The Quiet Cartesian - Rhymed and Metrical Poetry for a More Civilized Age

Busy

2011-06-06T12:40:00.000-07:00

Let the words speak for themselves. Of course, it does not help that I have, by choice, no internet at home.

Busy

When love and labor occupy my days,
I fear it is my poetry that pays.

Home

2011-05-31T16:13:00.001-07:00

I've only been living in this new apartment for a month and a half, but already it feels like home. But then, I suppose I know the cause of that.

Home

Beneath the cedar and the stars
aligning in the evening sky -
old Sirius and rusty Mars -
reposes both my home and I.

How quietly we watch the night
grow deeper with the dipping sun,
as steady streams of people fight
against the red and angry run

of traffic flowing from the streets
that checker-box the city to
their empty houses. Each one greets
its occupant with silence. Who

would call these houses homes? Not I.
But then, my house is never dead,
and, in the evenings, there is my
own love to greet the one she wed.

Cupid and Psyche

2011-05-23T18:21:00.000-07:00

Quod ergo Deus conjúnxit, homo non séparet.

Cupid and Psyche

Your smile is a song these wayward lips
will sing, my Psyche, sweet as summer rain,
a physic fit to cure my every pain
and radiance that, ringing this eclipse,

reminds me of the night you held a glim
and gazed on Cupid's countenance, asleep,
a trespass, yet a covenant to keep,
for, in the incandescence of the dim

and frail flame, you found another I,
as similar as if the two were one,
and pledged yourself, before you were begun,
to bear eternity; and I reply

that if another's lover be as true,
she would be yet a feeble shade of you.

Alike

2011-05-16T15:22:00.000-07:00

Five more days...

Alike

As there is one alike myself,
that one I will embrace,
so quick to sweep my dusty shelf
of every idle trace
and cast this clutter out the door.
Each clearing opened on the floor

is priceless, for it clears away
the rubbish of a life
half-lived. I'll close this feeble play;
I'll settle every strife
and pull the curtain up anew,
as fresh and flawless as the dew.

Guest

2011-05-09T15:28:00.001-07:00

I'm afraid that, with the wedding coming up in less than two weeks, my posting schedule will be spotty, at best. I do promise to continue posting (and on schedule again in a couple weeks...).

Guest

Amid the hectic manna grass,
abundant clump and crest
arranged about in knotty mass
and fitfully at rest,
I found a bearing for my heart,
your undistinguished guest;

you set before my idle start
a door, however small,
a portal clad in quiet art
but opulent in sprawl,
and so endowed my residence;
so unalike the small

and simple hovel, purchased, pence
and pieces, in my youth;
how could this effortless expense
be ample trade, in truth,
for such a fortune, such a lass
as loved a man uncouth.

By the Sea

2011-05-02T15:24:00.000-07:00

I realized, today, that it has been close on a year since I have been to the ocean. This is clearly a situation that must be remedied. Not, however, in the next three weeks. Life is far too busy now. Thus, when I go again, it will be as a married man.

By the Sea

Roll me a wave
in the amethyst sea,
where a watery grave
sets the sailors free,

and the anchorless dross
of uncountable craft
make a bearing across
the pelagiac draught;

where the ambergris spins
in unceasing pavane
and the current begins
to unravel again,

while the surf and the swell
seem to call from the shore
and I wonder to tell
that they wait at my door.

Two Rooms

2011-04-23T14:35:00.001-07:00

Two weeks of gradual packing and one day of harried moving, and I'm finally moved into our new place. This is the first time in my life that I've lived alone, and the apartment feels a bit empty and lonely. Fortunately, this state will not last long. Come May 21st and I will be living with my best friend. Could it get any better than that? I think not.

Two Rooms

Two weeks I had two rooms,
and now return to one;
the honeysuckle blooms,
but I am fled and run

and bound for greener lea,
to put behind the years
that mounted me a play
of apathy and fears.

No more the doubts abuse;
no more, the bitter night;
so certain of my muse;
so luminous in light,

and if I should contest
the solace of my home,
then never let me rest;
no heart was made to roam.

Worry

2011-04-16T22:37:00.000-07:00

It is very hard, sometimes, to remember that God will provide. So many things seem beyond control, and they are; yet no trouble that the world could engender is beyond the reach of faith. He always does provide.

Worry

My worry is a cyst,
a penetrating hole,
indelicately kissed
and suckled in the soul,

but empty as a threat
and tender as a bruise;
no want nor worry yet
could keep me from my muse.

Skybound

2011-04-09T21:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, the world seems to be filled with unhappy people, and I wonder how it is possible that those few happy ones don't fill the world with joy. Then, I remember that the happiest ones are so because they have hidden themselves away, and I am glad not to know who they are.

Skybound

Upon the ground, it seemed naive
to clamber from below.
How many undertake to leave?
How many never go?

How many? All the world dreams
that stars will fall to earth,
but as for me, I'll burst these seams
and seize upon my mirth.

Victory

2011-04-02T19:40:00.001-07:00

A life lived with others requires a constant death to self. Without this, one cannot truly love, for there will always be some small part of oneself that one places ahead of others. Love is selfless, or it is not love. We must reach constantly for that, for there is no in-between.

Victory

The words that we pass in the light
are seamlessly spoken and heard,
but love must endure the night
that leaves this indigence uncured,

and so I did strike at myself,
as if it were easily done;
defeat finds me back on the shelf,
and yours is the victory won.

Dismantling

2011-03-26T07:24:00.000-07:00

The more I box up, the more I wish to throw away. I'm a pack rat. Not an incorrigible one, but a pack rat, nonetheless. I have, in my house, the collected detritus of a decade, and I'm only now beginning to realize that I need very, very little of it. A good rule of thumb: if it hasn't been used in the last five years, it is probably expendable.

Dismantling

The clutter of a spartan life is clutter, still,
and cursing never cured a messy room,
so open all the drawers and let the garbage fill,
condemn the sullied tiles to the broom,

as, box on box, the stacks ascend in even shoots,
a camel cardboard forest from the floor;
I'll keep no more than needed when I'm pulling roots
and carrying my chattels out the door;
a dwelling and a heart; no less, no more.

Homecoming

2011-03-19T22:58:00.001-07:00

Tomorrow, I begin packing for the move, and this long-suffering man watches as his belongings are divided between the necessary and the disposable. Not that I mind; I could certainly suffer a sparser existence. And besides, I'm far too happy to object to the diminution of my worldly goods.

Homecoming

My heart was light and lithe the day I left
and longing for a home; these spartan walls
are spare and I no longer love the theft
of time, since silence settled on the squalls

that thrust me, like a ship, upon the shoal;
this castaway has caught a friendly breeze
to bear me to a harbor and a soul;
if one and one could ever make a whole,
then here am I to offer at your ease.

Imminent

2011-03-12T12:35:00.000-08:00

Of course, it's raining today, but I could have sworn I saw the sun on Friday. Crocuses are blooming, trees are budding, and May is coming faster than I could have imagined.

Imminent

Old, grey-eyed winter gives a final gasp
and clutches at the bony-fingered trees,
bewildered and bedeviled by the grasp
of blossoms bearing upwards to the bees;

high overhead, the clouds dispense a spell,
a curtain call of keen and seething snow,
but feebly, for they notice, all too well,
the shoots and runners readying to grow.

And how the weathermen will groan and gripe
and warn us of the ever-coming chill,
as arctic winds diminish, over-ripe
and withered. Let the weather as it will,

but, as for me, a warble on the wing
assures me of the certainty of spring.

Treasures

2011-03-05T21:47:00.001-08:00

How many rich men count themselves happy? It is not money, but people, that we ought to consider wealth. When every last penny has been spent, the worth of those who love us will not have been depleted by one whit.

Treasures

I am not rich, but neither am I poor;
my coffers ebb and flow abreast the tide,
to satisfy me from an ample store.
It is a simple duty to provide

for everyday demands. A modest heart,
obliging both in appetite and mode,
impels a similarly modest art
to satisfy its unabating load,

and gladly, for a dollar never bought
a single speck of happiness. I must
rely upon another, as I ought,
and rest my merriment upon the trust

that you will love me even when my stock
of worldly relief has run its clock.

Dreams

2011-02-27T07:11:00.001-08:00

I can never predict what sort of dreams I will have. Sometimes, they are pleasant. Other times, they are frightening. But, mostly, they are just strange. They play out like vignettes from an indie film, and I am all too happy to wake up in the morning.

Dreams

Some dreams are spun in filaments of gold
and silk, and hold against the sudden break
of morning light that startles us awake;
they swathe us in the unassuming fold

of easy sleep. But other are the dreams
devised of darker element and thread;
they keep a correspondence with the dead
and hold us in the horror of their seams.

And as we slip and sally into shade,
the visitants that quicken in the brain
and enter the imagination's vein
may leave us overjoyed or afraid

upon the cryptic rhythm of their tide;
no slumber's certain till it can subside.

Daybreak

2011-02-20T07:54:00.001-08:00

I almost didn't get a poem written this time around. Life is getting incrementally busier with every week. It seems that the quantity of free time I have and the degree to which others need me is in inverse proportion. However, soon enough, summer will be here, and I will be a (relatively) free man.

Daybreak

The night was passing, dim and dark;
the night was dreary as the sea,
a scattering of stars to mark
each astral eccentricity,
and, all the while, I metered by degree

the subtle shift, from east to west,
as declinations wheeled on
their measured spheres in measured rest
and made a bearing for the dawn.
Then, even as the moon was growing wan,

and wilted in the early light,
I smiled at the frosty earth
and set my wandering to flight,
to settle in a homey berth
and find a humble warren for my mirth

where you and I will make a home,
as hopeful as the rising few
who waken to the waning gloam
in faith the sun will surge anew,
encircling our joy in its view.

Succor

2011-02-12T14:39:00.000-08:00

Love is proved not in ease, but in times of trouble, and fair-weather friend is no friend at all when the strength of love and happiness is measured by the weight it can bear.

Succor

Now let me be your ease
and erubescent glow
or sunny summer breeze,
too reticent to blow,

but keen enough to set
a kiss upon your cheek
and obligate a debt
of one, alone; I seek

that you would let me be
your baluster and bond,
the bastion of your plea
through ages and beyond,

to undergird your grief
and fortify your peace;
I pledge you a relief
of adamant increase.

A Little More

2011-02-05T10:57:00.001-08:00

Time passes swiftly and the months fall away; every day draws us another day nearer. How could so many miss this happiness I have found? We are a fallen people, and our heaven is both painfully immediate and unattainably distant.

A Little More

A little more this hand must wait to bear
the weight that others shoulder with a sigh,
but silver bands are lighter than the air
and vows, a better salve. So long as I

long only for my perfect counterpart,
I will not play a wastrel, spurning love.
With every beat, you calibrate your heart
to fit me like an old, accustomed glove.

And know that I would empty every breath
to fashion mine a mirror of your own,
reflecting, now and ever after death,
a beauty that was for my eyes, alone.

And so, I wait a little more to see
this promise of a fair eternity.

My Messy Domain

2011-01-29T07:56:00.000-08:00

It seems that I am always playing catch-up with my chores; never enough time nor motivation to get everything done. Fortunately, I leave my current apartment in three months. At least with this deadline, I will have to get things done.

My Messy Domain

I have a little nation;
I've kept it very well,
but not so neat in station
as seasons ought to tell,

for worries, far more pressing
than sums of folded shirts,
and laboring, a blessing
however much it hurts,

exhaust my meager hours
and nibble at my ease.
This de rigueur devours,
by strengthening degrees,

what time I have alloted
to straighten up my realm,
and yet, the course I've plotted
upon this homely helm

will fetch me to a sterile
and surrogate domain,
to open, at my peril,
a new and muddled reign

and reinstill the jumble
that jeopardized my home,
a regent rendered humble
wherever he may roam.

