Best Intimation Poems
The diverse beauty,
converging into the most
beautiful artform...
A dusty sun on a
dusty trail,
almost sundown,
in the middle of Summer.
The west wind brings
intimation of fog
to eat into the
the sleepy heat of the day.
We are on the cusp
of day and night.
My front side is warm,
my backside is not.
Fat dog and I
sit by the stream
which grows louder with
each darkening moment.
The voices on the trail above
grow fainter as I close my eyes
and see through eyelids only
the deepening reds of the setting sun.
Breathing slows, and the rubies
that are my eyes burn crimson.
They are all I am,
ready to catch a night breeze,
and follow the sun.
I know now
what it is
to know
the beginning
of the end.
Tiny misshapen meringues, puffs of cloud, float
Like lacework across the green and brown land
Far beneath. In the distance, they are a little
Bigger, yet still not the towering fortresses of home;
And the snaking roads, mostly dirt this far from city
Or town, can be followed from horizon to horizon.
At every intersection there is a cluster of houses
Tin roofs sparkling in the bright sunlight, with more
Strung along the roads, a twinkling necklace of homes.
The ochre earth is patch-worked into squares and
Rectangles, with seams of dark green; each bead
In the necklace of homes stands guard over
Enough for one family to manage, one generation
To another.
My imagination takes me down, down into that
Foreign land, into a world ruled by the rhythms
Of the seasons, planting, growing, harvesting; and a
Rare journey to a greater world to sell and buy.
I see the unrolling of years, with good harvests,
And bad. Children come and grow into the same
Rhythm, broken only to move further along the road.
Yet, inexorably, in the distance of my mind, the
Rhythm stops, a pause as a father takes his leave,
And a son begins the pattern of a new passage
Of seasons, each not unlike the one before.
It is the great breathing of the world; inhale,
Pause, exhale, Nature’s unconscious beat.
And I feel fear.
There is no natural rhythm in my life, no
Ritual of harvest home to count out the
Compass of my days. Here is where I am,
Not a place of dirt with familiar smell after
Rain; or tree that grows with me, each ring
Sounding the passing parade of years.
My world has not the sameness and comforting
Familiarity of a few rectangles of fertile land.
My horizon is the other side of the world, not
The line of distant hills, that I have been to but once.
I look down from my swift journey, continent to
Continent, and in my imaginings, I see that I too
Am one breathing of the world, as the farmer below.
And my fear is not of death, but of not living.
Intimation of beyond
The attraction of the twilight firmament in a hazy stream,
invited me to ponder on the meadows of this timeless esteem.
Where this rotating light is a constant reflection by global sight,
apparel of celestial confinement in each moment of light.
Like the remembering and freshness of a dream,
observing the lights of heaven in this theme.
Only the utterance of time comes with grief, beautiful and fair,
while the frequency of timelessness has no promise to bare.
Echoes of images in constant seasons revealing our celestial infancy,
shades of the prison body shape shifting in this intimacy.
But behold in this light and observe how it flows,
it is the dream who daily furthers from the east and grows.
Natures priest must travel by visions splendid,
the dream makers way intended.
Time perceived will die away,
fading more and more to the light in centuries of a day.
Earth enjoys her spherical lap in celestial union kind,
unconditioned, forgiving and compassioned shined.
The ultimate mother nursing all she can maintain,
perpetual benediction simple and plain.
It seems so bare, still cold, unaware of the scent of the rose.
I’ll take a whiff of plastic stem, the thorns pretend, petals don’t fall.
I drop the imitation at the brushing of soft sentiment.
M-emories
A-ctually
R-emind
I-ndividuals
O-n
A-ll
S-ubstances
U-nder
N-eural
C-ommand,
I-ncluding
O-bscure
N-uances
©bfa052025
Monocrostic (Birthday of Mario F. Asuncion)