Back

BACK

back where daylights bright once lived

where  

lived daylights,

once bright

back in warm premonitions, wrapped close

in

close premonitions

wrapped warm

back toward empty beginnings ended furious

toward

furious beginnings

ended empty

back without privileges, prospects glinting dark

without

dark privileges

glinting prospects

back back back, this place, no more secret face, only reflections, echoes, of a flat sad thing in infinite mirrors

https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/jBpeWK0_S3SIz-lOGWaCLfrg1T4o4SLNCyLrKn_GaTgy_e0L9uEkmzwdsY4hNvCE_yQXBgQ=s114

By Comparison

BY COMPARISON

By comparison, it’s nothing—

just a strange articulation.

Interlocking ossein

involved in bifurcation

building bulwarks, bastions, buttresses and finding flaws in fortresses;

A travesty of parody,

where one form apes my amity.

It isn’t you—that much is true—

but all this mimicry won’t do.

I’ve machinated permutation:

swap ourselves in simulation.

Them for you and you with me—

what a handsome subtlety!

Fool me once, I’ll rue the ruse; trick me twice, I’ll pay my dues.

Bloodless bustle, luckless hustle,

make of this calamity

the grave so destined for this fuss;

the nave where dolts with blunderbuss

are quick to find fragility.

A Year

A YEAR

I slumbered in the summer, ducklings turned to swans.

I dreamt innocuous dreams, my love,

And now those dreams are gone.

I simmered in the autumn, when gem sparks limned the earth.

I blushed at terrible prospects, love;

Those prospects now lack mirth.

I churned all through the winter; ice thawed upon my thirst.

I watered tragic tales, my love,

And now those tales have burst.

I wept when spring skipped gaily by--I mourned the heart's defeat.

I trembled in my sorrows, love;

Those sorrows now complete.

Four seasons seem four hundred times

A thousand pains, my love.

For I now face forevermore

Without a place thereof.

https://twistedsifter.files.wordpress.com/2016/06/one-street-four-seasons-newark-nj-afatihozay-instagram.jpg?w=800&h=636

The Existential Skeleton (excerpt)

THE EXISTENTIAL SKELETON (excerpt)
Nobody made me a tombstone;

I guess that implies no one cares.

If nobody went to the trouble,

Does it mean I never was there?

How can I know I was living

If I can’t be sure that I died?

Does life after death even happen?

Cause I feel so empty inside.

I don’t know who I was,

So how can I know who to be?

My meaning in life is meaningless

Did anyone even love me?

Nobody made me a tombstone.

Wasn’t I somebody’s heir?

A nothing in death and a nothing in life;

I can’t help but feel it’s unfair.

When I left one world for another,

Did anyone shed a sad tear?

Purpose is purposeless; I’m just a pawn

In some cruel god’s game, I fear.

Fate, it eludes me

For no grave includes me.

If I ever lived—then why?

What might my epitaph

Now possibly read?

"He was some unremarkable guy."

In the Attic

IN THE ATTIC

and so pirouette the sunny flecks, so graceful floats the dust

on stuff and fragrance compressed in silence

sweet to the stomach, moment alone

dark world of wonder

hide in the seeking

sequined, the air tells no secrets

nor makes friend--you're on your own,  here.

gossamer spiders hush

tread trails in particles left by years

castles, courses, wee gardens of gray fur

panes of white, step into light

porcelain hands descend into jars, bars behind--deep all around. 

The Mother's Heart

THE MOTHER'S HEART

We move through a world in endless labor,

The pains of birth formidable.

Mortality’s our constant neighbor—

The mother’s heart comprehends.

A delicate disconnect pries at our days.

Implausible woe is commonplace.

All dance the harrowing ballet—

The mother’s heart comprehends.

Putative virtue alleviates fears:

Their children—our children—my child—myself.

Sight so unsighted, we persevere—

The mother’s heart comprehends.

The floods of this earth do rival the fire;

A blessing, our time is ephemeral.

Each man, a babe once, sinless sire—

The mother’s heart comprehends. 

Saint Nectan

SAINT NECTAN

Saint Nectan was the eldest

Of a twenty-four-child brood.

He fast became a hermit,

Lived his life under the rood.

For pigs, two cows was Nectan willed

And roamed bucolic lands,

Till sly purloiners dark one night

Removed them from his hands.

By turn of fate the men he found;

He preached to them God’s bread,

But lacking in propriety

They dethroned his holy head.

Off went the thieves to do more ill

While Nectan’s neck did bleed,

And were miracles never done, good friend,

His end would have been this deed.

But God’s old ways were far from dull

And so the good saint—he rose!

In hand he held the mane of his head

To carry wherever he chose.

Where did he choose, this grisly sight,

To lay himself to rest?

Back to the well where he once said

His prayers at God’s behest.

As drops of blood fell to the ground

Foxglove in poison grew.

Each step he took made flowery path,

And followers came, who knew.

Let’s not forget those wicked men

Who thought they’d done him in;

The one went mad, the other atoned

By burying good Nectan within.

Sealed

SEALED

Your story has already been told,

Through passages of speech,

In arenas void of flesh,

Under glass ceilings and peeping creatures,

Its words reverberating into nothing.

Crouching, silent as the stars

Pour crystalline light into

Pockets of water,

They sealed the lips that

Once spoke greatness.