Thin glass

 When we discover the bright day

must pass, 

and we’ll be lit only by distant stars,

our world becomes as fragile as thin glass.

We thought we’d spend our time on the soft grass

adding more pleasures to our slow memoirs

when we discover the bright day must pass,

and every shining moment we amass

leads, without pause, to the dark, closing, doors 

our world becomes as fragile as thin glass.

We think the sharp reminders merely crass,

and then we’re filled with fear of stormy shores 

when we discover the bright day must pass.

Time, that seems gentle, turns out to harass

each one of us, and, as our sorrow pours,

our world becomes as fragile as thin glass.

It turns out we are all of the wrong class

to bring an end to these eternal wars.

When we discover the bright day must pass

our world becomes as fragile as thin glass.

Never surrender

When you can no longer stand on your feet 

it is not yet the moment you must yield 

to perceived fate. On knees, but on the field,

you have not reached the point of swift retreat.

When you are right where pain and courage meet

but hope remains your solitary shield 

your deepest strength will at once be revealed,

and you will choose to rise and not retreat.

You may not stand among the very strong,

nor speak the language of the nobly hard,

but in your heart you know you will not tire;

instead you will keep fighting for as long

as you retain the spirit of bright fire.

What I think now

 It’s time to see if there are miles downhill 

left in my time, or if the road will end

sooner than I wish, though I pretend 

that I shall keep going by force of will.

Human desire has all the force of nil,

and there’s no way I may make nature bend

to what I wish. I cannot now depend on

on inner strength, my powers shall lie still.

There’s little left about which I should care 

yet while there’s hope I think I might remain 

to feel the warmth of sunlight on my face.

I’m now too tired to bother much with fear,

my body’s well-acquainted now with pain,

but my heart still keeps to its proper place.

Steadily the options go away

When you surrender to the normal way

it’s not a matter of finding a true 

direction from the old unto the new;

it’s finding out there’s nowhere you can stay

in ordinary life, but yet you may 

discover that there’s truly no good clue.

Return and you can’t recognize the place

where you began. You have no better choice 

than to move forward with strong foot and hand,

hoping that energy wins you the race.

In such a case you surely may rejoice 

at having found a secure place to stand.

The moment it returned

 

Then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle 

before the moment that the sonnets came,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

I thought the Muse had destined me to Hell,

that for my writings all I earned was shame,

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle.

I thought that time had me under a spell,

for which my acts alone should bear the blame,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

You don’t expect the stories that you tell

bear actual truth. I felt the very same

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle.

It wasn’t that I had nothing to tell,

but that all of my horses had gone lame,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

To my surprise, there was a sudden swell

of rhyming words, and a returning flame,

then, suddenly, I wrote a villanelle,

and, to my amazement, I did it well.

O poeta é um fingidor

What we pretend is really what is true.

Unlike the wise, the poet sees the real,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

We know the struggles of each life ensue 

from being born, since all the days reveal:

What we pretend is really what is true.

Each maker knows, regardless of the view,

that what we dream as pain is what we truly feel,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

What he perceived was never what he knew,

not one of us saw iron become steel.

What we pretend is really what is true, 

yet he discovers that there’s no way through 

the actual, but he’s no mind to kneel, 

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue.

So when he sees forces of life renew

themselves each day, so what exists is real,

what we pretend is really what is true,

and then he feigns that cloudy sky is blue 

After creation there is pain

In the beginning not a single sound,

only the action of the hopeful wise 

who add together, in a sole surmise,

the meanings of air, and water, and ground.

Whatever fluids, or solids, surround

is real, and visible to normal eyes;

but what contains the actual surprise 

is what we can retain, but not impound.

The secret message that lies softly curled

in inmost chamber of the beating heart 

teaches each of us how we must survive

in this new, rough, intractable, hard world.

Achievement is the solitary art

that keeps the ordinary sort alive.

Why bother?

 Out of our sleep, we face a brand-new day

with aspirations to a better sight,

as every shadow of the broken night 

hides from the brilliance of the open way.

