Best Heretofore Poems
To count the ways, I dare to comprehend
such finite love defined in written line,
for quantity shall never find an end
to love that lets infinity define.
A Summer’s day, to love shall not compare,
though shines to bathe your beauty in its light,
and as it wanes, waits breathlessly to share
the passion of a sultry Summer’s night.
To laureates and bards of metaphor,
each scribbled phrase, I bid them credit due,
but all their words and phrases heretofore
can ne'er describe this love I have for you.
When words fall short and poetry departs,
love's silence fills the cockles of our hearts.
Another year has come - chillingly -
and more chillingly for me than in decades heretofore.
I watch it ranting from my window as I recall. . . .
The year already past had tugged me from those tame and toasty days
when I lay face up to sun
dreaming that my summer would never end.
It brought me to this winter when it withered up and died,
but half a century and more of memories
had fallen for me by now.
Like pretty crystal flakes they fell, drifting through my mind -
places, events and people.
Oh, those people I looked up to in my youth -
fallen as the snow!
How many pretty snow flakes have melted now away?
Only my memories of them remain. . .
memories now piled up like snowdrifts in my brain.
Yes, the newborn year has arrived.
Just one month old and already, it has lost its crawl.
This infant’s aging process parallels, on the larger scale,
that fleeting span of time known as life -
a time that all the living undergo.
The new year carries on (as must we all) to soon complete its cycle.
Let it bluster. Let it wail. Let it rattle at my door,
for soon enough, all signs of it will cease.
Written 2/12/11
Now used for 'A STRAND (1061)' Poetry Contest
I watch a golden sun slowly rise above the eastern sea and my thoughts naturally drift to her. I wonder what she is doing, and if she ever dreams of me.
A southern breeze gently caresses my skin and fills my lungs with salty sea air. The tide ebbs back and forth, relaxing me and at the same time stirring my curiosity. Does each incoming tide bring back the same water that ebbed away, or has it been renewed? And I wonder what it means to be truly born again
About twenty yards to my right a drifter rolls up his sleeping bag. His well-worn knapsack is stuffed with everything he owns in this life. I ponder: Has he ever been in love?
Ever felt warmth from the tiny hand of a child?
Ever beheld big brown orbs staring back at him whispering "I love you?"
For a moment our eyes lock. His are deep-set and steely blue, like the sea before me. Wrinkles are etched into his face from years of hard living, I guessed.
My thoughts once again turn inward. It is safe here on my side of the ocean. But have I really learned what it means to live, to swim in unchartered waters, to bathe in crystal streams heretofore hidden from my heart?
From a distance I espy the returning tide. Maybe I'll go out with the next. See where it takes me. Maybe, just maybe, I will learn how to swim for the first time,
again.
Melancholy thoughts
transport me across the sea
where the dream begins
* photo quote: "And so you see I have come to doubt all that I once held as true. I stand alone without beliefs, the only truth I know is you..." - Kathy's Song (Simon and Garfunkel)
As fiery beacons
Blaze
And cut through the
Night;
As restless sleep
Doth so tax and
Trouble me;
And I hang upon
A promise:
That my love
For thou
I did most fervently
Swear unto thee!
As icy comets roar
And sail against
The galactic tides,
Their streaming tails
Lingering upon a
Solar wind,
I will grasp
This one last chance...
To bare my soul
And chasten myself
From all my sins.
Then immortal wings
Will downwards sweep
From heavenly ramparts
Where divine Angels
Do so keep...
To gently raise me
To my feet,
And, softly brushing
The dust
From mine eyes,
Lift me high
To be seated down
Before the wise.
Whenceforth,
Hence so empowered,
Whilst slumbering
Fantasies
Once more take flight -
Unremitting and
Without respite:
When, passing through
Heavens doors...
To search you out
Across the sands of
Timeless shores.
Thus, finally, after
Stumbling
Across starry Aeons
Of an almost infinite age,
Throughout these
Many anguished trials
Of forlorn,
And seemingly,
Endlessly
Despairing days,
To overwhelmingly
Rediscover your
Presence:
Beholding your perfect
Form -
Suddenly and inextricably
Revealed
Before my wonder-struck
Gaze!
After enduring what feels
Like the damnation and
Curse of eternities
Countless years,
Now, heretofore:
How I shall cherish
And much adore...
This one true heart
Forever more.
The night is frosted glass.
Daylight’s clouds - restless like my love -
and scattered wildly heretofore -
somehow made a pact
to nimbly rearrange themselves.
Congealing in this chilling autumn eve -
translucent -
the clouds have blended in with dusk,
obliterating stars. . . and even shadows.
Luna, sad like me,
cannot transmit her moonlight
to cheer me.
Oh, to be again - bedeviled!