My Sparrow

2011-01-22T21:09:00.000-08:00

The most blessed thing you could boast is a faithful friend, and if that friend also be a lover, you can indeed be called happy no matter what troubles you encounter.

My Sparrow

My comfort is my sparrow, constant friend,
confirmed alike in trouble or in ease
and ready to console; no flighty breeze,
but steady from the onset to the end,

whatever worries dog my weary heart,
for, day to day, I put my bosom trust
in this abiding promise, as I must
if ever love let fly a faithful dart
and raised a vital body from the dust.

Insomnia

2011-01-15T18:11:00.000-08:00

Cold nights and noisy neighbors mean that, for me, a good sleep is rarely had. Add on to that early morning alarms, finals week preparations, and hours spent driving all over God's green earth, and you have a perfect storm. I had thought I might catch up on sleep over Christmas break, but found that I can no longer sleep past 6:30 a.m. I keep telling myself that I'll make up for it all some day soon, but that day never seems to come.

Insomnia

As surely as I lay my head
to rest, recumbent on the down,
the stars align, by compline led
and blessed above our weary town,
and firmly do I follow at the thread
and sable gown

that furls, now, from east to west,
to wind the world in a net;
the artless by an art possessed,
the mind enfolded to forget
such languid life our leisure would invest.
How can I let

my hours fade, so undefined?
They fly as quickly as the frost
and leave me restive and resigned,
a tired debtor. Time is lost,
and even as the stars are realigned
at such a cost.

So take your pleasure as you ply
your bed and berth; the grasping hand
of dawn is greedy and the sky
is reddening. Upon command,
the stars and I exchange a last goodbye
above this land.

Occupation

2011-01-08T19:05:00.000-08:00

I used to worry that I wouldn't have enough to do with all my free time. I could not have been more wrong. Now, I make do with what minutes and hours (more often the former than the latter) I can grasp. It makes it difficult to find time to write even one short poem during the week; hence, this six-line runt churned out fifteen minutes ago.

Occupation

I've hurtled through the week
like a careening cannon ball,
too worn to write or speak
and so the pen and paper fall
asleep and silent, meek
as I, but ready at my call.

Country Stars

2011-01-01T12:17:00.001-08:00

An urbanized sky is a sorry thing, with barely a handful of dim and dreary stars. Travel to the country, however, and you will find a treasure trove of brilliant and luminous constellations. It is easy to forget the beauty of God's creation when you spend your life trapped in the hazy, cement walls of a city, but a quick trip to the wilderness will remind you, in an instant, of the inestimable vastness of the universe.

Country Stars

The stars of the city are pale and grey,
a glimmer of heavenly cheer,
awoken to shutter the elderly day
in shadow. This stale career

is all that persists of the glorious crown
that once superseded the earth,
as timid ascension and settling down
deposits the stars in their berth.

But travel a little beyond the divide
that severs the city and wood,
where rivers run deep and horizons are wide
and wild, and then if you should

look up on a cloudless and equable night,
the stars that you see overhead
will glory the sky in a radiant light
that rouses the living and dead.

The Festival of the Last Minute

2010-12-24T18:25:00.001-08:00

Another year come and gone; another fifty-two poems on the (metaphorical) page. This next shall bring big changes for me - momentous, earth-shaking changes - but this poetry blog, read or unread, will steadily chug along. I can only hope that it brings you as much joy as it does me. God bless and merry Christmas.

The Festival of the Last Minute

With Christmas close upon us and the rush
of shopping, should it come as a surprise
that charity is buried in a crush
of acquisition. How we idolize

and gather, like a flock of silly sheep,
and straightaway surrender every scrap
of will and wit and intellect we keep
to toe the latest trend. This honeyed trap

entices both the plebeian and prince.
What better way to show your tender care
than with a gift? How better to convince
of love than by the offerings you bear?

But as for me, I'll spend the eve in rest
and seek to be an honest Christmas guest.

Worth

2010-12-18T18:43:00.000-08:00

I am tired and this poem is quite nearly late. Thank goodness for Christmas break. May your last week of Advent be blessed.

Worth

I had a little speck of worth
within me from the start,
established in the fallow earth
that occupied my heart,

but now that heart has been rebuilt
into a fertile bed
and all the worth that used to wilt
is blooming overhead.

Soon

2010-12-11T07:29:00.000-08:00

Can it be that time is passing so quickly? Sometimes, the seconds are an eternity, but other times, weeks hardly seem a sufficient measure. I can't say I mind the latter state, so long as things slow down come May.

Soon

When winter eases and the willing earth
awakens to the legacy of snow,
when shoots are swelling for a sudden birth
and all the land is fit to overflow

with liveliness, as just as sure as we
are set to sow our happiness, a song
is on our tongues, a wild reverie.
Though we are here, we shall not linger long,

when longing couples liberty to pain
and makes the hours agony to bear.
Our servitude is certain to be gain,
our mingling, a joyful affair.

For on the day we join soul to soul,
we make our native deficit a whole.

Sleep

2010-12-04T06:34:00.001-08:00

How pleasant it is to burrow under the heavy weight of blankets, when the temperature and sun are sinking fast. The only grief of sleep is how quickly it passes, and the time for rising in the chill morning air is upon us as, day and night, we play the sorry Persephone.

Sleep

The night approaches, dim and deep and dark,
an inky chill that clambers at my toes.
That old December sky is bare and stark
and stippled with the stars. I do suppose

I'll wander off to bed, and to my dreams;
they warm me, and the burly blankets, too,
as other warmth unravels at the seams
and slips away. How pleasant to pursue

my bounding, old bellwether and his flock,
who number out the enterprise of sleep
as surely as a counterweighted clock.
Within my waking mind, the moments creep,

but, sure and sweet, a somnolence takes hold
and, sooner than I know, the night is old.

Wet Winter

2010-11-27T11:06:00.000-08:00

Winter in the Midwest is a quakingly cold, arctic affair. The snow piles up in huge, tar-black mounds in the streets and parking lots, and the daily low temperature readings are rendered entirely void by harsh and constant windchill. For all its severity, however, those winters are easy to bear. Firstly, there are no fluctuations. When winter comes, it is to stay, and for six months, the land is locked in comfortable hibernation. When things finally do begin to warm towards that fabled 0° C mark, it is not uncommon to see the braver residents wandering around in shorts and tee-shirts. Secondly, and more importantly, it is not, in the end, utter cold that makes winter uncomfortable, but, rather, the pervading damp of a temperate chill. When the water settles on your skin and coats your car with ice and works its way into every crack and crevice, where it can quietly wick away all heat, that is when winter is truly painful. For all that, though, it is still a stunningly beautiful time of year.

Wet Winter

It isn't the chill or the chafe of the air
on a frigid and blustery day
or the ice as it glazes and kindles a glare
every morning that keeps me at bay;

I can suffer the frost through the swirling snow
and the nip and the grippe and the squall,
for the roar of the winter, all buffet and blow,
is an impotent rallying call.

No, the heart of the hardship, the bestial hold,
is that treacherous creep of the damp;
it invests every breath with a waterlogged cold,
every move with a crippling clamp,

as it burrows through fleece to the flesh and the bone,
not a nerve to be spurned in its spite.
I could weather the winter if left all alone,
but the damp will endure tonight.

Itinerancy

2010-11-20T06:49:00.001-08:00

The time for uprooting old foundations is fast approaching. Of the things that must go, I will miss the juniper and wisteria most of all. They've done well for themselves, and it's a terrible pity to see their slow and steady progress so swiftly concluded. What must be, must be, I suppose, but I dream of the day I can establish a plant and watch it grow for decades to come.

Itinerancy

Our barrel tree has barely made a man
in height; his roots have labored for the earth
forlornly, hindered by an iron girth
and sentenced, just as soon as they began

descending, to terminated lot.
We'll turn him out, all sod and sorry dirt
and limbs askew. The effort we exert
to extricate his skeleton is not

inordinate for what it took to bed
his youthfulness so many years ago;
so many years of sun and bitter snow,
and, through it all, he kept a noble head.

But now, we move our transitory home;
no rooted tree was ever meant to roam.

Working Morning

2010-11-13T08:03:00.000-08:00

As Autumn and Winter progress, it grows more and more difficult to get up each morning. Hot showers help, when there is time, but even that shivered dash from the bedroom to the bathroom can be a sufficient impediment to activity. We should count ourselves lucky that Oregon is so temperate when compared to the Northeast, but suffering is subjective and, from November till April, Summer can seem an all-too-forlorn hope.

Working Morning

A brisk wind blows
and blights the trees
above an icy sheen.
It burns the nose
and bends the knees
and wipes the gutters clean,

as weary folk
with heavy eyes
would rather stay asleep,
when each awoke
to inky skies,
so hesitant to peek

from underneath
a cozy hoard
of blankets rallied round,
a heavy wreath
of leisure stored
within a woolen mound.

But constant calls
of duty rouse
the lifeless to a hint
of drafty halls;
each dusky house
grows vital with a glint

of lambent light
and covers drawn
and coffee in the cup,
and so the night
is quit for dawn
and labor, rising up.

Human Faith

2010-11-06T06:59:00.000-07:00

Human beings are inconstant, mercurial creatures. This is the crux of almost every broken relationship and failed love. How can we trust, when the ones to be trusted are inevitably untrustworthy? To be called to love, however, is to be called to trust the untrustworthy. It is a terrible gamble, but the surety of it is this: though the risk of failure is great, the reward of success is infinitely greater and, while we may escape the possibility of misery, it can only be at the cost of every hope of appreciable happiness. So, a million might fail and one succeed, but this is the burden of human life, and a world in which even one can strive for happiness is far better than a world in which all are condemned to indifference. We love, and so we put our faith in others, and this is the blessing and curse of our existence. Only remember, the suffering of a broken faith is transient, but the happiness of a proven faith eternal. Search always for a worthy human faith, no matter how often your confidences are abused. Accede to no less and, while you may endure much suffering, you will find, in the end, extraordinary happiness.

Human Faith

My faith I put in winter and the frost,
in summer and the rampant meadow-grass,
in things begotten, even as they pass,
and so my merriment imparts a cost

of mortal and perennial decline;
this is a mild charge I gladly meet,
for treasure freely tendered is deceit,
but death and reawakening, divine.

My faith in sempiternal loss and gain
is sound; these underpinnings shall abide
through age and age, long after we have died,
and, with another certainty, remain,

for, of the fleeting fancies I pursue,
I put my final human faith in you.

The Tempest

2010-10-30T07:56:00.000-07:00

In one short week, the leaves have flushed, shuddered, and flown, and the trees are left quite bare. I enjoy this change in scenery, but it does evoke a quiet longing for the gentler days of May and June which, for those of you who wonder, are only seven months away.

The Tempest

How high the wind will blow;
Aeolus in the trees
rehearsing for the show
in prefatory breeze,
and all the earth, below,
an overwrought tableau
and ill at ease,

and then the wind, a song
in timpani and string
and crashing on the gong,
no arias to sing,
unchains a surging throng,
as turbulent and strong
as any king,

to devastate the leaves
that linger on the bough;
their ebbing grip receives
a buffeting, and how
they hurry to the eaves
with indecisive heaves.
Will you allow

this long-awaited coup
and mutiny begun?
No more the morning dew,
no more the gentle sun,
as tempests run askew,
so eager to pursue
their seething fun.

Falling Leaves

2010-10-23T07:36:00.000-07:00

All summer long, the trees are swathed with intense mantles of green that serve as much to beautify as to obscure the amazing landscapes that pepper the Northwest. Now, the leaves are turning and falling, and, for once, I can see the Willamette River and distant Mt. Hood from the comfort of my living room.

