Long Portends Poems
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In the hollowed hush of heaven the whisper of a soul
and in the lit up room of stars an angel's karmic face
Two feathered wings aloft deliverance her goal
while one is seized on earth, the other portal graced
An otiose moon assembled a duty of the night
shadows of the 5th dimension casting in the light
prying dreams of splendor identity of life
immortal as the sun her beauty, sharp as knife
Relinquishing the feel of metal grates and pain
she soon portends her destiny before she goes insane
we need to catch that train she whispers in her ear
and suddenly she's up floating without fear
In the hollowed hush of heaven, an angel talks to God
while a stretcher is removed, the sky turns white to chalk
two feathers wings of might she doesn't need a prod
volte faced attuned and free she flies, to new EPOC.
Prayer talks
reflective love passion
Meditation walks
responsive life pleasure
Prayer is meditation
as cognitive life images intuitive love
Sometimes reduced to words
attempting to define
purposeful reality
Sometimes induced without awkward words
refining organic life's creation
of meaningful relationships
Reforming
disorganizing death's abortion
of meaningless non-relationship.
Reducing inductive meditations
to produce deductive reflections
may lead to seductive mystic paradox
Redacting
distracting
retraction
The silent Muse
may deeply feel
desecrating death's inevitable cause
remains organic life
While the prayerful Sage
may profoundly believe
organic life's unavoidable effect
portends desecrating death.
Life's absence
does not always provoke beating hearts
to grow fonder
Yet love's presence
is always necessary,
and yet insufficient,
to avoid life's organic losses.
Natural life's spiritual love
feels like something healthier
than unnatural death's desecrating lovelessness.
If "lovelessness" is not a proper prayerful word,
could this be because loveless meditations
remain so relentlessly still
abortively unspoken,
Earth life's integrity denied?
Sage prayers acknowledge personal
and environmental
trauma
causing disturbingly dissonant effects
while
Meditating muses recognize longer-term personal
and climate-aborting political
silencing systems
of deadly desecrating disgrace.
So too,
we may sagely anticipate personal redemptive
blessed events
and also amusing longer-term environmental
and deeper bred political
salvific climate wealth systems
loving sacred living grace.
How wakes the Dream
When the dawn breaks?
The distant crow,
The vestige o’ertakes;
Fields of green and fertile row—
The sounds of the city o’erthro’
The Dream flitters toward the window
Dissolving in sparkles of light,
Round the curtain’s glow.
What the day portends, we should not know,
We make brave ourselves and off we go.
To fight the fight, to sleep another night,
And dream a Dream of soft glowing sunlight,
The field we tend of our own will, and might
And the quaint little home and puffing chimney white.
Be still Dream and let me hold thee,
And behold a life that was meant for me,
For when I wake thou shalt flutter away
Midst the noises of another moiling day.
A private party I did throw for dignitary friends
I served wieners in a can with little toothpick jabs
It was Victor who did name me, inside his little lab
calling me his Frankenstein, as the name portends
When I sidestepped to and fro with a shuffle shoe
they roared like Leaders running out of hoo ba loo
they talked in circles rings and peels, "legal Time"
clawing at their mixes like greedy Serpentines
I joined the navy suits with ties as straight as God
self contained in secret, they never knew my crime
they called me awful names, a horrid selfish clod
but when my mask came off, all they did was nod
One by one I wooed them, with my monster talk
vigilant and bright at the caucus party romp
syrupy and cool with a gait upon my walk
I devoured everyone, including Donald Trump.
August 21, 2021
That first lone leaf twirling slowly to the ground
The first casualty in the war of this season.
One swallow does not a summer make
That one leaf shows what is to come.
Soon it will joined by so many of its comrades
Victims of the insidious sniper of the fall.
The scalpel of the East wind cuts through
The softness summer supplied.
Flowers fading, the absence of bird song
Both signalling the entombment on the way.
Hills cleanly etched against a pale blue sky
Coldly carved in the brittle brightness
Sunlight with all the warmth of a stepmother's smile
Draining the goodness of the moment
The chill of decay portends death
In that illusory cheating glint
Skeletal trees, bare fields, lowering skies
Icy frost and thick blankets of snow.
Some will not live to witness
The ritual of resurrection
But come it will
The earth shaking off its shroud
Then there will peep out
The shy green shoots
Prelude to the glories and glamour of summer
With its heady scents, rich colours and bright song.
This yearly drama plays out its four acts
To let all know everything has its season.