Rain tells us we do not have room for play

since that’s the culmination of the bright,

sunny eruptions of the morning light.

We’re in another episode of life,

where, failing hope, the only choice is work,

and what we get is just to take the blame

when sober argument turns into strife

between day’s hero, and the angry jerk 

who wants the morning to collapse in shame.

Supposing that we learn

We wait each day for the magical sign

that indicates just how the work must start,

it’s time now to take all we need apart,

and then restore it in a simple line.

There’s every chance all forces intertwine,

so cannot break, the wise creator’s art

ensures that his work stands out in the mart,

and we discover all we do is fine.

When winter comes again we do not stand 

in places where we must bend to the cold 

but in the shelters we’d already made.

What’s needed here is simply a strong hand,

and ready vision, now we can be bold

urging the start of a wonderful trade.

The game’s no longer of any worth

It matters not that there’s a hostile guard,

there’s a rough way right past another gate 

leading us home, but we will be so late,

that we’ll hear words both horrible and hard,

defining each of us as a retard,

with many failures set down on the slate.

So we have reached the deepest hell of fate 

below the palaces where we once starred.

I have the sense that we are out of time,

that there’s no option leading to the light 

since our existence is a horrid crime,

a terror to the ordinary sight,

last proof that we are only stinking slime,

and should be all forgotten in the night.

I fear I have no path towards the light

 I thought there was a way that I could chance

to get me to the tallest mountain’s height;

I seemed to be both capable and bright,

but had no thought of how I could advance.

The world I  knew as  straight had gone askance,

and I am left with horror, and with fright

for the path ahead leads straight toward the night.

Should I choose life when all now seems in vain,

the way ahead  is only dirt and clay,

the worst pretense of an advancing road

towards an ending that ‘s as clear and plain

as the appearance of a brand-new day,

and bearing now a painful heavy load.

So should I take the other choice?

 I looked at life, and saw that I had failed 

to reach the targets that my talents saw 

as the achievements that would lead to awe.

But, nonetheless, we learnt that the detailed 

approach meant that the mountains I had scaled 

were the wrong range, I bore too large a flaw

to take first place. I did not know the law 

meant that I always risked being jailed.

Time is the lord, no matter what the road

I take he manages to wear to sand

leaving no choice but to abandon hope.

There is no worldly force to act as goad

for me to run uphill, or just to lope

towards a place that is no longer grand.

This morning everything is wrong

Understanding is never the whole view,

the actual facts are always hard to know,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

The map shows us that all the roads are new,

but something tells us it is just a show,

understanding is never the whole view 

of our sweet valley, where the warm winds blew,

yet all we comprehend is the breeze blow,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

The news all day turns pleasant into blue,

there’s no way now to interrupt the flow;

understanding is never the full view.

We tried together, we the smallest crew

of the whole fleet, but we turned out too slow,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

We’ve gone beyond the lands our fathers knew, to deserts, and high mountains of deep snow.

Understanding is never the full view,

sometimes we miss what’s exactly all true.

Seeing the ancestors (for Geoffrey Philp)

 Each tree is history in silent voice,

marking birth of small, and death of the great 

while bearing flower and fruit as marks of fate.

What we call “freedom”is no more than choice

of whether to keep quiet, or to outvoice 

the old captain, and the wise young first mate,

to make for closest harbor, and rejoice.

What’s hidden under soil no one now knows,

we want our past to be a place of pain.

We praise the ancestors, but not their might 

of patience, caution, and rage with hands on hoes,

and hands on cutlass, making it most plain

that while held in the dark they saw the light.

I belong in a museum

Before the sun sets, one more dose of pain:

My archaic torso has one more hole

for complex poisons to weigh down my soul,

none of it bringing the least bit of gain.

Instead, it’s one more day of hard, slow, strain

towards another meaningless dead goal 

of useless life; the whole remainder, sole

indication I had naught more to gain.

Today’s news is all hard loss, harder war,

with heavy clouds all lowering the sky 

down to the height of one more human fool.

There is no prohibition, no stiff bar,

against dishonor, contra the soft lie

of street, church, pundit, and of each dumb school.

