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 thread that fasts the edges of the fabric
to link the warp and woof which forms our life
is tenuous, at best – so thin and fragile.
This tapestry we take so much for granted,
whose boundaries extend to memory’s end,
is but a million of these strands and slivers.
That it remains a whole is quite surprising,
considering how little work it takes
to cause a snag, or worry loose a seam.
The pattern fades, and shows its age in places
where time and stress have worn through either side;
through these holes often come epiphanies:
it’s where the surface thins and turns transparent,
that life beyond our isolated realm
makes faint connection to our sense of known.
In those quite rare and brief enlightened moments,
true balance becomes difficult to find;
despite the danger, we must seek the edge
and look to the abyss that lies beyond,
to find within ourselves the fabric’s mending,
or pulling that loose thread, unravel all.
Because in truth, we are just as connected
(despite the separate spools from which we start)
as those fine strands of nothing in themselves;
and can together form a thing of beauty
beyond the ken of isolated minds.
If just an inch is lost, we are no more.
24 FEB 2005
in an array of hues
across the edges of the world
touching every single thing underneath
for only just a moment, and then move
altering its entire pattern
enough to blur and shift
the whole pattern
a new palette
on which the day is drawn
each instant a virgin canvas
waiting for the touch of an unseen brush
the moving finger that once having writ
becomes part of the scene it paints
has turned to black
the colors are not lost;
if you look close enough, they last
but change, evolve and will not stay the same
no matter how you wish and pray;
they are not permafast
except in dreams
that seem fragile
and so impermanent
are only simple reflections
of what we choose to imagine
exists only in some clear black and white
but cannot be contained in should and ought.
outside what we can see, the light
contains a wide spectrum
04 JUN 2004
Each day I wake, my head crammed full of dreams
that reach into my conscious life unasked,
defining how I perceive each new task
by tearing at reality’s worn seams.
From dawn to dusk they push and pull my mind
in strange directions, seeking some release;
new tangents form in patterns without cease
and with their ebb and flow, seek to design
the life that I too often see as dull,
its colors faded out to browns and grays,
mere repetitions of some useless rite.
Of moments too soon gone, my life is full;
and on these fleeting chimeras, my days
oft lose their edges and fade into light.
02 JUN 2004