Best Sublunary Poems
A tale of meraki
Overcome by the burden she sat teary eyed
Holding closely her two little boys by her side
Immersed in sorrow they had endlessly cried
After her loving husband had suddenly died.
Soaring from her seat elated with newfound joy,
Making herself a promise with an assured ploy,
She picked up her two boys holding them high
Shedding ambivalence boldly with assertive sigh.
Dedicating bravely to parenting with rigor,
Fighting ingress of despair with almighty vigor,
She crushed hindrances powered by love alone,
Aiming meraki resolutely to reach her throne.
As the boys grew older she faced new struggle
With eagle-eyes she kept them out of trouble,
Enamored in plans for sending them to college,
Guiding them to yearn for power of knowledge.
Not retreating when incurable illness struck,
Refusing to surrender to randomness of luck,
Amid doctor's visits she kept working at her job
As if nothing sublunary would cause her to stop.
Her kids grew up to be intelligent young men
Finding success in college with power of pen,
Earning scholarships for duration of all terms,
Getting job offers from many reputable firms.
Having reached destination of her ardent trip
She embraced her kids with a joyous firm grip,
Longing to hold fervently till they reach their prime,
Knowing well she'll be dead in a very short time.
December 15, 2017
Meraki
Sponsor: Silent One
Placed 2nd
Points Above and Below the Line
(Enea Canonises Catherine of Siena)
It's not a thing we go for any more,
that hierarchy malarkey, but in fact
the medieval mind set mega store
by stairs and ladders. All things interact,
and therefore can be neatly classified.
(There's endless fun in drawing up these lists!)
The lowest rung is "is", all pride aside:
a rock is "est", because it just exists.
Your jellyfish can breathe and reproduce,
so up we go: it wins a badge named "vivit".
An antelope can feel, get scared, hang loose,
so "sentit" is the title we can give it.
So living, then, is better than existing,
and feeling better still. Take Esther Blodgett.
She's capable of pouting, outing, twisting --
so humans come out tops again, with "cogit".
So all these so's, I hear you say: so what?
Well, what if humans almost reach "divine"?
Suppose there's something Esther Blodgett's got
that takes her over life's Dividing Line?
"Sublunary" means "underneath the moon".
"Diurnal" means "divided, night and day".
(Now, please don't chafe: the point is coming soon.)
Below the line means "subject to decay".
The moon was key for medieval man,
because it marked the mortal azimuth --
Above, eternal, there since time began:
below, corrupt, unwholesome, marked for death.
And now we come to Pius, making saints.
There's Catherine of Siena, looking flirty:
They must have used an awesome box of paints -
The chick had been a corpse since thirteen-thirty.
Above, the Pope, the Cardinals and Kate.
Below, the groundlings watching it go down.
Above, all spirit, high, inviolate:
below, all bulging groin and earthy brown.
If Kate was Sienese, that's nepotism?
Why ain't he canonizing Capistrano?
It's all to do with black and brown and schism.
Dominicans are gold, the others guano.
Franciscans are Heart,
Dominicans are Brain.
Franciscans use Love,
Dominicans use Pain.
Franciscans are Italy,
Dominicans are Spain.
taking wing with the dawn,
of a new horizon,
we fix our gaze,
above the masquerade,
of near and dear,
beyond sublunary existence,
past the face of fear,
into the presence of awe,
and the source of wonder,
(Thou art)
the seal,
of strength unbidden,
the sign of promise,
my pole star revealed,
by the cover of night,
a candle sojourning,
in the absence of light,
see the sections conical,
framed in windows convex,
each iris a prism,
translating the cryptic,
language of creation,
manifesting the manifold,
embers of your spirit,
in silence awaiting,
the breathe which is,
light and life,
our hearts entwined,
in vibration sympathetic,
two sentient instruments,
woven in harmony,
you are a blessing bestowed,
the promise of grace,
in solace unceasing,
granted without merit,
home is enclosed,
within your presence,
the fellowship of your eyes,
to commune with your mind,
is my desire,
searching the constellations,
for Your subtexts,
arms linked inseparable,
in silent determination,
with faces set,
no trial exists,
which may cast down,
our countenance,
like the shadows,
of the setting sun,
which beg perspective,
proportion, my “little soul”,
tethered to the earth,
with the tips of toes,
you are the picture
of beauty conceived,
by the master artist,
(Thou art)
my hope made evident,
object of my adoration,
i am yours alone,
your mark, indelible
Open now your mindful murmured undertones,
Your whispered washing watery whisking words,
Your sensitive sensory sensual sentient moonstones,
Your rippling roving river rapid songbirds.
Open now your stargaze spectral drifting dreams,
Your view of the darkest soundless vacuum space,
Your fleeting teleport outside of space-time streams,
Your clearest atoms, the first angels with no trace.