It’s happened on more than one night

The Bishop said to the serving girl

“Let’s give the game of love a whirl.”

He was less than pleased 

when he got diseased 

because of how he made her skirt twirl.

It happened on my dad’s mountain estate

When the wind smashes small trees into walls,

and the hail crushes pasture into bog,

no being profits, except the one that bawls

“I hunt for truffles, human, and eat balls

as the storm passes, and ram lies dead as log,

when the wind smashes small trees into walls.

“I am much wiser than the man who stalls, 

collapses, and is consumed by the dog.”

No being profits, except the one that bawls 

“I know you hate it when wild boar crawls 

towards me to ravage without a snog,

when the wind smashes small trees into walls 

and thunder makes girls piss into their smalls;

the thought of which makes you fart a huge smog.”

No being profits, except the one that bawls

the last coherent statement that appalls

all listeners, except the happy hog.

No being profits, except the one that bawls 

when the wind smashes small trees into wall.

Look at the closing line, and then rejoice that morning is the victor over night

Wit is a double-sided blade of steel,

life is a series of storms and long wars,

humor alone declares the way we feel.

Nothing we know we know survives the turning wheel,

that which is human only makes and mars,

wit is a double-sided blade of steel

that teaches you the right moment to steal

Athena’s owl when She’s had many jars.

Humor alone declares the way we feel 

when we are able to twist like an eel,

or float beside the railroad sleeping cars.

Wit is a double-sided blade of steel 

that cuts the meat of secret, nightly, meal,

when we turn duppy on command of Mars

humor alone declares the way we feel.

Brisk is the day, sweet Sun is our Great Seal,

with sharp, cold breezes that disturb the stars:

Wit is a double-sided blade of steel,

humor alone declares the way we feel.

Point of surrender

 Each journey takes us to the same dark end

from which the sole escapes are dig or fly.

But the ground’s hard, and there’s a lot of sky;

easy to hide, but no one can depend 

on its security. So we defend,

hoping that freedom nots another lie

that leads each of us simply to die

before we can learn to restore and mend.

Hell is a sort of large secondhand shop

where each customer will die by gunshot 

just as they find the object of their lust.

And die repeatedly as their last lot,

as every human crumbles into dust.

Testicular fortitude at its best

The Trumpian absence of balls,

in spite of the loud MAGA calls,

tells us that his pride 

is on a swift ride

to speed every one of his falls.

One approach to luck

 Chance is no guide to justice, it is full

of tricks of argumentation, and half-lies,

methods of madness, signals by swift flies,

secrets both delicate and dull

swim in and out of each and every skull.

Honor has failed to secure the best ties

to a world where justice only gives cries

for its arrival, and the host of lies 

that are the cavalry of the great bull.

Secure in each fortress, the wise are not free,

given uncertainty of what they see,

to warn us of our future ruth.

Yet raise the temperature by one degree

and someone will squeal out the rawest truth,

and what we  hated most will come to be.

Let’s see if I have got the lesson right

The first rule is the simple, easy, choice:

Poetic ardor requires discipline 

to make its body the writer’s own voice,

and its own features formulate the line.

Your mode of speech is what defines the meter,

the proper tone is what outs the cheater.

Rule number two requires that you must choose 

exactly how you govern proper time;

whether your verse is tight or very loose,

and whether it be blank, or strictly rhyme.

My own position is, to be quite terse,

allow the rhyme to govern every verse.

Once you have started, obey your own voice,

let nature organize both shape and form,

and guide you straight towards the proper choice

Choosing with care the vehicle of verse

removes the risk of the bad-rhyming curse.

The fourth rule is the easiest by far:

Use only formulas that promote song,

let musicality be your guidestar,

it shows you when your meter has gone wrong.

Take your good time to make sure it is right;

the meter and the meaning woven tight.

Now this is where the struggle becomes hard,

you’ve got to hold your Muse by hair or throat

your meter has to pace out every yard

while making sure you exclude each false note.

Determine how to keep each line as firm 

as possible to reach its proper term.

