These craggy Alps, thoughtless crowns above
The winter fires in fevered homes below,
Stand lifeless, senseless, wordless in the snow,
And yet are praised by artist’s brush and loved
As beings filled with ancient wisdom’s store,
And so we sadly gaze and ask for more.
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“I’m gonna burn the house down Tuesday night.”
“OK, sweetie.” Her eyes are still drama-glued
On girly boys, Korean stagesters with
Their perfect teeth and sleeky hair all swept
Back, Reaganesque and Brylcreemed shiny best,
Trying to impress their little skinny loves.
“Maybe I’ll do it Monday – better yet.”
“That sounds pretty good to me, you bet.”
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The maestro’s music dances on the page,
His white haired glory blinds my weeping eyes.
Each gesture calls for thunderous applause.
Each wanded wave extends across the stage.
Broad majestic strokes join age to age.
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This exploding witness before my eyes,
The single budding flower, then the leaf –
It’s kind of like slow dancing in the dark
While all alone, unfeeling, completely blind –
Unseen until the light comes on again.
But faith beholds the movement of the dance
And is rewarded with a weekly blush
Of primal colors – green and rainbowed glory –
A feast for eyes and heart well worth the wait.
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It was a train to nowhere – the rusty wheels
On a rusty track, spinning round –
Getting a job as a Chinaman in Philly feels
Pretty cool until the house burns down,
(Bobby’s words, not mine). And Charlie’s frown,
Trying to save himself, writing poems,
Lost in lostness, wording his way to meaning,
Telling me to “think about it.” Yikes!
It was a train to nowhere – like the tracks
Around the Christmas tree, nothing new
To say even if your name is Allen,
And you were born with beard and cigarette
Growing and glowing in your lonely world
Where skeletons both rule and rail upon
The author, saying “Die, writer, die!”
All their questions answered now in death.
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When Saul was renamed Ichabod, the glory
Had departed – like a childhood story
We once had heard, but since forever lost –
Like the fading crown of morning frost.
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The devil in three today in wordle’s world.
How easily he works with lies unfurled
Like banquet banners promising a peace
(That passes in an instant) – poof, it’s ceased
To please – it’s but a puff – a brackish gust
That disappears into the night’s disgust.
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It’s time to pick the backyard bamboo red
And find a gold-leafed vase to put it in.
The camera does its work, steadied on
A step ladder standing in a cardboard box.
1/25 of a second at f5.
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. . . “evolves her chameleonic career” – the sum
Of a little lost girl’s pilgrimage along
The kudzu laden path bathed in shadowed
Sunshine, bluejean patched and buckthorn rife,
Fighting at the front, blow by blow,
Tasting wonder, agony, and strife.
Starlight fading in the night –
Trading blazing sun for moonish light.
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Too earthbound are these mortal thoughts –
Too pinioned to the sweetness of creation –
Too enslaved by ever pleasing gods –
Ever offering life and death’s oblation.
Awaken, deadened heart! Transcendent glory
Can be seen where glory died then rose.
Bloody sorrows penned the brilliant story,
Now revealed to all whom glory knows.
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Field of Vision 