Falling Leaves

The summer leaves obstruct our view,
the river and the range;
they hold an autocratic coup
against a steady change
and charge the overwhelming light
with shade and shadow-sifted sight

so rife with viridescent green.
This is a gentle cage,
and we observe, ourselves unseen,
a histrionic stage
of runners reaching for the stars,
a web of pliant prison bars

that we will never overcome,
as often as we try;
their branches make a burly sum
and dare us to defy
the fixedness of supple shoots
that take their spirit from the roots.

But no offensive is compelled;
inertia is our sword,
and, as our peace is surely held,
that lush and leafy hoard
shall fall before the rising frost,
a mantle shed for meager cost.

Diurnal

2010-10-16T07:15:00.000-07:00

Every morning is a blessed awakening and every evening, a happy rest. It is the hours in between that are most difficult to bear. But as it is bounded by restive time, I am able to endure till the next day.

Diurnal

Do you see the dawn as I?
Do you watch its steady burn
escalating in the sky,
tireless and taciturn,

till the subtle shifts of light
show the city's hidden face
in its full, diurnal might,
such a guest is morning grace?

Do you live the busy day?
Do you yield to the din,
girdling your head to pray
that a peace may enter in,

emptied of the endless hue
that suffuses every beat
with an unremitting cue,
interdictive of defeat?

Do you greet the weary dusk?
Do you cheer its dim caress,
slow to come but ever brusque
to accrue and coalesce

at the slacking of the strain
that compels our industry?
Comforter of earthly pain,
I await you eagerly.

The Hours

2010-10-09T06:36:00.001-07:00

However much time there is in the day, it is never sufficient for my wants. I fear that I will only be satisfied when I no longer look to leaving, but only to coming.

The Hours

The hours that we make
are not our own. The few,
apportioned and awake,
erratically accrue

and dissipate, again,
with similar caprice.
If we could only pen
a well-established peace

or sleepy solitude,
our longing could abate,
and I should never brood
the hour, ever late.

On a Bearing

2010-10-02T06:58:00.000-07:00

There is a great gulf between that which we think will make us happy and that which truly will. We are impelled toward both possible objects by our desire for happiness. Unfortunately, our desire only indicates, like a compass, what direction to travel, and not where to stop. So, stopping all too soon, we believe we have found true happiness when, in fact, we have merely found a pale imitation along the way. Therefore, do not let yourself be distracted by any earthly possession that alleges to provide happiness. The only object which can realize this claim is God, and the only earthly objects that can share in that realization are the ones that bear a likeness. That is, you can look for a measure of happiness in this life as long as you look for it in those you love.

On a Bearing

Desire is a compass spinning free
of all impedimenta, pointed true
and rooted to the stratum of the sea.
A fitter apparatus never drew

so fine a tack, and yet our hasty hearts
are sorely lacking prudence, for they seek
direction reft of purpose. Pale arts,
intemperate in season and oblique

in counsel, lead us ever on a vain
trajectory, untutored in design.
The necessary consequence is pain;
the predetermined eminence, decline;

for satisfaction never held a sway
upon our native bearings, run astray.

Gravity

2010-09-25T14:41:00.000-07:00

I suppose every child dreams of flying. I know I certainly did, and to little surprise - what better way to spend a lazy afternoon than freewheeling high above the tiresome, busy earth? Also, this is poem #150!

Gravity

For once the hills were high
as scuffed an ashen sky,
established summits swift to spurn repose
from eyries, hid in cleft,
and stony haunts, bereft
of brush and bramble, clouded from the crows,

where only eagles flew
upon a lonely skew
of eddies running, brisk, above the earth,
but now the land is worn,
the weary hummocks shorn
and shackled by the gravity of girth.

A better home for souls
who make their measured strolls
across the even alleys of the ground
could hardly be conceived.
And yet, are we not grieved
that fate has made us terra-firma bound?

Summer Muse

2010-09-18T18:33:00.001-07:00

I find it much easier to write in the winter, when it is cold and dark and I am driven indoors. Summer is far too overpowering, both to the mind and the senses, to allow for much creative work. Still, I putter on, though I find that I do most of my summer puttering at night.

Summer Muse

In winter, words flow like the chill
that clambers at the window sill
and looks to undermine the hand
against the roaring grill,

and inspiration, ever rife,
is bedded, as a tender wife;
the moments make their own demand
upon a dormant life.

But in the summer, what a spell
of arid thirst. An empty well
and desiccate expanse of sand
suppresses, in a swell

of heat and sun and humid light,
such words the hand would hope to write,
and so I wait, alone, unmanned,
my muse upon the night.

The Guide

2010-09-11T18:01:00.000-07:00

It is an inhuman, almost impossible, task to love that which is not immediately before us. Fortunately, we are given intermediate, imperfect creations, so that they may guide us to a love which has, as its object, the most perfect lover of all.

The Guide

What are the things we know?
The wind-bedraggled leaves;
the apples as they grow;
the water off the eaves;

a miniscule sphere
to complement the mind.
Whatever else is here,
whatever else we find,

is only but a shade
of silhouettes unseen,
and ever we invade,
and ever fall between

the outset and the end.
The only fecund guide
is fathomed in a friend,
a lover, and a bride,

in charity to wed
the mortal and divine,
to stitch a constant thread
in visible design,

that weaker hearts may sew
the happiness they yearn,
impossible to know,
but possible to learn.

Dog Days

2010-09-04T07:53:00.000-07:00

This warm spell seems to have broken at last. There was a week or two where no supply of ice water and fans and cold showers could relieve the heat. Even now, the occasionally torrid day pokes its head between the rain clouds. I'll be so very glad when Autumn has truly begun.

Dog Days

What good an open window?
The sun ignites a blaze,
and all the world akimbo,
a muddlement of haze

and heat, a melting mirror
in which the earth is held
and sufferance is clearer,
the sooner we are quelled,

and everyone is waiting
for Autumn to arise,
but, ever unabating,
the sun besets the skies.

The Enduring Bridge

2010-08-28T06:13:00.000-07:00

I wrote this many months back - at least four, although I can't say for certain. It's a billet-doux to telephones and emails and handwritten letters and all those other sundry things that make distance in equal parts manageable and maddening.

The Enduring Bridge

So curious, that we must live apart
and only find liaison in a word
or two that tells the tenor of the heart,
but leaves the fundamental song unheard.

This firm division - necessary rift
of strict materiality - must hold
our minds in segregation, till the swift
and independent melodies unfold,

and unity discretely yields one,
as in an old duet we persevere.
Although they argue two apart is none,
a subtle harmony is all we hear,

for, long as living voices span the breach,
I have no fear our words will cease to reach.

Rest

2010-08-21T06:24:00.000-07:00

Sometimes, I grow tired of constantly moving, yet never moving forward. I don't believe the things I want are overly ambitious, but somehow the distance between where I am and where I want to be always seems so great. In my heart, though, I know that these things would never make me truly happy. And to be fair, I could not possibly be happier than I am now.

Rest

A little space is what I seek;
a little space, no more;
a shelter from the manic week
behind a modest door;

a breath of time to pacify;
a tender breeze to stray
across my notions, all awry,
and limber limbs, asplay;

and silence, silence over all
to carry me to rest;
a respite from the teeming squall,
and I will find me blessed.

Last Rites

2010-08-14T08:22:00.000-07:00

First coffins and now funerals. No, I'm not on a death-kick. In fact, I wrote this poem quite a while ago, and only now, finding myself rather dry and wanting of inspiration, have I pulled it out and dusted it off. And while it may not be as fresh as the morning paper, I still stand by its words. What do those words say? Well, have you noticed how modern funerals are frequently made into celebrations of life? Whether or not a man has lived a good life, we feel impelled to praise him in his death. This praise becomes simply the reward of living, rather than the just recompense of a life well-lived. And even if one seems to have lived a good life, who are we to judge? It is a particularly thorny issue, however, thanks to our trivialization of sorrow. Sorrow, we say, is bad, for it bears an uncomfortable likeness to depression. "Don't be sad," the preacher comforts the bereaved, "he is in a better place." Firstly, it is a conceit to think that we know when one is 'in a better place'. Secondly, we must allow ourselves to be sad, to feel sorrow. Sorrow is just as necessary as joy and each is appropriate to its own time. As the wisest man in the world once said (no, not Pete Seeger), all things have their season, and in their times all things pass under heaven; a time to be born and a time to die; a time to weep and a time to laugh. So weep in times of sorrow and laugh in times of joy. It is all we are able to do.

Last Rites

A joy is contraband
to heavy-hearted woes,
as if an artless hand
would offer up a rose

to take the lily's place
of honor at the tomb;
a delicate disgrace,
indelicate in bloom,

when sorrow is the seed,
uncertain of the end
as certain of the need
for which it will ascend

to supplicate the guilt
that stains a sleeping head;
to bury, to the hilt,
petitions for the dead.

I Know

2010-08-07T07:24:00.000-07:00

Nowadays, conjugal love is equated with sex. The undeniable bond between the body and the soul, a bond which once subjugated the lesser to greater, has faded, firstly, into the correspondence of equals, and then into a revolt of our animal half, which has left the soul derided, and even ignored, as the useless trappings of an unfortunate puritanical history. And so, love is now affixed to feeling, urge, hunger, lust, et cetera, but never, ever can it be called knowledge. This was the way in which the Old Testament spoke of conjugal love, and the truth of this is paramount. If love is simply a feeling, then it is as weak as the hormones and chemical reactions that produce that feeling, for feelings are, in the end, rooted in the body, however amorphous and incorporeal they may seem. Love that knows the beloved, however, is immeasurably stronger and immeasurably more meaningful. And where is this knowledge? Why, in the intellect, of course. Any meaningful love - any real love - cannot reside in the emotions, but in the reason. The difference is this: when love is based in a bodily feeling, you love the object of that feeling, which is physical and psychological pleasure. On the other hand, when love is based in knowledge, you love the object of that knowledge, which is the beloved. Then unless you can first love with reason, you will never truly love with feeling.

I Know

If loving were a longing, barely held
within the flighty confines of the heart,
that joy would as quickly be expelled
as nurtured by our fluctuating art,

for sentiments are fickle as the wind
that daily alters over land and sea,
and such a love would surely be unpinned
by every altercation of degree.

But love that undergirds the heavy weight
of centuries in melody and verse
is ever more than orotund estate,
unfitly nurtured by a feeble nurse.

The truest love to occupy the soul
is knowledge of the deficit and whole.

Coffins

2010-07-31T07:56:00.001-07:00

So much of what we undertake in this life is done to satisfy expectations. Is it not best to do what we know to be right, regardless of the approval of others? Whether this be schooling, work, or, in this case, burial, the argument is always the same. Do not waste effort pandering to the expectations of society. The truth will be found in following your reason, your heart, and your conscience. In this particular case, I see no reason why my survivors should spend thousands of dollars to bury me in a box for which neither they nor I will find any use, and which will serve only as the bed of my decomposition. Far better to return as I came, wrapped in cloth and unmindful of the womb in which I will lay.

Coffins

No man was born to occupy a box;
his billet is the bounded mortal sphere,
and when his life has superseded clocks
and compasses, no home will find him here,

alone and lifeless in a velvet bed,
his carnal heart concluded, as a new
and fitter heart is founded overhead.
To sorrow for the former is askew

of immortality. So lay me low
in linens, leaving better homes for those
whose hearts are still enlivened. Let me go
as I arrived, and all bereft of clothes

and dwelling, for I need no earthly nest
when I no longer play the earthly guest.

