Long Prescient Poems
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There you go,
back, far back into the woods once more.
I wish you knew the names of all these tree.
They are distant aunts, and old soldiers,
warriors of coincidental conflicts.
Blood soaked relations of relative ghosts
seen now only as points of departure
where tombs have been riven by lightning
or whole forests burnt to the ground
to a more fertile ash.
Names unknown but named in a book
rivers and reeds write
for later roots to unravel.
Fathers as old as the first horse.
Mothers who breast fed the slow dreams
of a humankind destined to plant her flag
upon a million fields of creation.
Yet more await, are nursed as new seeds
that glimmer in a shinning nebular.
Now I watch one lone child
pass through gorse, thickets, and briar,
travelling through its own forest
to be born into a family
that has yet to be named or branched.
Life lives and returns to find out why
again and again.
Reincarnated crucifixions
dot a new landscape each era,
vacations in Ohio last until
death stamps a later passport.
Sweat and blood in Thailand,
transforms into poetry.
A blind man digging his way through a city
mining for a treasure he was born with.
Back we will come
arriving from anywhere
and anyone.
Each deliverance a blessing
we had to uncover and acknowledge
as our own woodland mystery.
A place between sacred mountains and molehills
where the trees have yet to be labeled
or cutdown, and green growing offspring
with their little axes
getting duller and heavier each year
until the woods and all disappear
to follow the night-train
to where they will arrive at,
whatever platform we have
cobbled together or erected with prescient hands.
Then we claim our Kingdoms,
our many mansions, the many branches of us all.
As the cycle turn and spiral
again to return carrying a new child
as a gift of the light.
...Apologies to Heraclitus and W. H. Auden...
We, defeated by the merest things,
in defeat, endure...for now.
No abiding truth in faith:
origins and destinations
we cannot differentiate,
all random, unguided
by any prescient power;
but, not illogical
(there is no illogic.)
We impose all universal order,
influence what subsequently occurs,
to learn, or not, through endless repetition,
endless failure...and we are
but a current iteration,
here for now -- in constant flux,
defeated by the merest things.
Courage and nobility derived
from continued confrontation,
continued endless struggle,
let us show an affirming flame.
Tis the late June day
Which bring flocks
Their subconscious intentions
Obfuscated by the lingering dimensions
Flaccid ideals and breezes
Traversing gingerly through
The ancient elms
Seeded by the pulps of history
They pray, with each scrape
Of their prescient footsteps
For the sparkle, the brilliance
Those ghostly matters provide in perpetuity
The heat emanating from yearnings
Executed by minute's drive
From understandings siloed
In the labyrinth of mind's eye and virtue
Bless us, grand tome
Executor of fine minds and savages
Vanquish, release us into the
Banal confines heretofore begging
To improve and congeal
For the worlds remote
Need the godliness
The opaque permissive rain
Quenching thought to act
Towards probable endings
Splendid imperatives
Preserved for those
Who wish to partake.
(6/24/08)
"Subversive"
That woman -
she isn’t me
she
(small s)
watches me
silently
with hatred
of what
light and darkness is
unknown of me
burns in her belly
bends her knees
To the world,
all seems aglow
She, prescient?
an anagram,
1 high above
1 buried below
she is neither one
nor the other
1 high above
1 buried below
Counting numbers
children
that are not hers
poems of me
she will never know
a child missing
the essential stronghold
tries to grow her own
garden path home, lost,
a long story
for short minds
unfolds
Business as usual,
sons like the father, or not,
The read by the writer
is swiftly cropped
Summers that come fast
well past swollen Spring
and here she is in Winter
casting another spider's web,
that other woman
over dreams dreamt
and wasted time spent
of who she thinks
she really is
On a hallowed path
another woman
she meets,
stronger
than other poems
she has ever read,
the you that is me,
she thinks
she has sung and bled
Another woman,
so much stronger
subversive
in Autumn
with silence
Met
(LadyLabyrinth/2019)
nm
2/8
Agnes Obel – Chord Left
https://youtu.be/bbU31JLtlug
"Hell is empty and all the devils are here."
