He calls me over from the park bench:
"Wanna see something kid"?
It lolls from his open fly
partly erect.
As I stare, it rears
as if to threaten the entire city
with a bold cyclopean gaze. A monster
only Superman (my alter-ego),
could battle against.
"I’m telling mum", I fling over my shoulder,
as I run,
my heroic-powers forgotten.
Behind me -
a villain's brazen laugh.
In front of me –
a troubled puberty.
Step into splintered sunlight
broken beams flash
across bare, silhouetted flesh.
Above
Father-Sun forever scintillates,
a deep and ancient ember,
giving ceaselessly to all
wanting nothing in return.
The trees, they dance
in verdant splendor,
leaning lazily, they sigh
with utter contentment.
Their leaves, a chorus
of flapping green,
each one moving to its own rhythm,
closely listening to the wind sing.
White stars illuminate my eyes
and echo through my soul.
Vibrations shudder down my spine,
utterly with rapture so
cosmic and cyclopean,
spinning through the wheel-vortex
of my open amethyst crown.
And with sweet natural bliss, at last,
under holy bodhi tree of life --
copper-domed and ancient,
grown hoary and sere
through countless millennia --
my buddha-mind will yet arise,
through the heavens,
past the skies,
and slowly gaze
with wisdom eyes
upon the all-expansive Whole.
This worldly plane is just a school,
a dream where all is mind.
Be present, aware, and most of all,
compassionate and kind.
For everything in this world is one,
the Universe is inside us.
If pure of heart, we seek our truth,
the Universe shall guide us
She said she loved my mind;
for an instant I became 31 and handsome,
then the crystal disco ball cycled once more,
it flashed before me as a picture of Dorian Gray,
his face melting.
The cut diamond has far less facets than a mind,
if you love a mind you must accept
its closeted secrets, its dark bottomless pits,
then forgive the light for being so bright
a conjuring incandescence
that makes the mind’s appearance featureless.
Where the mind wanders the brain must stubble after
stupidly blinking its cyclopean eye.
This love that she has for the mind - she must be a poet,
for the mind is not a Kingdom built in any known landscape.
One mind with all its infinite guises
jumps instantly into any form, anybody.
The end of the mind is its beginning,
for in that measureless moment
the mind reveals one last face,
one just born, a nativity burning bright,
then like a birds outstretched wings
it flies to the love it always sought.
He calls me over to the park bench:
Wanna see something?
It lolls from his open fly
partly erect. The dark ,
almost silvery in its salt and pepper
rookery.
Your willies come out Mr.!
As I stare, it rears
as if to threaten the entire city
with a bold cyclopean gaze. A monster
only Superman (my other half),
could battle against.
I’m telling mum, I fling over my shoulder,
as I run,
all my heroic-powers gone.
An amber moon rises...
Hanging at the Edge of the World.
Against that oily old black sky;
Heaven's Infinite Stage.
Its Grace is old and precise.
A curious, hue of Cyclopean pyres,
slicing the Waning Orb, high!
It emerges to start the Ancient Night.
A cycle as old and eternal as Time.
As inevitable as Death.
As the empty vault of heaven is illuminated
by the amber moon of winter's Icy Eminence
it waltz's the seas of Dreams. Precise!
Darkness sparkles with the sliver of the sun's reflection...
All are awash on celestial seas,
sparkling crystal waves crash on brilliant shores.
On Heaven's Infinite stage
an amber moon reaches its zenith...
At the edge of
Heaven's Eternal Black Sea!
A pair of forceps the size of food tongs
turned off one light in my two room watch tower.
In those days Grizzly bears were called eye surgeons.
I did not see half the world slip away
over my left shoulder.
A cyclopean tunnel forgot it was ever
able to swivel eyeballs and see around
the edges of a circle.
It’s all fish-eyes under an arched bridge now.
As long as a telescope is applied to the correct frontal lobe
my bullet-shaped sight can punch holes through perception
just as well as any less precise cannonball.
Both Bach and Handel went blind under the helping hands
of one surgeon who’s name history has long forgot.
Even though their eyes were dimming
their music shone all the brighter.
Poetry is its own on-man-band,
it makes its own music even in the darkest cave.