The Saplings

2010-07-24T07:16:00.000-07:00

Small trees are never taken by the wind; only the large, whose boughs have far outpaced their roots. The little trees bend to nature, while their elders keel over, and so I have never walked in the woods after a windstorm to find all the trees still standing. The persistence of those yet upright is measured not by the girth, but by the limberness of their trunks.

The Saplings

The wind is like a lioness;
she furrows in the wheat
and makes the supple saplings press
their temples in defeat,
to curtsey for the watercress,
their lofty spires ever less
than lesser in retreat.

But even they are unconcerned
as every aged bole
is overthrown and underchurned
to bare a ragged hole,
all roots and radicles upturned.
This sufferance is only earned
by yielding control.

New Moon

2010-07-17T12:43:00.001-07:00

At first glance, the night sky seems static and immobile, and the stars and moon appear fixed in their positions. Wait long enough, however, and you will notice that they have a steady, if miniscule, motion. Place a tree beside the moon, and eventually it will obscure it; watch the stars along the western horizon, and they will gradually disappear from view. Little motions seem non-existent in passing, but in truth they are the difference between night and day.

New Moon

The moon is a dimpling smile,
half-spun in the nebulous trees
and steadily striding an aisle
in minutes of motive degrees,

sidereal in their decline
and edged by the flickering stars.
A million pin-pricks align
to shepherd her onwards of Mars

and Venus, Olympian friends,
so firm in this evening dance
that ushers her as she ascends
and sinks with a Cheshirish glance.

My Soul Maintains a Smile

2010-07-10T19:39:00.001-07:00

What good is it to worry about all the things we cannot control? Do your best in those which are given over to your will, and leave the rest to the mercy and foresight of God, Who is a far better architect of the future than you or I.

My Soul Maintains a Smile

My soul maintains a smile
at the fickle path of fate,
as I walk an endless mile
and arrive forever late,

for to worry is levy
I cannot afford to pay,
when the happiness is heavy
that would see me worn and grey

and a pauper, with a pittance
of the wealth that men revere.
I would rather a remittance
that is not so dim and drear,

to escape the earthly measure
we have made prosperity,
where my solitary treasure
finds me joyful and free.

Reserve

2010-07-03T09:41:00.001-07:00

We are surrounded by a constant and catalytic spectacle of exhibitionism and voyeurism. We like to see and we like to be seen, and why? Almost always, it is founded in a desire for endorsement. Look around you at almost any display of physical beauty and ask yourself whether said displayer is confident in said beauty. The answer is almost certainly no. The truly confident have no need to display their wealth. It is the insecure who make their facilities visible to the general public. They want to be told they are beautiful, smart, witty, et cetera. And this is why the rarest and most irresistible beauty is the hidden beauty, that beauty that offers itself only to the chosen few. So, do not make displays of yourselves. The wealth you possess is worth far more than that. And do not worry on endorsement and acceptance, for those who would appreciate you only when you are made a spectacle merit no attention at all.

Reserve

What beauty ever was as rare as yours,
to rest within a chamber, veiled so
from scrutiny? Such spoils of wars
as others are would make a feeble show

of passion, less requited than repaid.
The heavy lacquer of a thousand eyes
has settled on this stale masquerade
and set the striving higher than the prize.

But you are ever spotless as you were,
and eyes have not despoiled your wealth.
Your confidence is elegant and sure,
your poise, prepossessing in its health,

your vessel, irreplaceable in worth.
Spare vintage is a solitary plight.
Among the brazen pickings of the earth,
but one alone sustains a vestal light

and longs to see a longing flame return
the signal fire, manifest and pure.
Or have you found a sympathetic burn,
a conflagration worthy of concern,
to token in the realms of the obscure?

Remedy

2010-06-26T09:00:00.000-07:00

Time advances far too slowly in anticipation. Minutes seem as hours, and hours seem as days, and by this count we shall be much in years before ten months are done and past.

Remedy

This absence wounds, and I, a wounded beast,
am barely left alive. A lonely cry
petitions for the sun to crest the east
and crown the crescent earth, to break and fly,

for stars no longer hold a lonely sway,
and early hours urge the glutted moon
to deviate in deference of day.
This eager heart is covetous of noon

and all the airy physic of the light,
remedial, mercurial, and fair,
till suffering, inspired by the night,
is settled in a beautiful repair.

Similarity

2010-06-19T07:39:00.001-07:00

Some say that opposites attract. I say that unless there is a fundamental likeness there can be no attraction at all. Of course that which is different from yourself is interesting and intriguing, but such difference must rest on a foundation of similarity. To act otherwise would be akin to drowning yourself for the excitement of living underwater. You first must find your basis within the realms of the necessarily familiar before you seek the balance of the disparate. So, we search for the unknown above water, where we can live and breathe, and we look for happy relationships with those who bear a true likeness to ourselves in the essential ways, and only differ extraneously, for, in the end, little differences are fun; big differences are destructive.

Similarity

No happiness, unburdened and divine,
was ever found in difference. The seed
of love allows a modicum of wine
to supplement the promise of the reed

in genesis if only like assents
to like, for when did likening betray
the counterpart of comforting intents?
The sun could sooner disavow the day,

and so, the errant soul will never rest
until it finds a doppelgänging peer,
and quietude will never be possessed
until a much of muchness persevere

and opposition fail to enthrall,
the constancy of semblance over all.

Succession

2010-06-11T14:19:00.000-07:00

For a long time, the focus of my life had been my evenings. Now all that has changed, and whereas I once measured days by quiet hours under the stars, I now find myself most alive in the sun and rain. This has little to do with the circumstances of day and night, and a great deal to do with the people that populate those circumstances.

Succession

The night was once a friend, but now the day
is better, for he holds my only heart
in consequence and ornaments the way
I ought to walk. A fitter compass chart

I could not hope to follow, for the stars,
though radiant in shadow, show a flaw
when likened to a sunny light, as ours.
Upon the glowing vision, they withdraw

and linger till the evening. The night
is only now a guidance in the gloom,
but this is not my portion, this, my light,
illuminates the corners of my room

and pledges joy ever it began.
Then I await, as only wonder can.

Star-Crossed

2010-06-05T08:02:00.000-07:00

When we are children, we reach for things as children do, with grasping and seizing. A child's world is very physical, and can be had through exertion. There are no facades, and the surface is an expression of what lies underneath. When we grow up, we find that things are not as they seem, and the world is full of pretenses and charades. Nothing can be had by simple taking. We adults must first dig down and expose the truth, and then decide if that truth is worth possessing. All too often, it is not. But Christ told us to be like little children, and this is what he meant. Let our yeses mean yes and our noes mean no. Let the exterior life be no different from the interior life. Let the reality we see be the reality that is. Then, we will once again be like little children, and our simplicity will be our happiness.

Star-Crossed

I built a bridge to span the stars,
but found it fell too short
to reach the ruddy cliffs of Mars,
far less, a stellar port,

for in the sea-expanse of space
there was no tending-down,
no breccia to set a base
beneath my iron crown,

and all was left to drift away
upon the solar wind,
the residue of child's play
no longer underpinned.

Then from the earth I brooded on
that disappearing frame,
a sun, a moon, a star, and gone,
an arbitrary game.

Perhaps a bridge cannot assuage
my longing to depart,
but someday I will quit this stage
and make a mounting start

to gain the heavens overhead
where feet have never gone,
to rest upon a pilgrim bed,
my pearl and my dawn.

Waiting

2010-05-29T08:27:00.001-07:00

Some say that anticipation is the better part of happiness. I beg to differ. To be sure, opening Christmas presents is rarely as fun as wondering what might be hidden beneath, but that is only because of the disconnect between expectation and reality. If what you want does not measure what you get, of course there will be frustration. And if you expect anything to make you perfectly happy, you will never fail to be sorely disappointed. The trick, then, is to know exactly what you are getting, and the sort of happiness that it is going to give you, before you get it. It is a question of proportion. For instance, a trip to Disneyland is, in the end, going to provide little more than fatigue, expense, and sunburns, but try telling that to a young child. Or, again, a '66 Mustang is hardly going to make adulthood meaningful, but ten thousand mid-life crises would beg to differ. Our lives consist of almost-constant searching for the next missing thing, but we look for the wrong things, and in the wrong places. There are only a handful of things we need. Food? Shelter? Relaxation? No, we're not talking about comfort, here. We're talking about happiness. It's entirely different. What do we need for happiness? Faith. Hope. Love. And that last one is the key. Everything else in life is aimed at that one thing. Then, unlike all other cases, in which expectation always exceeds reality, the reality will simply blow all expectation out of the water. As I said before, it is a question of proportion, and the proportion, here, is the infinite to the finite. How could it not be infinitely better than we could possibly imagine?

Waiting

You pass the earth in endless shade,
a burgher of the night,
unvarying by retrograde
or growth, by gloom or light,
and longing, always longing for
some undelivered rite

to draw your drifting feet ashore
and set them on the sand.
The hours that you laid in store
are staler than planned,
and, still, their passage obligates
such rigorous demand

for stoicism. Why the fates
should ask so much of one,
to bind your frail frame with weights
before you had begun,
I cannot know, but offer trade
of two in place of none.

A Sudden Rain

2010-05-22T07:34:00.000-07:00

We planted our annual vegetable garden last Monday. The thick soil, which was, until recently, a rough expanse of dirt clods and horse dung, is now neatly stitched with rows of tomatoes, peppers, cucumbers, and swiss chard. On the way to the garden, it began to rain, and continued well into the evening. We came out of it soaked to the skin, covered from fingers to elbows in mud and manure, and, above all, happy. I'm looking forward to the crops-to-come.

A Sudden Rain

The rain is a welcome relief.
Its steady advance from the clouds
is soft as a fugitive thief
that scatters the spurious crowds,

and on each surprising descent,
the woody perfume of the earth
unfurls. No life is ill-spent
when lived in a waterlogged mirth,

where heavenly stoppers release
such brisk reliquaries of air
and water. What glorious peace
prevails within disrepair,

so long as the wolcen will shed
a radiant torrent of tears
that leavens our indolent bread
and opens our ailing ears.

Now and Then

2010-05-15T06:40:00.001-07:00

In youth (not to say that I'm out of it yet, though it's getting harder and harder to maintain the facade), it often happens that the things we believe to be true are based on a little experience and a lot of conceit. If we don't know everything by high-school, then we certainly do by college, and parents are fools and authority exists to be questioned. Then, we grow up, and idealism and hope are replaced by cynicism and doubt, and all those starry-eyed liberals suddenly and unexpectedly find themselves walking around in the polished, wing-tip shoes of world-weary conservatives. It does not have to be so. Make no mistake, it is the epitome of naiveté to cling to the high-minded convictions of youth. All too often, they are founded on nothing more than over-excited intellects and narrow-minded views of reality. But, to slip into the disenchantment of adulthood is an equally grave sin. There is, thankfully, a middle ground, where the ideals that once nourished us can be married to the difficult reality that surrounds us. This happy mean can seem, at times, to be unattainable, and, indeed, many never find it. Our mistake, however, is to search for it by ourselves. Alone, we can never hope to reach it; it is only found through others. And what can those others do for us? They can love and they can be loved. This is where the idealism of youth and the realism of adulthood meet. Love without suffering is weak, and suffering without love is unconquerable, but, together, they can forge a happiness which is indescribably better than anything our flawed human intellects could imagine. At this point, I'm sure, you're beginning to question whether I am as distanced from my youth as I believe. All I can say to you is that these things are true, and that if you are unwilling to trust me in this, you will squander your happiness, even if it should be dropped on your doorstep, for when it does come, you will not recognize it for what it is. Love sustains us and love enlivens us, and there is no truer credo than this: the only real happiness we can hope for in this life is found in love.