"The True Mother"
https://www.poetrysoup.com/poem/the_true_mother_1165956/center>
It’s Okay
by Odin
Roark
Many see labeled
folds and creases
Across forehead and
brow
As problems
unresolved
As thinking lines
Perhaps when one
sleeps
Furrowed wrinkles
stay left behind
The hoe of worry
Takes its earned
respite
While the world’s
hope of harvest
Gathers rest in
darkness
How tenuous
This short-lived
slumber
Where battlegrounds
Become buried
beneath peaceful
seeding
Where life’s
nourishing fields
Find shelter from
evil’s eruptive
invasions
Where headlines of
contracted
mind-waste
About to carry
primed destruction
Strapped to their
chests
Still breathe
Where children
making bullets
Find time to gather
casings
Gently pressing
blood stained soil
Into their playhouse
planters
Believing vines will
grow into
Escape routes to
sunshine and heaven
Where beyond
inevitability
Leaves still flutter
Upon limbs still
expanding
Engulfing trees
still becoming
Before smashed
atom-waves
Incinerate life to
ashes
Where when you awake
A bewildered world
asks
Why thinking lines
now smile
And your tearful
heart
Surviving not by
breathing alone
Whispers its
prescient wisdom
“It’s okay to listen
and hear silence
To be at peace
To be happy…
If only in your
dreams”
Prevarication permits pretend perception, presenting
piquantly piqued, pimply pimping playboy, plucky
pulchritudinous previously pusillanimous, prevalently
puckish, psychic packman, pokemon playing proletarian
puppeteer pygmy, peevishly punky, plummy, plumy,
pompously pushy, pampered, prefabricated pinchbeck,
pokily plying plowshear, plodding peregrination, pied
piper pitifully peppy pornographic potato pealing,
parsimonious paradoxical protagonist, proposing
preposterous panicky pacification plots, prioritization
pertinent penultimate peroration, perhaps perceiving
perjuring, perplexing, perverting puzzling pronouncements
projecting pulsating pixelated pulpy pinball pinging
packets prompting pacific, poetic, phlegmatic purplish
psoriasis plagued, plumbum pallor pallid, Paleolithic
protuberance pronounced, psychosomatic prohibitionist,
polarizing perfunctory peculiarly progressive, patriotic
postmodern pathologically proud paternal panache,
peripatetic panaceas portraying prescient perfidious
puerile president, predominantly proposing parochial
principles, plenty public parking, purposefully
promoting pharisee phalanxes, pilates practicing
paragons, perennially peaceably proficient protesters,
profitable polygamy, pugnacious pitbull powerball
players, pandering polyandry, propagating professional
palindrome pensive peeping people, peddling,
proselytizing predicating prostitution, proliferating
phenomenally, populist persona promulgated peyote
phased physicians pioneering prescription promoting
paradisiacal pricey photographic pictures, placating
phrenetic physical perturbation partaking place
purchased (paid paltry pennies) por palatial piazza.
A prescient warning
With alot to do
Hurry
Cast a thought ahead
They hear
Everything and everyone
become
Invisible in light
Seen in shadows
Blurred silhouettes
Walk confident
With stealth
Misleading tones
mercurial temperament
Unfamiliar participant
Loner by inclination
Consider singing
Along the Untuned
Beauty's performance
Quiet enough
Distracting her
Invitation for disaster
Terrifying scenario
Her friends
A product of
Imagination
Unpredictable
Behaviors
Eating your
Mind producing
Mental fog
nightmares
Let death in
Make peace
With him
He wont leave
The comfort
Inside
After awhile
Best scenario
Accept the annoying
Situation
Try to sleep
All the best
after Ho Chi Minh
I
The stone basin holds
still water. The still water
drinks the arid sponge
as rays of pure energy
slake their thirst on
the ebon wings of crows
II
Yangtze flows from widows peak
pooling briefly in the lock
of a tired eye. Dirt
and salt cry brackish tears
before leaping from sallow chin,
like rain from languid boughs
III
Frogs turn dirges beyond
translucent glass, their croaks
fold and crease the air
putting dusk on the shelf.
Aphids eat the pithy stalks
and drown in sudden morning dew.
IV
No callused hand washes
in the same basin twice
V
The kettle boils, pallid
phantoms push through iron
walls. Prescient tea leaves show
time’s current—fish swim
upstream. Two worlds away,
a young girl draws a bath.
VI
Forehead donning liquid rosaries,
each dawn anoints a king anew
Each afternoon, grains of rice
cling to one another, fulfilled.
Ink spills quickly each evening,
the white page laps at pitch waters.
VII
Eleemosynary sunlight burns
through the keyhole, tumblers
click in the lock. The stone basin
is once again filled with still water.
I take my hat off for the flag
I stand up straight; let others sag
I get all weepy for Old Glory
thinking of my family's story
They came from Russia with naught but hope
with just their wits to help them cope
No language skills or education either
Money or living quarters, they had neither
But they scraped and scrimped, and just kept going
Gramps peddled junk, grams did the sewing
And with the help of God, it all worked out
Hard work and faith -- their kids did sprout
My father an attorney, my uncle a physician
All due to gram and gramps' prescient intuition
To emigrate alone, part of no community
to an unknown land of opportunity
(an All Poetry feat to walk in
the poetic feet of Robert Frost)
Bucolic New England, circa
Early twentieth century New England
awash with dynamic harmonic leisureliness,
when much of North America favored rustic
visual whirled wide webbed watercolor
waiting afield at dusk, the thrum
of nature all abuzz didst feed thine
dizzily green jovial mien
unlike mean Gary Lewis
veritable innocence and naiveté
rollicked with mine lanky frame
relishing ambling into my own quietude
an infinite breadth, length and scope
of infrequently trammeled near virgin
woodland paths grown over with brambles
nonetheless a faintly trussed harbinger
marked by weatherbeaten
for sale signposts
with here and there an abandoned plow
long since given over
to rust when the pasture
seasons elapsed since
farmer(s) left unharvested
fecund fields absent
the cloven hoof,
and deprived enrichment
manure, sans ungulates
ceased sufficing healthy
free ranging bovines,
where etudes punctuated
the terribly gross fresh air,
now no longer audibly quickening,
snapchatting, nor twittering
with the last word of a bluebird
deathly silence now 'cept
the wind in the willows
whispering woebegone laments
tree tops pining to cradle
idle youthful dreamers
boughs devoid of
psalm quivering romantic songstress
clattering debris merely
delivering echoed whooshing refrains
continually disintegrating among
in a disused graveyard
prescient ken aches with nostalgia
hallucinogenic nightmare slams
irrevocably shut the door in the dark
closed for good upon the onset,
wrought genocide against
the vanishing Red man,
a ghostly scarification meaningless ritual
wrested, removed, and highjacked
from indigenous peoples
without rhyme, nor reason
as fraternities no
longer pledge allegiance.