To see your unique come-hither smile;
to hear the sound of honey in your voice;
to feel that splendid tingle within me
as you shine your gorgeous eyes -
radiant upon me!
Where are you now, my love -
my sweet, alluring boy?
And where are the stars
that blazed for me within your eyes?
Where is the crystal nightfall
of my fondest dream?
Oh, to feel again. . . enraptured!
But not even the smallest gleam
of you remains.
And not even Goddess Moon
can penetrate
this deep abiding gloom.
The pale moon emerged from dark clouds, but I
cared not for its light or beauty it showed.
Grief overwhelmed me, yet I could not cry
though deep in my soul, my tears overflowed.
Oh Moon heretofore whose soft face was veiled:
Like me – had you been enshrouded by gloom?
I see over darkness you have prevailed,
yet here I still stand consumed by my doom.
My doom is in knowing true love has fled.
Beside my dear’s grave, I’ve no words to say.
With dark clouds I will be until I’m dead.
Unlike you, pale Moon, I wither away.
July 21, 2022
For Joseph May's One In Five 2 Poetry Contest
Used line #4 for inspiration: the pale moon emerged from dark clouds
The salt water
baubles washes
gently
upon the jetty sent
from lands distant.
Pushed by a hovering
yellow moon,
sometimes built into
thunderous waves
of hurricanes.
Change comes rapidly
and dangerously
as the sea meets
yesterday coming
back.
It speaks to me and
it does say,
I give no quarter
and furthermore
I ask
for none.
As I stare outward
at the placid waters
I feel heaviness
deep inside my
chest.
The sea has become
humanity to me,
With its powerful
and hushed rage,
not seen before.
Heretofore I have
been persuaded
by wanderlust to
skim the surface,
to walk on by time
without end,
miss nothing that
may be something.
I linger here.
The moon is playing
peek-a-boo,
reflection on the
water seems sad.
Stories are to be
told, perchance
to a much lesser
degree of now.
But
not yet.
Ink-black dark, I
cannot see;
even Luna appears
quite uneasy.
The peaceful lapping
of water
distresses me; I
don't know why.
Devouring soul?
So tranquil you
could hear a
tear drop, or a
salamander fart.
My nose detects an
exotic odor
Arabian sand carried
by wind.
Wind
words.
I squat on the rock
jetty,
look for ghosts;
probe my own.
My intimate séance
annoys
what I have kept
concealed..
I see what I see.
The serene sea is a
patient anomaly,
so serene I fear
there are things
unsaid.
The night bitter
black when moon
hides,
I sense an
oppressing evil
attributed
to dreams.
Artistry created with a hand comes in so many forms
I'm not always able to conform to considered norms
I've used #2 pencils when it was suggested I use a #4
Then again, I don't always do things to keep score
I've used crayons on pages while coloring with a child,
often traveling outside the lines on purpose, a bit wild,
but that's the rebellious side of me that I tend to condone
for I'm not one to be commanded like an airborne drone
I don't respond to lectures that try to confine my style
Establishing my own borders... blueprints not kept on file
The designs I'd used in poems and paintings, heretofore
are never repeated in new creations. That would be a bore
I write outside the margins and scratch words out with a pen
but on the keyboard, it's much easier to delete and then send
them to keep with pictures I'd consider painting in the future
I continually edit poetry and repaint scenes that need a suture
I'm open to the boundless beauty that nature holds in store
All anyone needs is the willingness to wander about and explore
I find incentive in spider webs before sunlight dries the dew,
and in prisms of wondrous things open-minded vision can accrue
Give me blank pages, stretched canvases, pen, paint and brush
Music brings out the artist within me, and I am never in a rush
to finish a poem being born, or a lighthouse I'm drawing on a cliff
but I am easily distracted by baking cookies with just one whiff
a doG meditation...
this is about what we call "pets"
about ownership..objectivity..
an anachronism now..?
the inner model of
consciousness-only
may provide a hint:
only consciousness Knows
not plants..not animals..not us..
that is a radical reversal
of our heretofore belief
that consciousness springs separately
from each compartment of life..
considering again:
only consciousness Knows
is aware..and is expressed in
every-thing..every-where..
this equality of Knowing
filters through our finiteness
our body and mind
and through our "pet" dog
and through the turtle at sea..
So.. we pause:
consciousness only..Knows
Let there be no shame in a struggle to the top
For everyone who is achieving is not being a fop,
But expending the effort to be the best they can
It means climbing further upward again and again.
Do not be jealous of those at the top of the list
For they had goals you may’ve, heretofore, missed,
Consider them excellent examples of fortitude
And do not upon their fine successes intrude.
Congratulate and encourage those on the ladder
Above or below you, it really doesn’t matter,
Everyone reaches the summit at his or her own pace
What’s really important is doing so with verve and grace.