Now and Then

I once imagined I could see beyond
the surfaces that held the world fast,
a water-weight of knowledge for my bond
and fetter, fitted tightly to the last,

but in my nonage, any scanty sense
was made a fool's wisdom. What is youth,
but seizing on indifferent defense?
To fancy that I contemplated truth

was such a sophomoric disregard,
that, even now, I smile at the thought
of certitude I judged exceeding hard,
but found to be far gentler than not,

and, even now, the axioms I hold
will fall before the truth when I am old.

Babylon

2010-05-08T07:32:00.000-07:00

We Americans are living lives of gluttony. We spend more than we have and take more than we need, and then wonder why our banks and manufacturers and governments are failing for lack of wealth. Our lifestyle has far exceeded our abilities, and now we must face the realization that the solution to our economic hardship is not going to come from more spending and more bailouts, but, rather, from frugality. This suffering is not an evil to be suppressed. It is the necessary fruit of our extravagance and the symptom of a much greater sickness, and, until we address that, we shall never recover the state of health and vigor we once possessed.

Babylon

The wild ones of Babylon
are dancing in the street
to strains that scatter fuel on
the fire in their feet.

They caper for a hollow death
and celebrate their sin;
they reckon on a rotten breath
to whisper illness in.

And who are we to crucify
the raptures of the crowd?
When all, alike, are born to die,
then let us die aloud.

This hunger is our happiness;
baptize us not content,
till all the wealth we've born is less
than all the wealth we've spent.

I Wake the Morning

2010-05-01T08:46:00.001-07:00

The still and calm of morning is an experience not to be foregone. An early morning makes the days longer, the sunlight brighter, and the nights deeper. It is easy to make a habit of sleeping in, but, thank goodness, my job has me up by 6:30 every day of the week, and I never cease to be grateful for that. The only imperfection I can find in mornings are their brief durations.

I Wake the Morning

I wake the morning to a tribe of birds
who make a merry twittering; a brief
apocalypse of animated words
is overheard from sediment to leaf.

Then, subtly, the sky is on the surge,
the steady march of hours is begun,
and retrograding shadows near the verge
of life and deed and escalating sun.

And where are all my birds, my early friends,
who reveled in the swiftly fading dark?
As others made their leisurely amends,
we restive ones brought closure to the arc.

But now we rise in transitory flight;
your hectic sphere is calmer from a height.

Virgo

2010-04-24T07:38:00.000-07:00

At last, the stars are beginning to break through the rain clouds and illuminate the nights. Few scenes are as beautiful as those evenings when the tar-black silhouettes of trees stand stark against a sky of scattered buttermilk clouds and pinprick stars on a navy blue sheet. I could spend - I do spend - a fair amount of time sitting in the dark, watching the night sky. It's a very slow, steady sort of beauty. What could be more reliable than the night? Even if the Sun were to burn out and the Moon to escape the Earth's pull, we would still have the comforting darkness and solitude of night.

Virgo

You tread the courses of the sky,
arrayed about in vestal light
and utter as the arrant night
encompassed in your eye,

so youthful in your starry mien,
and yet as ancient as the gears
that guide the everlasting spheres
you gallivant between,

inscrutable to every soul
but mine alone, when I may bear
your beauty, singularly rare
and singularly whole,

and so we two shall intertwine
the earth and heavens in a wreath
that crowns the slumbering, beneath,
and humbles the divine

and makes, of us, a unity,
as man and oread are wed
to walk the orbits overhead
and anchor in the sea,

where we may find a solitude
untroubled by the taint of grief
and linger in our sweet relief,
unceasingly renewed.

Beloved

2010-04-17T08:24:00.000-07:00

In the last several years, I have read quite a bit of modern metrical poetry (if such a dichotomy can be said to exist), and have found in it an unfortunate and almost universal tendency toward gracelessly long line lengths. It is rare enough to find ten syllables per line (though this still manages to hang on in the Shakespearean sonnet), and anything less is almost non-existent. Such wordiness is usually nothing but a crutch. That is, it can be quite difficult to express cogent thoughts in brief lines, and is far easier to let lines tend toward sentence-length, then tack on some quick rhymes at the very end. What is lost in this lengthy-line format, however, is the sense of rhythm and cadence that allows a poem to dance like a leaf on the wind, march like a battalion on parade, or whirl like an elegant waltz. Consequently, most modern metrical poetry has all the finesse of a 12-gauge shotgun. How I wish that we could find our way back to the grace of language we once had.

Beloved

Beloved, consort of my soul,
you bare your heart,
unburdened of its bitter toll
by tender art
that marries, in a perfect whole,
the wanting part.

And in the greater aggregate,
these scarlet cords,
as lithe as fawns, as consummate
as cultured lords,
shall take a taste and pay a debt
that common words

cannot suffice. What interstice
is left unlit?
And what allure of this bliss
could I remit?
I find no former that I miss,
so let them flit

and fly away upon the air
of eras past.
Beloved, what sublime and rare
belief is cast
before us, in an answered prayer
of love, at last.

Migration

2010-04-10T18:04:00.001-07:00

The sun has returned, and so have the birds. Every morning, they call out from branch to branch as if it were the first day of creation, which, in a sense, it is. On a separate note, I only recently noticed that, until today, the last post on my blog concerned Ash Wednesday, and the first, Easter. How odd, to see the entirety of Lent encompassed in one little place.

Migration

I never thought that I
was like unto a bird;
my wings are not as spry,
my warble rarely heard,

and though we both escape
our customary nest
when Winter strokes the nape
and clutches at the chest,

my bird will come upon
the turning of the year,
while I am fled and gone
and loath to reappear,

and so I shall abide,
and never bird to be;
he travels as the tide;
I linger in the sea.

If You Were...

2010-04-03T07:48:00.000-07:00

It's Easter Vigil, and the long 40 days of Lent have come to an end. I hope you all are looking forward to Easter as much as I am. Tonight begins the happiest celebration of the year, so be well, and I wish you all a joyful Easter season.

If You Were...

If you were as old as a hill
or endlessly deep as a sea,
as rash as a childish will
or stoic and straight as a tree...

If you were as sad as a keen
or vital and quick as a jig,
as fragrant as flourishing green
or sweet as a succulent fig...

If you were as soft as a lamb
or grand as a towering height,
as strong as a sinewy ram
or sultry as tropical night...

If you were the soul of the earth,
it still would not capture me through,
but these cannot measure your worth,
for all things and more are in you.

Alive

2010-03-27T23:31:00.000-07:00

March, as they say, comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb, and what a lamb! Sunshine and flowers and the babel of a thousand birds fill the world with the inevitability of Spring. It is my habit to love no one season in particular, but, rather, the season-that-is-to-come. So, I am exceptionally enamored with Spring at the moment, though I'm quite sure that when it has reached its fullness I'll be ever so ready for Summer.

Alive

The lengths of light are stretching out
to circumscribe the waking day
and ease the chill, incessant drought
that followed on the dreary grey

and dismal dusk, but now the grass
unbends and prospers on the lawn
and clouds that make a quiet pass
before the rosy-fingered Dawn

design a space to minister
a glimpse upon the sun's ascent
for eager folk who never were
so lively in their discontent

as now the frigid sleep has slipped
away and we awaken to
the goldenrods and thistles tipped
with coronets of morning dew,

and if we should persist to see
the slow decline returning, then
our solace and our hope will be
in life, enlivened once again.

Abiding

2010-03-20T19:36:00.000-07:00

Over the centuries, poets and philosophers, alike, have claimed that there are many different types of love. Whether Aristotle or Tolstoy, Socrates or Dickens, they divided and conquered, separating the love of master from the love of servant, the love of fiancee from the love of wife, and so on. This is false. Need I say it again? There is only one love. It is our relationships that divide us, not the love that flows through them. The love of the master and the love of the servant are the same, and are manifested differently because the two cannot (and should not) perform the same acts of love. Even more critical, however, is the distinction between young and old marital love. It is a common supposition, in this day and age, that the love one has when one is young must necessarily change as one grows older. So, the first few years of marriage are looked on as the 'honeymoon years', and it is generally expected that the love of a wedded couple will cool and fade as they spend countless hours together, only to be (hopefully) recemented by the birth of a child - that is, a common bond strong enough to overcome their own petty squabbles. The truth is, however, that this change occurs not through the alteration of love, but through the alteration of the relationship between husband and wife. As Shakespeare said, "... love is not love / which alters when it alteration finds." How many couples truly know each other before marriage? How many couples can claim to be the best of friends? How many couples approach marriage with an honest and open eye, and see not a lifetime of marital bliss and carefree companionship, but a constant struggle alleviated only by the presence of one who fully loves and is loved? I daresay very few. Many young couples are in love with being in love, while others have settled for the 'good enough', and others, still, simply do not understand, on the most basic level, what it means to be married. Is it any surprise, then, that we are inundated by $40,000 wedding receptions and exotic honeymoons to the sun-soaked Greek Isles and the wine villas of France? These are our attempts to force consequence into something which should be consequential through nothing more than the reality of the love between man and wife. If you set one goal in life, then, let it be to love your spouse in the same way now as you will 50 years from now, and, when that time finally comes, you will find yourself with more wealth and happiness than you could possibly imagine.

Abiding

In time enough, when every youthful flush
has fled, and fleeting years betray their weight,
and, even now, the days are growing late,
remember what was whispered in a hush,

and how these words that stirred the morning air
have kept their comeliness, as we decline
and drink of less intoxicating wine,
for, though this vessel may not be as fair

as in the bright and early blush of life,
it is as faithful, and as fit to hold
its ardor, as your beauty waxes old,
and thinks it not on jealousy, nor strife,

but only happiness, in full supply
and charity, as this, alone, you know,
if ever was there certainty below:
our love will flourish, even as we die.

Our Accord

2010-03-13T19:01:00.000-08:00

Life is full of suffering, and so much of it is beyond our control. Even as it attends us, we seek to mitigate it. And so we struggle alone against our fate, and there is no greater loneliness, no greater wretchedness, than to bear these struggles alone. Yet, while no simple man could ever relieve our suffering, others can share it, and so make bearable what was, before, impossible. It is only through others that we find such comfort. We must not live this life alone.

Our Accord

What worries have you? What exhausting weight
is hoisted high upon your bowing back,
which burden I cannot alleviate?
You shall secure the complement you lack

in time and season, though it tarries long,
forestalling what was preordained to be,
ere was the earth. This augury is strong
and sure enough to offer liberty.

Then take a wing upon a higher wind
and leave your mortal trials far below.
Among the living, all, alike, have sinned,
but we, at least, have found accord. And know

that, though I cannot shelter you from grief,
our happiness shall furnish sweet relief.

A Dream

2010-03-06T07:22:00.000-08:00

Would you like to see my dreams? I doubt it...

A Dream

Of where we are and where we ought to be,
too much is left unspoken. Here, a span
of glassy rime and misty mantled sea
extends before me, ever further than

my eyes can tell. I enter, not to sink,
but, stranger yet, to float upon the brume.
Down from the briny bed, my fingers drink
so delicately of the tidal flume

that ferries me along this open spread.
I sift the gauzy strands of fog and stir
the crepitated floe, and far ahead
the facing shore recesses to a blur.

I cannot compass what these tokens mean,
for truth is never fathomed in between.

Come Lie with Me

2010-02-27T07:41:00.000-08:00

It is not what we say that proves our intentions, but what we do. Words can certainly help to clarify, but they can also serve to confuse, and it is all too tempting to disguise odious action with a false word. That is not to say that words cannot build trust. What they lack in certainty, they make up for in efficacy. All too often, actions require excessive time and effort to interpret and, even then, sometimes wrongly. A forthright act, however, paired with an honest word, is an irreproachable thing. So speak your thoughts, and follow them with action, and those you love will never be disappointed.