Here’s where the leather slams into the dirt:

Each word must come from the depths of your heart,

must echo you, but also not be curt,

that’s the first step towards making good art.

Your subjects, and the substance of your choice,

need only be supporters of your voice.

Once you begin, don’t be afraid to learn 

that feeling is your darkness brought to light;

that each and every bright poetic turn

is your heart’s effort to reject the night.

Each bruise of spirit, every mental scar.

is still the lodestone pointing to your star.

Don’t be astonished at finding the source 

of every product of poetic art 

is keeping soul and body from divorce:

There is no abstract notion of the heart.

What you expose, the horrors that you feel,

are thoroughly material and real.

Your vision is the bit that’s hard to find,

armies of false perception to defeat,

soul is both more and less than normal mind,

and good verse balances both thought and meat.

This is when you should descry bright and clear 

that every breath is part of wider air.

The rules aren’t magical, they’re simply tools

to guide your mind along its proper road.

They keep apart the craftsmen and the fools,

and get us to distinguish lion from toad.

Once you’ve discovered no need to despair 

your heart awakens in the normal air.

There’s no more guidance, you map the terrain 

of every world imagined into life

by the authority of your firm brain,

and the solution to your inner strife.

All’s up to you, behold your starting hour,

go forth and demonstrate your heart and power.

Some sort of envoi seems to be required:

Recall that thought and mind never get tired.

Moksha

No guarantee the world will never end,

certainty, though, that each small world will cease.

We call it “death,” we call it just “release,”

neither word matters, the rules cannot bend:

They may disguise or hide, they may portend,

they may lead to hardship, or to soft ease.

They only signify there will be peace,

and silence to the which all ears attend.

The world revolves, each day it ends in fire,

but never quite achieves a full return.

There’s too much quiet on each starry night,

the stellar entities form no new choir,

though, without ending, they don’t cease to burn 

but never shed the necessary light.

The lioness and the hare

 We learnt soon enough that “manage and mount,”

as a description lacks a certain nous,

preventing it from giving full account 

or being, really, of efficient use.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

Watch eye or heart, as held in proper place,

while sight and feeling sit in their right part,

with decent music lending a soft grace

to normal sunlight shaped by normal art.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

I go too fast, the well-told human tale

advances from the stormy to the safe,

from insecure to never bound to fail;

the limits matter, even though they chafe.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

Some say the Huntress made the fatal choice,

others the Hunted could have been more plain,

but Her’s was not the only valid voice:

His silence gave no sign of actual pain.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

He chose to hunt at the same point in time

she called her hounds to scout ahead for game.

That was his original, undisputed, crime,

and source of every second of her shame.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

Dogs cannot tell the unknown friend from foe,

we are their wisdom, their mistakes are hours;

if a goddess cannot, single-minded, know 

whom she will choose, what good are divine powers?

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

So they encountered, deep inside the woods,

the baying hounds rendered all thought unclear,

she did not see his brightness, nor his goods,

and slaughtered all she would have held most dear.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

It was his fault, while seeking a young hare,

to stumble over the Queen of a Pride,

and learn that simply breathing the same air 

is justification to end the ride.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more. 

Eyes, lips, and nose, the sights that held her fast,

consumed by her bright hounds’ hungry maws;

even her vision could not make them last

under the domination of her laws.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

When it is late it is well past the time,

even a goddess can undo the wrong

punishment given to so slight a crime. 

The strong end up by hobbling the strong.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

So, set the virgins to moan this hard loss;

command the rivers to lament and weep,

and not to let a small male soul across

the final barrier before the deep.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

Each year, the promise of each youthful breath,

announces the fresh leaves of each new spring.

The sudden awfulness of unjust death,

we learn, today, is permissible sin.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

Gods are infallible, and we are not,

the burden of each soft nursery rhyme,

is the good fortune, and the heavy lot,

of they who judge and punish every crime.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

Prince, you have asked, and you have now been told,

how human tragedies may touch the gods.

The time when kindness turns to Arctic cold,

and each one learns they cannot beat the odds.

So she found out, upon the Levant shore,

it was not possible to demand more.