Open now your earliest breaths from the start,
Your trajectory then across the heaven’s girth,
Your recorded path shapes and sizes your heart,
Your sublunary gushing leaves behind your dearth.
You’re unsure what lurks beyond this flash of seeing.
Karmic lessons might await you for your next being.
A shimmer from
Beyond, sparkles in the
Clear, but yet
Dark sky
Everyone's admiration
Fills their minds in awe.
Gangs are on pause, and
Hate appears to not exist.
Is this the end? Or
Just a dream.
Knowing isn't possible, and
Living isn't definite.
Men are crying and
Nobody feels safe. The
Ozone becomes visible and
People flee back inside.
Questions are numerous as
Rays shine onto the surface.
Somebody save the Earth, or
Take my life instead. People hide
Underground and they feel
Voided by God.
With this, a sense of
Xenophobia comes upon everyone.
Your life flashes before you, and
Zero of you survive
On this blessed shore,
every gate opens wide around sunset and dawn,
and the foreigners flow in...like waves rolling along;
all movements and images sketched
in linear prospective as if reality didn't exist,
permitting subsistence not to evade
from the sublunary harbor draped in aqua suede.
Many explorers from the Old Word
paid her a visit on slow vessels loaded with necessities,
in the hope of finding precious stones and gold;
and Columbus succeeded in his quest,
and all of these he brought back...
a new frontier was discovered and millions
flocked to these friendly shores with empty pockets,
but with dreams that would have made that young nation great.
On this blessed shore,
all are welcome if their character is good,
and the desire to get wealthy, with persistent sacrifice,
is reflected in their undisputed honesty and endurance;
Emma Lazarus wrote of these immigrants in her immortal sonnet,
which the wretched, the impoverished and the persecuted cannot ignore...
Read it again, doesn't it ask your libertarian souls to devour it more?
On this blessed shore,
peace dwells at a tremendous cost,
soldiers have gone to foreign lands to fight,
so that it may never lose its God-given right...
to spread it beyond its bounderies for all nations to admire;
and the proud citizens sing their national anthem to enhance its worth...
how can a Nation, guided and protected by God, not rejoice in its freedom?
Copyright 2009 by Andrew Crisci
My affliction with the moon so saturates
With mindful apparition that can be,
Sublunary to the measurement it creates
Phenomenal is the intrigue, extraordinary!
I countenance with patience on this night,
The crescent’s intuition is with haste
Now luminary, the stupor blocks the light,
To opaque further still, Oh what a waste!
I stumble through the gaze of deep lament
Forbidden by the natural depths, disguise,
As if more agonized, this wet cement,
Substance known to man as patience-wise.
While absence of my being there surrounds
The way the new moon has to be prepared,
For anything mechanical, this compounds
A means of being invisible or scared.
Horizons’ shallow lower, the moon has gone
Refined to constant thought, tomorrows plan,
It seems without the charm this was withdrawn
And nothing worse than waiting with this man.
It seems the erect hope with utmost pain,
Can future writes describe the poet, thee
Whose patience has been worn to once again.
Notorious, that it wasn’t poetry.
Of the orb I speak in awe
Of the Moon with its slender claw
Finite in size, elysian in presence, there to watch
Crop the doubt, step up a notch
As is he - facile princeps - a sublunary prince,
Devout and intense ever since
The days of deportation from Attica of North
In the downtown Abaddon he came forth
To denounce neither world in order to live
Only in you could he ever believe.
Yet the stigmata pierced the skin
Grafted the soul infinitely thin
Battles abated but the burden rose
From the nadir of the pith to foreclose
Every chamber of every pore
And then, disappeared into nevermore.
In the dreams I see time and again
A stoic oak tree turned into a cane
An untamed ocean of tenacious fire
Almost silent voices of desire
Composed while whispering into his ear
Go back to Attica of North
Reset in Abaddon where he came forth.
file behind she with the the diamond soles,
drown in the rays of a flowing gown:a star leads the
camels down the dunes:tramp, wanderer,serf.
coals that fuel fire:chick and hen,small shrub and big tree,
lost in a gown:nameless,shrunk.
thats when they ask you"why"?or"live this way".
the vines and trendils are climbing,creeping around,
its a stair, ladder around the green stalk.
the queen were's those costomised clothes,gown and crown and
sits on the throne,above,undisputed.
sure many attires we know:flesh,fur,me and you!!!
i remember i was taught to climb through a stair,ladder
but as i look into the sublunary,moon sun star
i still think otherwise.
Just out of curiosity,
The honey tone hummingbird
Pierced the blue-sky door,
As the sublunary creatures
Perform the sacred moon dance
Dear hummingbird, what is your
Query or leave us asunder?