Come Lie with Me

Come lie with me, and in the mead
we'll make our bed beneath
the silver-swelling clouds that speed
across the amber heath.
There shall we whisper, lip to ear
and subtle tongue to teeth,

a word or two, that you may hear
sufficient prophecy
for wistful dreaming, drawing near
with every guarantee.
The promise is not in the oath,
however, nor the plea

that presses for assurance. Both
are only words, at best,
and understanding is a growth
that thrives on act and rest,
alone. And if the words that pass
between us are not blessed

by more than murmurs in the grass,
they are no better than
the idle breezes that harass
our tangled hair and span
the little lengths, from bract to bloom,
of dandelion. Can

I prove the things that I presume?
I shall not ask your trust
to make its bed within a room
as empty as a gust
of wind. Adjudge my every deed
and, so, I will adjust,

then lie with me, and in the mead,
as truest lovers must.

Ash Wednesday at Mount Angel Abbey

2010-02-20T08:03:00.001-08:00

Have a holy Lent.

Ash Wednesday at Mount Angel Abbey

Alight, as lancing shadows line
the cedar-stippled field,
cross-cutting dells of foggy wine
decanted from a yield
of water sifted from the brine
and ocean waves. The mountain spine
has split the sky and steeled

the stony face of Benedict
as, from the tower, sounds
a brazen chorus, chanting strict
and antiquated rounds.
The brume may dull the derelict
before it spreads its interdict
across the lowland grounds,

but we are near the narthex wall,
and nearer, so, to God.
No mist can mute the solemn call,
nor check its ring abroad.
The carillon will conquer all
in claps and volleys from the tall
and eminent facade.

Yet, this is not an endless hymn;
the monks may only pull
as long as morning light is dim
and dew is on the wool.
So, clapper rests against the rim
and we proceed, subdued and grim,
until the nave is full.

The service is a whispered chant
the brethren barely pace,
and organ music drowns the cant.
The abbot's even face
regards us in the dawning slant
of tinted light. That God may grant
us forty days of grace

is on his lips. An ashen brand
is on each earth-bound head.
The host is elevated and
the sacred words are said.
This Lent, as soon begun as spanned,
no more, nor less, a holy hand
to lift us, ever longing, from the dead.

My Portion

2010-02-13T08:20:00.000-08:00

Is there any task more difficult than distinguishing our wants from our needs? We tell ourselves, day after day, that our wants are our needs. We want good health. We want trendy clothing. We want organic food, and pay raises, and houses with three bedrooms, two baths, and a two car garage. All that these things serve to do, however, is alleviate suffering. Somehow we imagine that we are entitled not to suffer; that nothing could be worse than suffering. How wrong we are. We need to suffer. We need to see that this world is not enough. Yet, the more we sink into our comfortable and self-satisfied lives, the harder that becomes. We all have the means to pull out of such a fruitless existence and, more importantly, to fill our lives with happiness. Not pleasure, but happiness. Pleasure comes from the things we take; happiness, from the things we are given. So, as we near St. Valentine's Day, try to put aside the false materialism of the holiday and remember those things that have been given to you: friends, family, lovers, the beauty of the world around you. These are the things that are given freely, but, in the end, are worth more than all the wealth of men.

My Portion

What portion is my own? The earth
allots a share to each at birth.
A breath of air, a place to lay
upon, and each extends the worth

we reckon by our poverty.
If all our riches were so free,
then labor would not look for pay,
nor recompense. Our currency

is other, though, and too profane.
It supplements a noble gain
with idle wealth. I will not grow
into my manhood, nor attain

a happiness beyond this old,
intrepid striving after gold,
until I learn, until I know,
the value of the things I hold

already. What I wish to take
is in my grasp. And now, to wake
from long and lazy sleep, to grope
for more than mortal hands can make,

is, in the end, my portion. Less
than this would be enough to bless
my weak endeavor with a hope
of life. I ask a small success,
and God will grant success.

O ă d Ōnāi!

2010-02-06T00:02:00.001-08:00

I worried that this one might be a bit too long, but it just kept growing, and I couldn't cut it down. Sorry. I also hope it's not too confusing. It's about the things left undone that we put off, and put off, and put off again, until, at last, it's too late to retrieve them. I don't believe I'm too late to resuccitate any of my particular failings, but I'm certainly guilty of negligence, as I'm sure everyone is, in one way or another.

O ă d Ōnāi!

O ă d Ōnāi! My knees are slack
and trembling. My heart,
it flutters under this attack,
a kite struck by the dart

and dropping from a height. If I
were blameless as a bird,
perhaps to plummet with a cry,
to perish, though unheard,

I would not, then, begrudge an end
so swift. But I, a thief,
must struggle simply to ascend
and look to find relief

from longing, vicious as a flame
that parts the cloth and flesh,
alike. I play it as a game,
but, soon, the staffs that thresh

the grain from off the splintered stalks
will reach me. To submit
a fruitless harvest, chaff and rocks,
cannot suffice to quit

the reapers from their rigid task
or turn their calloused feet
away. The only fruit they ask:
the yield of the wheat

that was implanted years ago;
that I cannot return.
And all the labor that I owe
will perish in the burn

and blaze, impartial consummate
of saint and sinner, both,
as, trembling, I must await
a final, fruitless growth

and hope that it can flourish, fair
in wealth. A thousand-fold
could never be enough. A prayer
to keep from growing old

betrays my lips. My knees are set
and holding, yet. To die,
and never to discharge my debt...
Forbear, O ă d Ōnāi!

Nocturnal

2010-01-30T07:56:00.001-08:00

I love the night. Daytime can be so ordinary, so tedious. That is not to say it doesn't have it's pleasures; it certainly does. Yet daylight, with its sun and sound and motion, serves to reveal the world, and in the process of doing so, obscures myself. It is the night that I truly enjoy. Then, my thoughts are my own, and are free to run at will. The world still awaits, but now it is a quieter place, full of a deep, infinite blackness, and dappled with points of color and light which no longer obscure my thoughts, but focus them. It's only too bad more of humanity doesn't operate on such a schedule. As it is, work and friends and other such things tend to keep me firmly rooted in the daylight hours.

Nocturnal

The weary stars grow dimmer than the dawn.
Their luster fails, and they loose their hold,
fast-slipping from the firmament, then gone.
What happy night can keep from growing old

and merging with the edges of the sea?
We stony sailors of a fathomed sky
make fast our cables to a guarantee
of opiate repose, till, by and by,

the muted moon precedes an errant sun,
who glares, pretentious as a Persian king,
upon a languid world, shaped and spun
of filamental dreams that scarcely cling

to drowsy lovers, as they curse the day
and bid the lurid light to run astray.

Enigma

2010-01-23T08:29:00.000-08:00

One semester down, and one to go. I really shouldn't say that until I have my grades and papers all turned in, but I can hope. At least it's generally cold and wet, so sitting inside with a cup of tea and a stack of papers won't be too much of a sacrifice.

Enigma

A smile never showed a winsome heart
as easily as hers, or held a breath
as firmly as a fetter; learned art,
to capture life within each little death,

as if a tethered bird, whose debt is owed
to she who brought captivity. So stirs
the ache, inamorato, now bestowed
upon your longing. Absence, thus, incurs

a deficit, a slow and steady sting.
These thorns will cripple even as they give,
but will, in giving, guarantee to bring
a cure for one full-riddled as a sieve,

for none is near as baffling as she;
to starve and slake, alike, a mystery.

Hush

2010-01-16T23:28:00.000-08:00

I've grown quite fond of this rhyming pattern (ABABAAB). It has appeared in a handful of my poems, including the one just prior to this. I think it manages to merge the rolling feel of alternate-line rhyme with the slow and steady damper of a repeated rhyme, much like one might find at the end of a Shakespearean sonnet, and I'm quickly making it my own. Interestingly enough, I can find little or no evidence that it has ever been a popular pattern. This can mean (in order of desirability) one of three things: 1. I am pioneering a new and unique poetic form; 2. I am a poor internet researcher; or 3. this form has been 'discovered' countless times, but subsequently cast aside by real poets for its simplicity and failings. I'm currently being optimistic, and aiming for #2.

Hush

A wind arose an early day
and, trembling, she spoke
a word, as soft as ocean spray
against the weathered oak
that scans the sculling terns at play
and stands, a sentry for the bay,
before the earth awoke.

It was a whisper, passing hint
of hours yet to come,
when light was barely but a glint
of color climbing from
the secret spark, spun off the flint
of distant mountains, scarce a tint
and purple as a plum.

And down it drifted through the green
and dewy undergrowth.
It chilled the the air, although unseen,
and made the small ones loath
to rise and greet the quiet queen
who slipped a ghostly breath between
the sky and soil, both.

So fresh and heady from the first,
my timely morning kiss,
as finches bared their breasts to burst
into a warbled bliss
and dusky dreams, at last, dispersed
before a daybreak, unrehearsed
but never yet amiss.

Then, on and on and to the strand
it wound a fluent track,
past flowers in the hinterland,
unbuttoned but a crack,
and forests, somnolently grand,
until it rested on the sand
and let its bellows slack.

And, finally, expressed in full
and fastened with a flush
of rosy luster, as it stole
across the lands in rush
and ramble toward a distant goal,
her lonely word was rendered whole
and happy in a hush.

Storm-Life

2010-01-09T08:14:00.000-08:00

Why is Oregon devoid of thunderstorms? Oh, how I wish for a tumultuous, end-of-the-world tempest...

Storm-Life

A reckless breeze, infrequent burst,
as fickle as my mind,
dramatically unrehearsed,
though never unrefined,
foretokens - but a paltry first
and furtive warning for the cursed -
the onset, close behind,

as roaring wind, ungodly wrath,
arises on the sward
and surges down the staggered path
abreast a howling horde,
though all too quick to cut a swathe
and drench the fields in a bath
and burst, unduly poured,

till restive breath, bare residue,
now carrying the train,
is left alone, of all the slew,
a remnant of the rain,
to make of it a morning dew
and nerve the worsted world to
receive a storm again.

The Coming Chill

2010-01-02T09:24:00.000-08:00

Although the temperature is quite balmy for mid-winter, those few December weeks of intense cold gave a taste of things to come. Hopefully, we will not experience a resurgence of the powerful winds and icy snows of yesteryear that crippled the city for a week or more. Still, I look forward to at least some substantial snow before Winter comes to a close. On a separate, technical note, I maintained the same pattern of sounds in the three primary verses of this poem - 'th' in the 1st and 3rd lines, and 'm' in the 2nd and 4th. I really don't know if it adds anything, but it was a fun experiment.

The Coming Chill

A polar raw lays mantled on the earth,
a heavy fetter fallen on the bloom,
and I am found confounded in my mirth
and firmly muzzled. What a bitter tomb

of hard and heavy dusk, foreboding death,
as if a resurrection cannot come,
and rearing, mouth agape with withered breath,
in wait of mortal marrow taken from

the fallow bed of fading undergrowth,
where little flecks of life are stricken lame
at last, for now the winter keeps its oath
to fell each leaping stem, as if a flame

that casts a feeble glow of candlelight
were then extinguished, ere the day be night.

Winter Tale

2009-12-25T06:39:00.000-08:00

May the snow be thick enough to lead you out, but not so thick as to keep you in.
Merry Christmas, dear friends.