Off to the side

Nothing seems large enough to limit rage,

each hour awake is measured in raw pain,

while sleep, though silent, shows no lasting gain

in face of how letters fade on the page.

Each day, the Sun announces a new stage

on the human voyage through ceaseless rain

towards a novel part of the vast main,

with encrustations unique to the age.

The rod and line cannot themselves alone

move fresh-caught fish directly onto land.

They need direction from a true lodestone 

into the grasp of my restraining hand

that places and constrains them in the zone 

above the damp, so sharply glowing, sand.

The blood flows in, the blood flows out

 The morning market is closed for the day,

is past and gone, is never to return,

like every thrill was there simply to churn 

but not to clarify, nor even flay

the epidermis into a new clay.

The past no longer has to fade or burn 

into the quiet, there’s no time to learn 

only to go, or merely fail and stay.

The winter blossoms into somber white,

and we gain nothing, we approach no mark

of time, no alteration of the air.

The fear and horror stand just out of sight 

waiting with passion the return of dark,

and disappearance of the sweet and clear.

Already dawn is over

I seek your secret, I desire to pry

behind your eyes, beyond the barricade 

to where the λόγος will destroy the lie.

In my young mind, my heart wishes to fly 

above the sound of the daily parade.

I seek your secret, I desire to pry

into the image held within your eye:

The truths behind them, the eternal fade

to where the λόγος will destroy the lie.

You cannot, at this stage, stand and deny

you could not with your strength achieve the grade.

I seek your secret, I desire to pry.

What I and the loud avians descry 

is a new city just where all clouds shade

to where the λόγος will destroy the lie.

You did not realize I was so sly,

nor that I found the traces that you made.

I sought your secret, I desired to pry 

to where the λόγος will destroy the lie.

Towards the river, under the full moon

 Inasmuch as anyone is able

to see the river slithering through mud

like a long dagger opening green blood

of silent dragon,  there to enable

the mudfish to swim onto the table,

to land on the huge plate without a thud

as shiny crawfish swim out of the flood.

Their eyes reflections of some old-time fable.

We know, at sunset, crabs begin to crawl

across the road to fast boys wielding spades 

who fling them in the trunk of daddy’s car.

Soon this hunt will end, and then begin the brawl

aw we move slowly into the new shades:

Now is the journey uphill not so far.

I had just gone to pick mangoes

Once, where the boundary reached to the stream,

there stood some fruit-trees, shadows in the dawn,

overlooking the bright silver lawn.

Half-glow, half moment taken out of dream:

With noisy birds, and winds half-set to scream,

half-set to tunefully announce the morn.

This is the place from which we watch the sky

blend new-pale blue into the glassy sea,

and listen for the little splash of tide

to sound the opening drumbeat of the day.

We hear the seagulls chant against the dry

Traces of cloud, which seem to bend and flee,

while, in the distance, blackfish sing and play.

Silva obscura

When we blink before the truth, it still abides 

the junction of the fearful and the fair

where truth obliges, and where justice glides 

across the fields of stubbornness and care,

to that most humble home of pride and right

hidden from heartbreak by clean duty and fresh air.

We jump away from horror, and from flight,

and turn our eyes towards the sweeter view,

of wild blue blossoms under moonlit night.

We know the answer cannot be so new

as to require us to bend our speech and song

into a tool for meting out the true,

and signaling the lines of right and wrong.

When we arise we have to be as strong 

as angry bullock in the greener field.

We cannot hope to hide our shame for long,

our choice is force, and energy unsealed,

beyond the spearhedge of new ruddy day,

that dipped and danced with hearts securely steeled

against the looming darkness of our play.

The horrid evil. swallowing plain night,

and leaving awful serpents set to slay

the sparkling remnants of unconquered might 

that we are tempted to make into fire, not for the favor of a single light 

but for the careful silence we require 

when turning silent gases into flame,

incinerating what we most desire 

into a means of brightening each name.

The monster that abides here out of pride

is not our glory, nor our hill of shame,

but one more mark that we desire to hide

from both the dormouse and the soldiers’ rage.

