Doesn’t seem to make much sense at all;
win or lose don’t matter in the end.
It’s a race that seems too close to call;
finish line’s just up around the bend.
Doesn’t seem to change much day to day;
up or down, they’re pretty much the same.
It’s an endless cycle, anyway;
good or bad, the blues still run the game.
Doesn’t seem to be much of a choice;
nothing but illusions and disguise.
If you take a stand, or find your voice,
all you know or say ends up in lies.
Doesn’t seem to make much sense to me;
just another day to make it through.
Wasn’t what they promised it would be:
finding something meaningful to do.
Doesn’t seem there’s anything that’s true;
everyone pretends in something more.
What’s the point in simply playing through?
Who is left to count the final score?
Doesn’t seem to be a worthy cause;
after all, what matters, when it’s done?
Instinct versus artificial law;
both are losers, if somebody’s won.
09 JUN 2017
The world is changed each day; each morning sun
undoes as it is born.
From yesterday it lets the seed we sow
grow into what it needs.
But what has come before is gone and past;
last summer’s fading lawn
becomes the mulch that feeds the fresh grass blades
that fade so soon from view.
07 JUL 2017
For what it’s worth, most places on a map
merely exist as clots in highway veins:
mere wisps of web for speed or tourist traps,
perhaps historic, where that sense remains.
At thirty thousand feet that’s how they look:
just blips on distant radar, single grains
of sand on beaches that in recent books
rate just almost a star; not worth the pains.
But down here, where the highway meets the chrome,
a place takes on dimension. It retains
some spark, and for those souls that call it home,
an energy that tourists feed upon:
a tilting match between living and death.
The ebb and flow is more or less a tide:
a feast and famine cycle that repeats
quite often at so slow a speed, the ride
seems dull, not worth the ticket price for seats.
At other times, the fulcrum tilts so fast
there seems no forward motion or retreat,
just wearing down what once seemed built to last,
a winner’s gait slowed down to shuffling feet
that struggle two steps forward, one step back,
and finally collapse in a bar seat,
where like an aged and rusted Cadillac,
their owner basks in golden yesterdays
and stares out at new flowers every spring.
Sometimes, influx of new blood fills the streets,
its holy and exuberant refrains
erasing painful memories of defeat
and adding camouflage to ancient stains;
for a brief hour or two, time is forgot,
and with it all self-loathing and distain.
The shiny, feverish fish won’t know it’s caught
until the hook reminds it once again
from whence it came, and how its future runs:
a circumscribing series of events,
monotonous once they’ve just half begun,
and covered with the dust of drawn out days
as soon as the car’s headlights fade from sight.
7 APR 2017
And so around again:
the how, the where, the when;
could be and might have been;
the raven or the wren.
The sword versus the pen:
in battles now and then
it’s hard to tell who wins;
the line is blurred, and blends.
What’s up around the bend?
Who knows? To see us then
is merely to pretend,
to forecast of the end.
The currency we spend
for lies and hope depends
on credit from our friends
and how we limit them.
We dare not to offend
what might hide in the glen
awaiting living men
who march to war again.
How fast the truth descends!
Around our necks it wends
and gyres, while we extend
our courtesies. Amen.
Off round and round again;
we start, we end, we spin.
3 FEB 2017
Posted in Poems
Tagged #BookofForms, chanso, cycles, daily poems, energy, French verse forms, futility, infinity, patterns, poetic forms, recycling, reincarnation
The past is now dead and gone,
its Doppler echo a song
that fades and yet lingers on,
palimpsest written upon
then erased with each new dawn
born as a wobbly legged faun
yet grown each night to a stag
whose hooves drag the forest lawn,
old and feeble, a weak king,
Day’s prince become an aged thing
that twilight’s wolves will soon bring
down. Each night as this hart sings
winter’s lament, dawn, as spring,
struggles from the womb and swings
the world again from abyss
to the bliss of beginning.
11 APR 2004