Winter Tale

When earth and sky and sweeping air -
a patient buffer, made the fair
and faithful channel of the squall
that spins between the pair -

are each, alike, in ashen-white
pelisse enveloped, ever tight,
and wholly covered by the fall
of flurries, feather-light,

and when the rushing waters still
and stiffen to the icy will,
as sets the rapids at a crawl
and calcifies the chill

that permeates the very bone
beneath the soil and the stone,
that holds the shifting surges thrall
and seals all alone,

and when each ghostly living thing
is hid away in wait of Spring
and bled until an ashen pall
recalls the bitter sting,

to lay in state, as old remains,
when life no longer runs the veins
and great has given way to small
to save the Summer gains,

then, even as the rushing snow
and crushing ice, alive in floe,
and fallen life in fleeting stall
impel the lasting low,

a resurrection will await,
if, first, a birthing bed - ornate
austerity - can send a call
as grandiose and great

as ever touched the ears of men
or granted hope of life, again,
in whispers lifted up to all
that He is born. Amen!

Leaving and Returning

2009-12-18T09:04:00.000-08:00

All things come about with time and faith. And 'again', which ends the second line of the third verse, is meant to be pronounced according to the British 'əˈɡeɪn', not the Americanized 'əˈgɛn', so don't do it, please. Oh, and have a wonderful Christmas break.

Leaving and Returning

The sun is not as fast a friend as I;
his rosy brow can barely make a crown
as waking hours hurry briskly by
and bear the days, devoid of renown;

but even fleeting days - this pauper spread -
reduce the spanning sums that separate
a leaving and returning, nearly wed,
but not so nearly that I wish the wait,

for as the secret seeds repose beneath
the rime and long to feel light again,
or as an awful famine grips the teeth
and heightens urgent appetite to pain,

so time can never turn another week
as quickly as my yearning soul would seek.

Rise and Fall

2009-12-12T00:03:00.000-08:00

When the weather is this cold, and we're held indoors by a chill wind as impassable as any lock, it seems only fair to dream of the world without. This poem is in memoriam of the majestic Oregon mountains - in fact, all the majestic Oregon landscape - that I shall not meet again, until a balmier climate returns.

Rise and Fall

The earth is endless in expanse;
a land as sprawling as the Eastern sky;
it leaps and rises in advance,
unharnessed as a haring horse, awry,
to pick a pattern out in prance,
a wild whirl of a dance
that none can follow, even as they try.

A windswept pirouette to raise
the valleys up and extrovert their might,
to blunt the mountains, once ablaze
and burnished by the early morning light,
until they rest a lower gaze
of pygmy hills upon the haze
that holds the furrows of their former height.

This weathering wears out the years
that flit along, as leaves upon the air,
unnumbered by the veiled gears,
those slowly spinning rigs of disrepair
that carry change in old careers
of time and tide and other fears
and lay the massifs lower than a prayer.

And yet, the rolling days will come
when ranges rise, again, and crest a brow,
each elder summit to succumb
then holding high a youthful head at how
its crescent slopes are rendered plumb
and subtle runnels are become
fantastic torrents coursing to the slough.

For, nothing new shall see the sun,
when all has come about in ages past,
and ages full have just begun
as even they are realized, amassed
of peaks and valleys, each and one
in shifting stature never done,
and all upon the earth, supremely vast.

Two Alike

2009-12-05T10:57:00.001-08:00

Have you ever known a person so fully that he or she seemed like a part of yourself? Life is punctuated by little friendships, but every so often, along comes that one-in-a-million, who is bound closer to you than any person ought to be. For some, this sort of friendship will never develop. For others, it will be a repeated experience. If approached properly, it is one of the most powerful paths to happiness - and to God - that we may walk, and very few people will ever come across greater wealth in this life. What joy, then, that we can hope for such things, and what wonder that humans, though separated by space and existence, may unite themselves, with nothing more than words, in thought and will and love.

Two Alike

What happiness a friend, a fellow kind,
whose gentle hands attend a heart entwined,
for, long as loving likens two,
they consummate a life anew,
aligned;

but none may know the ties, when so profane,
and none, with open eyes, will ascertain
the bond, invisible, but true,
that suffering cannot subdue,
nor strain;

and so, this holy whole, incorporate
and incorporeal, is our oblate,
to lift an everlasting hue
for treasures that we hold and do
await.

Trajectory

2009-11-26T07:44:00.000-08:00

I'm off to warmer climes for the weekend, so my poem arrives a few days early. I hope that all you faithful readers find yourselves in the safe surroundings of home and family for the remainder of the vacation. The work week and the routine life will return all too soon. Enjoy the simple pleasures while they last, and have a wonderful Thanksgiving!

Trajectory

An arrow cannot find its distant mark,
as in a rush of iron-feathered flight
it intersects the kingdom of the lark,
unless an archer ushers it aright

and sets it off, upon a certain track,
ascending from the taut and furled cord,
with swift release and merciless attack
to lift it over warrior and lord

and take its target with a windy kiss,
though none can tell the closeness of its course,
or whether it is like to win or miss,
except the fool, stricken so by force.

But you, the archer, escort of the sky,
I tell you of the fool: it is I.

The Debt

2009-11-21T07:28:00.001-08:00

So many rhymes! And here I was just criticizing rhyming. This one is a bit more complex than most, though, and certainly took more work. The continuity, in particular, was troubling, not to mention the structure of the internal rhymes. Now that it's done, however, I find I am relatively pleased. I would even go so far as to say I'm quite happy with the constant mercurial shift between the artificial rhythm of lines and the natural rhythm of sentences. And yes, I know the subject is love, and love has been done to death by poets, but it is a well-known poetical rule that every poet is entitled to an allotment of love poems equal to the number of years he has lived. I'm still working my way up to 27.

The Debt

My heart and hand? A meager fee
and fine to ask, inferior
as common sand or crude debris
when set the task. This pauper, poor,

is so forlorn, for gathered round
and all about my little heart,
full weary-worn, the others bound,
while I, in doubt, still strain to start,

and so maintain a hand to hold -
far less than you could hope to win
from one so plain, and one so bold,
who would pursue immortal skin

as yours, when I could only seize
at purchase on consistent ground,
content to lie and take my ease,
to stay withdrawn. I am unbound

and empty, now. My hand, alone,
holds nothing but a heart to give
to you. Allow, from on your throne,
a gift. Of what? A life to live,

a debt to pay, a rift to fill,
a feeble strength to sacrifice,
and I shall stay your own until
my life, at length, has born the price.

The Raptor

2009-11-14T07:36:00.000-08:00

I spend a fair amount of time, each week, looking for other modern formalist poets, but my searching often goes unsatisfied. There are countless people out there who rhyme - and even a few who combine rhyme and metre, in a sort of caricature of old nursery rhymes - but are there any who treat it as a serious art? I just don't know, anymore. I make no claim to be a great poet, but I am a meticulous poet, and I created this poem to demonstrate the sort of mechanical thought and effort that, I believe, are essential to any real poetry. For those of you not concerned with the dirty details of writing poetry, please enjoy the poem. For everyone else, I have included a brief and limited analysis of poetic elements after the poem, itself.

The Raptor

The carrion-call, shrill upon the air,
as ragged wings now buffet, two and two,
and beat the ribboned rain in disrepair,
to hold a height no summit ever knew,
precedes the silent plunge, as if a prayer
were yielded to fledglings, unaware,
in steady circlings beneath the blue,

that, here, the sand, descended in the glass,
has reached the end and emptied at a rush,
and cannot count the moments as they pass,
for moments make a closing with a hush
before the storm that plummets in a mass
of surging ruin, ready to harass
and break the vibrant spirit of the thrush,

and so, it bursts upon the heedless back,
as bird and bird spin earth-bound in a grip
of lifeless held in life, of swift attack,
while severed feathers scatter free and slip
to wander downward on a flightless track,
and he who bore them, buoyed up, so slack,
by he who will embody Charon's ship.

Ignoring, for today, the actual content of poetry, I would argue that the poet must be concerned with the words and syntax he uses. Poetry is, at heart, spoken song, and, without the aid of music, the lyric of the poetry is carried solely by the words. Further, unless the poet, himself, is there to read his poems aloud, interpretation is left to the reader, who has little or no idea what the poet intends. Therefore, the words should both make the poem sonorous and guide the reader as he renders the written words as sounds. Good poetry begins with inspiration, but only finds its completion in hours of laborious minutiae. Thus, there is little, if anything, in my poetry that is not intentional, and all word choices are made to maximize the ability of the poem to carry its own cadence and tone. I'll only analyze the first verse of 'The Raptor', and then, only the most important parts, but even that should be sufficient to get my point across. To begin:

The carrion-call, shrill upon the air,
This first line begins with two instances of consonance: first, the alliterative 'ca' and second, 'll'. This is followed by the sonic referencing of 'carrion' by 'upon', and the paralleled soft vowels beginning 'upon' and 'air'. A touch of onomatopoeia is provided by 'shrill'.

as ragged wings now buffet, two and two,
The 'a' of 'air' is recalled, here, in the first two words, followed by the repetition of 'w', between 'wings', 'now', and 'two'. We also have our first instance of epistrophe, with the dual 'two'. 'Ragged' continues the theme of onomatopoeia, and this second line solidifies the structure of the poem as iambic pentameter (or ten syllables to a line, alternating between stressed and unstressed syllables, in pairs known, to scansionists, as feet). You may recognize this line structure from traditional Shakespearean sonnets. It gives the poem a sort of tumbling feeling, which matches the subject of a raptor diving on a helpless bird. Notice how the stress is universally placed on every other syllable, starting with the second. There is almost no variation upon this throughout the entire poem.

and beat the ribboned rain in disrepair,
The 'and' that begins this verse ties it to the penultimate 'and' of the last verse, followed by 'beat', which pairs with 'buffet' and 'ribboned'. This is a consonance we won't see again till the end of the verse. Finally, the doubly alliterative 'ribboned rain' carries the center of the line, only to find closure in 'disrepair'.

to hold a height no summit ever knew,
The consonants of 'to hold' are reversed in 'height', even as the latter reaches forward to 'summit'. Finally, 'no' plays off of 'knew', in both consonance and a slight double entendre.

precedes the silent plunge, as if a prayer
This line has an alternating pattern of contrasted hard 'p' sounds and soft 's' sounds: 'precedes the silent plunge, as if a prayer'. It also ends, for the first time, in the middle of a clause. This is important, because the next line is about to break the rhyming scheme, and end with the same masculine rhyme as the current line. The two lines are, thereby, tied together in both thought and structure.

were yielded to fledglings, unaware,
The unity between this line and the last is further enhanced by 'were', which acts as a subdued connection between the more dominant, but still very similar, sounds of 'prayer' and 'unaware'. There is also a subtle progression from the soft, to the plosive, and back to the soft, in the middle of the line: 'yielded to fledglings'. Notice how the sounds rise from 'y' to 'd', then drop back down to the concealed 'y' of 'ing'. Also, the alternate 'l's provide a natural, rolling transition between the open 'y' sound and the plosive 'd' sound.

in steady circlings beneath the blue,
The rhyming pattern is finally cemented as ABABAAB, mixing the simple four-line form of the beginning with an enclosed rhyme at the end. As a side note about the rhyme scheme, notice that the first two verses use soft rhymes, while the third verse uses hard rhymes, leading to a harsher sound that matches and amplifies its violent content. There is, also, a quick triple repetition of 's' in 'steady circlings', which hearkens back to the similar triplet in 'precedes the silent' of two lines previous. 'Circlings' is not traditionally used as a noun, but it is a very small step from adjective to noun, and the hint of onomatopoeia was too nice to pass up. The line finally ends with 'beneath the blue', an inverted double consonance. The alliteration of 'b' was used extensively in the second and third lines, but then given a rest until this point, while the double 'th' acts to draw the final phrase into one continuous sound.

There it is. If I have scared some of you away from attempting poetry ever again, I apologize. If, on the other hand, I have motivated you to make something more of it than simple lines that share nothing but end-rhymes, I have accomplished more than I could have hoped. Let there be no mistake; this sort of writing is difficult, to say the least. Yet, it also grows easier over time. Techniques which were once awkward and unnatural for me now seem intuitive, and it takes me substantially less time to write a poem now than it once did. As with any skill, practice is the truest path to mastery, and though it may be painful and frustrating at first, you will find, over time, a gradual change taking place, as you go from simply writing poetry to being a poet. Good luck.