Depending upon where you start
It can be comedy, tragedy or farce
The sun in its melancholy phase
dazed swirls, sun dial spinning
Pale moon but a mere shadow
empty ball, psychedelic haze
Into the bleary copse I tread
for a twilight detox of sorts
nerves on end, psyche suspends
light with shadows, a disco portends
Blipping pulses of light filter down
the pin pricks cause vertigo,
as disoriented interloper, stagger
through the bifurcated maze
Bristling limbs tap their snare drums
dissonant rhythms, arrhythmia creeps
swaying arms shroud every move
Damocles' sword swaggers o'er my head
The ground's tangled web straddles
my feet; jagged stumps, fibrous roots,
slippery Lichens harrow each quaking step
the seismic swell rises to my shaken core
An eerie wind serenades my imagination
grainy outlines appear in the distance
wispy figments dance in the shadows
above, silted holograms prance through trees
Picking up the pace, now double time
my lagging adrenaline to prime
shedding my sensory shield
my naked soul conquers the tempest
I’ve brewed so many potions still you are
I’ve made elixirs from hydrogen to quiet you
Nothing I do is a cure for my lonesome electron
We all have a voice spinning around in our heads
Are yours as loud as a hungry child unquelled?
Are yours like a steel fork dragging on glass?
Silhouettes of thoughts ready to gnash
You are resistant to my entreaties to stop
Noises should retreat to the background
Mine craves the foreground with monster wails
My voice hates crowds and pounces when alone
I am a captive company trashing our home
No amount of lithium will quiet your voice
No lurasidone will quiet your psychosis
Till death do us part we thrashing for release
There was a time when you and I were one
Somewhere in my youth, your evil entered me
You were thrown into the closet with my childhood
Now I’m old the hinges have rusted
The locked door has been clawed to death
I feel your evil talons gnashing a way out
As a scarred door portends, we want freedom
Do I bring out my whip or feed you treats?
Do I show Heisenberg’s theory of uncertainty?
When my spirit is low, it welcomes me home
I welcome evil, but the tiger invites me in
It asks me to enter, but I open an empty sack
Evil comes like a kitten to its father and enters
It calls itself Pygmalion asking me to loosen up
I teach it English, but it drills in me monster speak
I teach it how to use forks and spoons
It shows me how much pitchforks hurt
Thank you for being my test subject
It’s my life’s work to say thanks with sincerity
An education with graduation day out of reach
It’s my life’s work to enter the closet with a tiger
The way out is in without a care of consumption
As it feeds my body daily, I will teach satiety
May it teach me to no longer fear hunger
The potion I longed for was myself
Here I stand before hundreds of moss grown graves
There is a mournful silence that extends
Through the weed grown path, no traveller walks
The place, some morbid warning portends
Hush.... hush is this place, here no bird sings
The wind here sighs in silent pain
There is a muffled horror all around the place
Even the leaves chant a sad refrain
Here, Death sits on his imperial throne
Mocking at the relics of human glory
Zealous with the task of deleting the old
To script a new chapter, a new story
In these ancient graves sleep the silent dead
Their toil and trouble ended with life
They must have been perhaps heroes of the land
No more are they part of world’s victory or strife
Nor its sad commemorations or triumphant jubilees
Though released from the shackles of oppression
Each dear presence has now become an absence
Here they lie anonymous, without a single possession
Did they perish in a battle or struck by some pestilence
However, their names are blotted out from life’s tome
They are knocked down and mocked by time
And they lie here uncared, expelled from their home.
Generations pass and their progeny comes
Unmindful of who lived before them
Neither thankful of the legacy left behind
Nor thinking that all comforts, from their toil stem
Vacancy alone greets my pensive eyes
Each life here is a volume shut down,
To be cast aside and eventually forgotten,
Or erased forever with no name or renown
With a heavy heart I stand beside these wrecks
Thinking I too shall lie here, devoid of all opulence
Leaving all my hard-earned possessions behind
With no trace, mocked by time and forgotten by the populace
no use dwelling on recent past
not much here really long lasts
rocks, planets, asteroids and stars
this existence briefly is ours
all soon becoming grist for change
eternity moves out of range
there was never a beginning
there is no definitive end
slow evolving onward spinning
the infinite only extends
beyond interstellar foundations
the good, sublime, complex and bad
just how many iterations
has our universe by now had
focus remains on here and now
when imaginations allow
drifting above, out and beyond
what civilizations have spawned
to nether realms of infinite
where all becomes ambivalent
seems much too much to comprehend
everything endlessness portends
Softly,
Arrives illumination of day,
Exposing morning's dew.
As a cancer survivor,
Each day portends a new beginning;
So how could it not be a great day,
For I'm alive!
Alive, without complications,
Aside from one recurring cloud,
Which must be frequently ushered from thought,
And back into the dormancy of my psyche.
For thirty-two, years,
Doubt, has been foreign, self pity, non existent.
As for questions of why my existence,
This much I know, God, has not overlooked me.
I see only insignificant accomplishments,
While God, fathoms what I will yet do.
Possibly a thought yet unpinned
For one individual's contemplation.
My life's folio, it's true,
Others could have surpassed,
Still, I am honored,
That God has selected me for His quill.