Lo, a cyclopean ready to devour;
Lo, a silver-tongued serpent hissing while crossing;
Lo, a mysterious land full of creatures;
Lo, a lupine howling so frightening;
Lo a phoenix from oblivion has risen again;
Nemesis a punisher of evildoers has come;
Lo, I wake up and its a dream.
effervescent swirling clouds
in turquoise summer skies
float like flocks of fair sheeps
in far away exuberant fields
beneath are cyclopean cypresses
touching celestial bosom
in deep periwinkle and corn flower
whilst wheat fields
are golden fleece
waltzing with the west wind
oh, how can I forget
the paradisiacal poppies
sitting placidly along the wayside
like your eyes glisten
in your pensive mood
unaware of my presence
9 March 2021
Notes:A Wheatfield with Cypresses is any of three similar 1889 oil paintings by Vincent van Gogh, as part of his wheat field series. All were exhibited at the Saint-Paul-de-Mausole mental asylum at Saint-Rémy near Arles, France, where Van Gogh was voluntarily a patient from May 1889 to May 1890. The works were inspired by the view from the window at the asylum towards the Alpilles mountains.(Photo and info credits to Wikipedia)
All Yours (March 22) Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand
1st place
Oh LORD,
Give me the force to withstand the
Cyclopean waves of human hypocrisy and malice.
Make me strong as to endure the suffering inflicted
By the knives of hatred and inconsideration which
Constantly pierce my heart, so as not to seek revenge
But only affection.
And finally, oh LORD, let your divine love pass
Through my bleeding wounds to heal them in
Such a degree as in the place where insensitive people
Wanted to plant the malevolent seed of vice,
Your glorious tree of virtue, to flourish instead.
Amen!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
17 July 2020
How bright and jovial is the summer sun
Promising life and fertility
How different the October one
Dealing death and aridity
No longer do we espy a golden glow
Now there is but a dark blood red orb hanging low
Cyclopean with its brooding ,glowering glare
Sinister in its Saturnine stare
It is but the harbinger of a deathly gloom
There to lead Persephone down to her Plutonian tomb
There she will,with Demeter's reluctant assent,stay
Until the shoots of spring come out to play.
...for Hart Crane
Halls of steel and concrete,
massive Cyclopean towers
of immodesty where moguls
bask in gross extravagance.
Children in neglect,
souls with haggard faces,
ekeing out their livelihoods
with hopes and modest means.
Measures of prosperity;
the rich man pads his pockets while
the poor man haunts his tenement,
struggling to smile.
Despairing sailors
seek succour beneath your warm
cyclopean gaze
Can you comprehend the surveillance?
Recognize the Cyclopean that is manipulation
Suffer as fingertips osculate the doll
Your existence in cadence with its animation
Answers painted upon the walls of elucidation
Yet enveloped within a sadistic façade
If only mortification was your apparatus
Feasible would be your liberation
To fracture your damnation of kismet
Your oblivious disposition maintains insurance
Of my authentic ipseity concealment
Penetration of veracity remains abeyant
You confine my chassis to a line
An unhindered, forward faced, entity
Blasphemy, impudence, and your curse
Liquescent, manumitted, and your marquis
Flashbacks of lifetimes past, occurred moments ago
Destiny of a soul, iota of my jest
Your obstinate and averse species
Enslaved to stigmas of my amusement
My merited eponyms you endow to others
Fate, karma, spirit, soul mate, life and death
All components, all puppets in my phenomenon
For I am the Master Puppeteer, I am Time
PRAYER II
Oh LORD, give me the force to withstand the
Cyclopean waves of human hypocrisy and malice.
Make me strong as to endure the suffering inflicted
By the knives of hatred and inconsideration
Which
Constantly pierce my heart, so as not to seek revenge
But only to demonstrate affection,
And finally, oh, LORD, let your divine love
Pass through my bleeding wounds and heal them in
Such a degree as,
In a place where insensitive people wished to
Plant the malevolent seed of vice,
Your glorious tree of virtue flourishes instead.
Amen!
© Demetrios Trifiatis
Halls of steel and concrete,
massive Cyclopean towers
of immodesty where moguls
bask in gross extravagance.
Children in neglect,
souls with haggard faces,
ekeing out their livelihoods
with hopes and modest means.
Versions of prosperity;
the rich man pads his pockets while
the poor man haunts his tenement,
struggling to smile.
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