Written December 1, 2021
One's poetic ability, yea willingness, to speak
Truth.
To stand, soul-naked, as it were...
Whilst your poet enemies stone you or avoid
you in the online public square.
To swim with the sharks, though thou
might be their delicious repast.
To be be happily avoided because you
don't follow the crowd.
You won't bow and scrape and sell your
soul nor your country out, no how!
In this battlefield of ideas, the small of
mind will shame you.
Brandish your sword of courage,in full
view!
A stalwart poem with three hundred reads and
comments, but two?
Shows that popularity trumps truth here,
So much so, I want to permanently vanish!
Or have 38,000 poets here to the famed,
"isle of Denial" be heretofore, banished!
~~~~~~
July 13, 2020
10:30 pm PST
Exploring regions unexplored heretofore
my body springs to attention like a rusty door…
O, that I had listened to Doctor Gore
I wouldn't be near this sore ...
For ‘There’s no known remedy
~ for the early middle-seventies’
Basketball stands for war or battle.
That's why I think about the players'
personalities, in my foxhole or squad.
Danny and Ben are fast and smart. Dan
especially can pass making him master
and commander. To defeat them as we did
is very satisfying. Ben's five year old son
is intelligent but distant. Disdains to answer
my question Why are you you?
But I'm not here
to catalogue the men's personalities.
I like them. But each of us has moved on
many times, when _______ suddenly died
the games went on with hardly a mention
and his name has since been forgotten.
But even this, absolute mortality
of not just our bodies but our names
and souls is not what I came
to talk about. Yesterday, between games,
I asked Joe how Molly his daughter likes
the high school. He mounted an impassioned
defense of reading as the indispensable skill
when I suggested math, the scientific method
and history are essential too.
Also between games
Bob diffidently asked why my kids are bald.
I was moved by the care he took to satisfy
his curiosity, concerned the subject might be
difficult. He's a political science teacher so
I took the opportunity to ask What ails
the republic? Of course I answered myself
wanting mostly to hear myself talk about Iraq
and how empire is self-correcting. For once I was amusing
I thought, treating the subject with a light touch
heretofore lacking.
But none of this is what I came to say.
A new guy, very big and strong, a
bulldozer under the boards with a good
outside shot if needed got into a dispute
with the other Bob who likes to tell people
what to do sometimes, about an offensive
foul Bob called which we almost never do.
The new guy said If you can't take it don't
play under the boards which is what I say
when I'm pissed and don't give a ****.
Bob said You've been pushing and shoving me
all day. I said He doesn't want to be
pushed and shoved which got a wry
smile out of Danny as I put the ball in play.
Surigao del Norte,
the province of attraction and tourism,
a light and wealth of the nation before me,
seed of freewill and liberty.
The perfume of the gregarious sea breeze,
the sweet scent of the cheerful environment,
the calmness and never-ending beauty of tourism,
with daring music of my dreams,
will surely amuse the lovely guests.
Crystal water and the white sand of beaches,
exotic and strange portrayal of caves,
boundless and verdant mangroves trees,
rich soil of nickel and gold,
beauty brings endless amusement,
a place to live.
Heretofore, with gentle wind,
with tenor music of birds,
with mild waves on the lips of the shore,
a breathtaking crack of dawn,
with the embrace of morning dew,
and the entirety, racing to say,
welcome and good day!
Excerpt from the book: Whisper of Life
Read more writings of Cesar @ http://www.cesargealogo.com
Recycled Wisdom Lost
by Odin Roark
How common to recycle today
bottle,
cardboard,
can,
or bubble wrap.
How rare the regard for pleas from
mind,
heart,
memory,
wishing also to amend anew.
How satisfying,
To arouse the sleeping heart,
thrusting its comfort-beat
upon new rhythms made aware,
ensuing musical notes of clarity
not yet upon the staff of boundaries,
affording dissonance where only
harmony's familiarity once reigned.
To revisit memory
offering bygone experience,
wiser tools of perception,
scrambling dog-eared indexes
cross-referencing fact and fabrication,
allowing waste to fall free,
encouraging truth to persevere.
To sort through mind's many strategies,
discounting some,
discarding others,
dismantling exhausted cogs that
advance little the unknown begging at the door.
Such is…
To complete one's desire to remain conscious,
allowing distinction for that worth rebirthing
from chaff heretofore but a friction urging resolve.
How obvious to some:
the take-to-the-curb days of consciousness.
How misunderstood by others:
the smothering effect of effort
to treat excess destined as garbage.
How aware
those who
like the winged flights on high
weave today's nest
from yesterday's exhausted remnants,
knowing well the destiny of permanence
is but to replant where burnt forests once thrived.
And yet…
We often think recycling is confined to aluminum,
plastics, glass and other fabrications of man’s intellect,
but what of...