I have been deceived all this while,
By all the angels cloaked in a dear disguise.
'Follow the way of light, my child, ' they all cooed,
For they knew too well I was never shrewd.
Off I went, probing for those lights,
Something to put an end to my wakeful nights.
But manipulation, oh my dear,
Sounds sweeter when it is feared.
I never found those lights, I never did indeed,
In the cruel footpaths of naivety and those angels' deeds.
All I ever found was a world so shadowy,
Lit up with lights that glow darkly.
Lost in reflection
I dream
of drowning in different dimensions.
I can stare at the dark shadows
but never take my eyes from the page.
Is this how I should be
With so much beauty around?
I drift without direction
no impulsion and yet
in reflection I can be lost
and see the reflection of dark shadows
while I drown in different dimensions.
A dark moon, one still seen,
as darkened glimmers, in a shadowy sheen.
Is it moonlight we see, or a familiar face,
now lost, struggling through,
a cloud cover of memory?
Whatever the sky is in us,
we see that sky reflected in the outer.
The space within is the space without.
Look again at that ghostly moon,
perhaps you will meet yourself,
looking for you.
Through the
Glass darkly..
An oldie
But goodie..
The glass
Is not dark
Or light
There is
No glass at all..
There is a
Story starring
A character
Believing
She is
Waiting for
The dawn...
Europe won't survive a cold winter
Israel's and Saudi's ties to us grow thinner
Latin America now under communism's spell
Iran, India, Turkey among Russia's clientele
Mr. Putin's grand strategy now nearly in place
Come say a prayer for the human race
Ukraine can't hold out forever
After that, watch Vladimir pull his levers
Either the United States grows a spine
Or soon on potatoes and cheap vodka we dine
~ Bone up on your Russian, Comrades! ~
Poets believe
they were born out of time,
each era too early, too late,
out of rhyme
Creations main doctrine
for those so inclined
connects what’s unspoken
—to a far greater mind
(Dreamsleep: December, 2021)
The sun has risen bright and cold.
December shines. The roads glisten with frost.
A bright sky flares, makes all stare into sheets of light,
Now opaque, now a glaring dazzle.,
the light steals our sight for want of any shaded defining.
There is glory in the air
but also a perilous power that blinds.
Many cannot look but must watch their steps,
they shuffle along groping for handholds in the sparking air.
Some search for a dark glass to see through,
other's secretly know that they are not even close to seeing
the Mind that looks through them.
Falling through pompous poems, spiraling
Slippery sinking, rhyming rolling
In down directions, foreign for me
Cascading in chalkboard screechy sounds
Hanging by nails that can catch and clasp
Clinging to hollow hopes once grasped
Sliding sorrows, long lost dreams dashed
Descending dusty thoughts that propel
Nothing now left of me, you can tell
The time glass
The morning takes a longer time awakening
the sun is hesitant hides in the east before showing its might.
The wind is blowing low at the entrance
it tires me out breathing becomes laborious.
I made dinner myself my wife has gone to the hospital to see
if her brother is well enough to live with us, if not we have
to send him to a place for those chronically ill.
I remember when my mother was no longer able to cope
we sent her to a home, she hated it, and in despair stopped eating.
We thought we were doing good, but we only did what was expedient for us.
I regret this she could live longer at her own home with
with a helper coming in once a day, my mother was not that
helpless she could make her coffee in the morning
and boil an egg, it was her untidiness people reacted against
books and magazines were cluttering up the home.
She liked her self rolled cigarettes and brandy which offended
the righteous.
My sin was I should have spoken up but sided with the many
who thought what was best for her.
Through a Glass, Darkly
This first translation of an unwritten poem
By Jorge Luis Borges stands against
Invisible Spanish on the left-hand page
Sadly imperfect Anglo-Saxon reflex
Of pure anticipation fine suspension
Clear aperture though when this blurred mimesis
Of vision is erased the parable
Of vision will emerge like messages
We coded into lemon-juice as children
And held to candles where brown letters forming
Were artless alchemy but then these lines
That honour him who read in dark the volumes
Of an infinite library who will be writing
When his loved hourglass turns again to sand.
John Lingard
Sydney
Nova Scotia
2020
Through the keyhole darkly,
he could now remember his name
Through the keyhole darkly,
his medicine kicked in once again
Through the keyhole darkly,
he knew his daughter by her face
Through the keyhole darkly,
he was now back home in his space
Through the keyhole darkly,
his dog was closely by his side
Through the keyhole darkly,
his eyes though saddened, opened wide
Through the keyhole darkly,
her voice unwrapped a precious gift
Through the keyhole darkly
a love once anchored, set adrift
Through the keyhole darkly,
he felt the light begin to dim
Through the keyhole darkly
his markers fade, his reference thin
Through the keyhole darkly
the killer thief arrives once more
Through the keyhole darkly
all loss of self—a closing door
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2016)
Through the keyhole darkly,
he could now remember his name
Through the keyhole darkly,
his medicine kicked in once again
Through the keyhole darkly,
he knew his daughter by her face
Through the keyhole darkly,
he was now back home in his space
Through the keyhole darkly,
his dog was closely by his side
Through the keyhole darkly,
his eyes though saddened, opened wide
Through the keyhole darkly,
her voice unwrapped a precious gift
Through the keyhole darkly
a love once anchored, set adrift
Through the keyhole darkly,
he felt the light begin to dim
Through the keyhole darkly
his markers fade, his reference thin
Through the keyhole darkly
the killer thief arrives once more
Through the keyhole darkly
all loss of self—a closing door
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2016)
Darkness and I have become allies,
affinity by association's shadowed prayer
spoken of the same kindred language,
consanguinity in our devout appeal
of blackening night's smoky exposure,
like a coke whore I obligingly snort it
doomed to partake in a dreadful flight
upon an impeding raven's blighted sojourn
midway extravagances of destructive somber ruins,
obscurity's sulphurous gloom of unsung melodies
surrendered in silence 'midst dusky moonlit spirits
Through the keyhole darkly,
he could now remember his name
Through the keyhole darkly,
his medicine kicked in once again
Through the keyhole darkly,
he knew his daughter by her face
Through the keyhole darkly,
he was back home in his space
Through the keyhole darkly,
his dog was closely by his side
Through the keyhole darkly,
his eyes though saddened, opened wide
Through the keyhole darkly,
her voice unwrapped the precious gift
Through the keyhole darkly,
a love once anchored, set adrift
Through the keyhole darkly,
he felt the light begin to dim
Through the keyhole darkly,
his markers fade, his reference thin
Through the keyhole darkly,
the killer thief arrives once more
Through the keyhole darkly,
all loss of self—a closing door
(Villanova Pennsylvania: March, 2016)
The poetess walks along a darkened hallway
Listening for the answers in the night
Her heart contained behind a glass doorway
She sees her heart pulsating with white light
Pounding on the opaque glass she screams
listening for the answers in the night
Behind this door imprisoned are her dreams
Heart on a plate waiting to be devoured
pounding on the opaque glass she screams
Some people call this the witching hour
Creatures of the night begin their feast
Heart on a plate waiting to be devoured
Her heart absorbs the energy from the beasts
Creatures of the night no longer feast
The poetess walks along a darkened hallway
Her heart contained behind a glass doorway
July 12/2013
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