip in pools bereft of luminescence That fill the chasm cleft by your incision; Yet even as that fiery orb descends Horizon’s crimson line, on eastern quarter, Her speeding chariot’s argent light portends The visage of Hyperion’s eldest daughter. By destiny decreed to never know, The dark of night, nor daylight’s warming glow.
Twilight On The Farm
Image: Charles Rollo Peters
Click image to visit.
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
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.