(no subject)
March 27th
All told the story of their youth,
Gathered 'round a jangling flame,
Visions ennobled by traces of truth,
The drums tattoo temerous names
That once underwater slept
And timorous like bubbles crept
Towards the eastern sky.
All grew as pines upon the hill,
Above ferns and fallen needles,
Where feathered minstrels of the heavens build,
The tumbledown light now reveals
All the splintered bark of life
That lumbers up the rugged tet of time
Towards the eastern sky.
As all remark on the coming day
I find mine own eyes turned away,
We all look east, over the trees,
To seek the tidings of belief.
All clamor, from the east comes light!
I note, quietly, so does the night.
March 28th
As the words of centuries past
Put in verse, unrhymed and flowing
Down the brae of morning, come silent
Into the chasm of my chest
Like tomes into an ancient library.
Each work wrapped in life gone by,
Ev'ry passage a moment surrendered
Or offered up as sacrifice, as the sons
And daughters of long-dead men,
Now waiting to be read again.
And through which windows pass the light
That illuminate, as heaven's fire,
Manifold thoughts of dreams and hope?
The only window into the sky
And the wisp-wrapped realm of poetry
That e'er in this life I have known
Was grace and benevolence, in beauty's form,
She who was the Rome of art
All expression led to her.
April 2nd
Here spirals the dead grass of spring,
The grey wind, unmelted elderly snow
Clinging to the creased ribbon of shade.
Walk to the afterthought of a pond
That sleeps on the earth as foam
Slid over the side of ten-am beer,
The last ice, a film that stretches
Out over the stillbirth of a season.
All told the story of their youth,
Gathered 'round a jangling flame,
Visions ennobled by traces of truth,
The drums tattoo temerous names
That once underwater slept
And timorous like bubbles crept
Towards the eastern sky.
All grew as pines upon the hill,
Above ferns and fallen needles,
Where feathered minstrels of the heavens build,
The tumbledown light now reveals
All the splintered bark of life
That lumbers up the rugged tet of time
Towards the eastern sky.
As all remark on the coming day
I find mine own eyes turned away,
We all look east, over the trees,
To seek the tidings of belief.
All clamor, from the east comes light!
I note, quietly, so does the night.
March 28th
As the words of centuries past
Put in verse, unrhymed and flowing
Down the brae of morning, come silent
Into the chasm of my chest
Like tomes into an ancient library.
Each work wrapped in life gone by,
Ev'ry passage a moment surrendered
Or offered up as sacrifice, as the sons
And daughters of long-dead men,
Now waiting to be read again.
And through which windows pass the light
That illuminate, as heaven's fire,
Manifold thoughts of dreams and hope?
The only window into the sky
And the wisp-wrapped realm of poetry
That e'er in this life I have known
Was grace and benevolence, in beauty's form,
She who was the Rome of art
All expression led to her.
April 2nd
Here spirals the dead grass of spring,
The grey wind, unmelted elderly snow
Clinging to the creased ribbon of shade.
Walk to the afterthought of a pond
That sleeps on the earth as foam
Slid over the side of ten-am beer,
The last ice, a film that stretches
Out over the stillbirth of a season.