It’s not an object to be kept inside,

polished as any statement on the stage.

It’s our assertion that we can’t abide

the drama and the farce of our weak age.

So we wait for the tumult to subside,

and for our target to recede so far

that it appears to flutter and to glide

across the places our darkness may not mar.

Towards the meadow, and the sterling warmth,

and every moment that we may not bar

of the first glimmer of the evening star.

Small as a people, yet we have the might

 Our parents’ journeys are our greatest trace —

those were the pioneers who made us shine —

they have left us their honor, style, and grace.

It’s easy, when we take the human race

for what it is, to simply miss the sign

our parents’ journeys are our greatest trace.

When we choose our best selves to embrace

it will be the brightest glory of our line,

they have left us their honor, style, and grace:

Beauty and wisdom in each glorious face,

hearts without dreadful errors to repine,

our parents’ journeys are our greatest trace

of service we cannot this time replace.

They faced their duty, and they did not whine,

they have left us their honor, style, and grace.

We stand in wonder, in this sacred place,

at how they battled, how they built our line:

Our parents’ journeys are our greatest trace

of how they taught us honor, style, and grace.

L’alba, l’alba, va cantar

 I could be wrong: It’s just written in sand

that at the end only the purest dross 

remains; sole symbol of infinite loss.

This is the final mountain where we stand,

the penultimate yell at the dark land

whose honest awfulness is the last boss

defending the one glimmer, or gloss,

that we might take as innocent or grand.

We will all pass, and none of us remember,

through and beyond the longest, softest, sleep

of the unceasing, uncreated, night,

that each of us began as a mere ember

emergent from an unexpected deep,

a generator of the fairest light.

We grieved it on its way

After conclusion, do not give a shit

about the difference between breath and fart.

Choose rather to describe just one more art

located in the space twixt fear and wit.

The options are only an easy bit 

of watching lively sparrows swiftly dart 

across from emptiness back to the start,

the only moment that is clearly lit.

At this moment we halt, and begin

to listen for the hooves on the soft earth 

while waiting for the final starters’ gun.

Prepare each face with a last pleasant grin,

and confront fear with ordinary mirth,

and gratitude that we’ve beheld the Sun.

The totter just before the final spin

 Whenever choices have become real slight

between the tiger, and the pretty dame,

it’s ending, not beginning, of the game,

and every option leads out of the light.

The answer cannot be simple or right,

since both our choices lead us into shame;

instead our hope is only in the flame,

our fraying guide across the sleepless night

possessing power far greater than plain force,

whose firm decisions bring us to the stark

point of descrying ending of all wars.

It’s far beyond correction of the course,

it’s shattering of the all but final mark,

and viewing, with Dante, the sharp, clear, night stars.

Between the viper and the fly

 Those folk who know the answer’s never right 

have just begun to master the bright flame,

but, while in heat, are still far from the light.

It’s not that they’re trapped in some dreadful plight,

nor that the force that binds them is mere shame, 

those folk who know the answer’s never right 

are not the ones who, gentle and polite,

have found the beast, and given it a name,

but, while in heat, are still far from the light.

If we track brilliance through darkest night,

we’ll find a clue to some astounding game 

those folk who know the answer’s never right 

taught their successors, who, in open flight,

refused to allocate some form of blame,

but, while in heat, are still far from the light 

and have not yet devised the proper rite

yet keep apart the wildlings and the tame,

those folk who know the answer’s never right,

but, while in heat, are still far from the light 

have neither vision, nor abnormal sight.

They have, instead, a proper sense of shame,

and guilt that no true kindness can make right.

There is no kindly answer to requite

the ones whose honor we cannot proclaim,

with neither vision, nor abnormal sight,

can tell apart clear day and starless night.

It’s not because they understand the game;

there is no kindly answer to requite

either hard insult, or more modest slight,

with massive weight of honest fear or shame,

with neither vision, nor abnormal sight,

the fearful power of one simple insight:

That those who cannot raise a private 

flame,

with neither vision, nor abnormal sight,

there is no kindly answer to requite.