Two Homes

2009-11-07T07:27:00.000-08:00

California seems an awfully long way from Oregon, these days. Winter is lovely, but I'm far more fickle than the seasons, and I'm ready for a temporary change.

Two Homes

My body has one home, a humble place,
that knows me only by the empty space
I leave behind as lightly as a ghost
whose footsteps tread the floor without a trace.

My heart, too, has a home, so far from here,
but closer, yet, and ever more so clear;
perhaps a dream, or just a wish at most,
but even dreaming can be counted dear.

And I? I do not mind this double fate,
for as my heart is stamping at the gate,
my flesh consents to play the patient host
and so the two, in bondage, bear the wait.

Autumn Shift

2009-10-31T08:41:00.001-07:00

The leaves are finally falling from the trees. It is that lovely, indefinable point between life and decay, when the plants have died and dropped, but have not yet faded into the damp, dreary layer of compost that marks the beginnings of Winter. The leaves lie so thick on the sidewalks, that even the leather soles of my dress shoes make no noise in passing. What joy Autumn is.

Autumn Shift

A heavy west wind heaves to main from the coast
and spills over mountain and lake,
to work its way inland - a zephyral ghost,
unburdened of shower and flake -

through forest and field, through valley and vale,
spread fallow and fertile alike,
in eddies and rushes ahead of the gale,
across the long overland hike,

until it arrives at the foot of our door,
unbidden, but not unforeseen,
and strips the trees bare with a wintery roar
that leaves their bones crooked and clean,

to carpet the earth with a brilliant hue
and blush-heady happiness long overdue.

Dreaming

2009-10-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

I think Autumn is the proper time of year to write about dreaming. Early evenings and dark mornings incline one to delay the inevitably chilly rising for a few spare minutes beneath a down comforter or heavy woolen blanket. Those minutes invariably stretch on in dreams and half-dreams, until one awakens, surprised by the dim, foggy light and insistently-beeping alarm clock, and rises to begin a new - if not entirely desired - day.

Dreaming

Old Morpheus has swallowed up the sky,

to walk the ways above our shadow-flush

and flit from bed to bed, where bodies lie,

in shifting shades that ride the drowsy rush.

Two escorts lead the lonely monarch on -

slack lethargy and windless weariness -

who prime the gears that turn until the dawn

and set them spinning with a deft finesse,

and all the souls that they have sunk in sleep

recline in readiness. An airy breath

slides off the brow and under tallied sheep,

to settle in the eyes, as dark as death.

Then shall we drift, unhanded by his dreams,

in torpid tow, for nothing's as it seems.

Room and Door

2009-10-17T07:52:00.000-07:00

I'm working on my sonnet form, again, this time with fractured sentences. I generally dislike poems that break sentences between lines and verses, but I'm sure it has its value. I just need to discover it. Also, despite the despondent content of this poem, life is quite good. Dark poems often come from the most cheerful days, I find.

Room and Door

If every doorway opened on a room

as bare as this, then what would be the shame

of shutting it again? This is a tomb,

and here, the candle was not worth the game;

a sputtering flame splaying finger-light

upon the pale shades of pictures-hung,

when solitude has followed on the night

and dismal sleep, subduing one last sung

and sorry lullaby. So speak of lush,

abundant furnishings if it will please,

but speak of these illusions with a hush;

my weary mind can hold no more unease.

This room may, one day, want a bright decor,

but until then, maintains a bolted door.

100

2009-10-10T00:10:00.001-07:00

100 poems. It only took me two years to get here. As accomplishments go, it is not a grand one, but it is an accomplishment, nonetheless. So, a toast to the Quiet Cartesian; happy centennial, and here's to many more poems to come!

100

A century within a word;

each syllable, an age

that echoes on, though never heard

nor penciled on a page.

Unspoken, though the speaking be

the measure and the meat

that satisfies in small degree

and gives the burden feet,

while shoots and flowers bend to frost,

to stand erect, again,

and sunlight waxes on the ghost

of winter, fitful friend,

and time unwinds against the clock

that counts the hours down,

until the grave and grief unlock

a legacy and crown.

For whom? The asking is not mine.

This duty, set astride

such feeble shoulders, frail spine,

is simply to provide

my rendering, a meager one -

inheritance of time -

that wills the wanting, once begun,

to rest within a rhyme.

The Offering

2009-10-03T00:28:00.001-07:00

Is it true? Tea time is upon us, at last! It was finally cold enough, a couple evenings ago, to have a cup of tea. Not just any tea, of course. Not for the first cup of the season. An old-growth pu-er, aged and fermented, and simply exuding the damp, mossy smell of a dark forest in the rain. The tea describes itself as such: "Deep, earthy flavor, dark red-gold color, and a rich, velvety texture. Woody, earthy, vegetal aroma, like an old-growth forest." I think that sounds absolutely lovely. Don't you?

The Offering

A soul was offered me,

and offered only once,

though once, eternity,

had I but seen the glance.

So many more, and fair,

as stars upon the sheet,

how could a one compare,

or equally compete?

And yet, that offer pressed

a jewel from the coal,

as alchemies arrest

away a single soul

and hold it high above

the simple stars about,

to let the offer prove,

no more the other doubt.

In Between

2009-09-26T13:47:00.000-07:00

Though not the 'in between' of today's poem, this newly-minted Autumn weather has taken on an in-between life of its own. Mornings begin with overcast skies and brisk winds, which seem to hint that rain could burst upon our sorry heads at any moment. As the hours wear on, however, the clouds pull away, and the warm, cornflower sun spreads its light over everything, drying the dew and sending a tingling warmth through bare arms and legs. It's a delightful time of year - perhaps my favorite time of all - and it makes me long to live in a place where the buildings are as old as the stones that brick their walls and the people speak not from economy, but from pleasure.

In Between

As high as I can reach

shall never number high enough

to proffer, for the beech,

a tidy bow upon the cuff,

and low as I can lay

shall never sink me so far down

in clover leaves, to play

an eye upon each idle gown,

as I am all to low

for heaven, all too high for earth;

my mid'ling self, just so,

to tender suffering and mirth.

Summer Touch

2009-09-19T07:56:00.001-07:00

Two more days of Summer left, and then begins our glorious and abundant Autumn, although, in spirit and school-year, it started several weeks ago. I thought that I would offer a parting bow and eulogy in the form of a poem, written some time ago for the then-long-awaited conquest of Summer over Spring.

Summer Touch

Everything is wick and well

and hopefulness of heart,

when Summer works an elder spell

upon the icy art

that spent its silver in a rush

of riven frost and snow

to lay in sleep the rosy blush

of budding life, below,

but now, the glorious and green

awaken at the touch

of wild-spoken light, unseen,

as are the winds, and such,

that carelessly caress the hair

and set the grass at play

upon the loam, no longer bare,

no longer laid away.

Early to Rise

2009-09-12T00:10:00.000-07:00

I'm getting used to early mornings, once again. I love them, but they are a hard habit to keep up, unless compelled. It has been a wonderful Summer, in every sense of the word, but it feels good to be bringing some imperturbable order back into my scattered life.

Early to Rise

I fear no trepidation

upon a sudden morn,

nor reckon on creation

to loose its herald-horn,

when all is barely painted,

a canvas brightly spread

and virginal, untainted,

by early hand or head,

then I, alone, awaken,

but only in my heart,

to reap the earth, retaken,

my solitary art.

Starlight

2009-09-05T00:26:00.000-07:00

As of Tuesday, my long Summer is officially over. I embark on the most absurdly complicated tutoring schedule, but it keeps me out of a real job (i.e., one that involves anything resembling an office, desk, co-workers, or a 40-hour work week), so three cheers for that. On the other hand, this means my late nights are fast coming to an end, which I regret quite a bit.

Starlight

What is a day without a sun?

No more a day than night -

a book adjourned when just begun;

a laugh without delight;

a lyric song that holds no words;

a shoe, but not a sole;

an aerie all bereft of birds;

a term without parole;

a house that does not have a door;

a map deprived of key;

a roof above, and yet no floor;

a shore that lacks a sea;

a monarchy devoid of king;

a poem minus verse;

a wedding vow without a ring;

a witch in want of curse;

a cloister cleared of every nun;

a left, and not a right;

but even we, who are undone,

can find a spindle fully spun

when stars enkindle light.

Victor for a Day

2009-08-29T08:41:00.000-07:00

Another installment in The Further Chronicles of the Tomato Garden! It appears that the seventh plague has fallen upon the house of Israel, and God has punished the unbelievers with blossom-end rot. This cancer begins as an innocuously off-colour spot on the bottom of the green tomato, but, as the tomato matures, spreads out, leprous-like, until the entire lower half of the ripe tomato is a festering, black cesspit of evil. Fortunately, this is not caused by any parasite or disease, but simply by a lack of calcium in the soil. Unfortunately, the only immediate solution is to amputate the affected fruit to prevent the leeching of nutrients from healthy tomatoes, then saturate the soil with a calcium supplement and pray that the angel of death passes over. So far, about a third to half of our present ripening crop has been affected, but forecasts for the future are good, thanks to the quick response of the ministering angel known as Quiet Cartesian. Up, up, and away!

Victor for a Day

I came upon a little friend,

a monument of care,

who found it fit to condescend

a smile on me, there.

I lifted her and laid her by,
as pardon for my plea,

upon a bower bed, to lie

in limpid reverie,

and stole her dowry from the store

that she had set aside;

no guard was set upon the door,

no bulwark for the bride.

A smile, and a dowry paid,

and so I slipped away,

to tell the treasure, and the raid -

a victor for a day.

A Flower

2009-08-21T12:03:00.000-07:00

And so the school year begins. I send you on your way with a poem and a thought, and a day early, at that!

A Flower

A flower you are not,

and flower never be,

in Autumn fault forgot,

till Summer guarantee.

You do not spread your brow

beneath the beryl sky,

but flowers bear no vow

and flowers surely die.

Your floret and perfume

shall not disperse with frost.

My love, you are a bloom

that time cannot exhaust.

One Shall Remain

2009-08-15T09:52:00.001-07:00

If you measure Summer by the school year, then it is fast coming to a close, but in truth, it is barely half-over. A sure sign of this is our vegetable garden, which is, in actuality, more of a tomato garden. For a week or two, now, we've had a small trickle of ripe fruit, but I can sense that trickle is about to become a torrent. I wait for few things like I do the ripening of the tomatoes. Perhaps it's the Italian in me - or the hippie - but I honestly believe almost every dish is made better by fresh, home-grown tomatoes. In fact, they hardly need accompaniment. Their flavor, alone, is enough to make them tastier than the ripest apple or pear. Your whole self is awakened in the experience of a tomato garden - nose full of the ripe, earthy scent of the wet leaves, hands stained green from the stalks, shoes heavy with damp earth...

Did I mention we also have chili peppers?

One Shall Remain

A word or two, I took no more,
and lingered on them all the less -

though they revealed a fair rapport
of days undrawn in loveliness,
soft-spoken, as before -

and thought that I might metre on,
against the turning of the vein -

a grand and burnished paragon
that owns a pearl to be plain,
as even it, withdrawn -

but what a lunacy to bleed

the vessel of its liberty -

my seeming wealth could not exceed

such light and bantam poverty,

when I, alone, make need -

for, if I could allow embrace,

then I might bear a wider yoke -

no words of mine can clear a place,

nor sound escape the closing choke,

unless by other grace -

but, as it is, a heart is mine,

and, somehow, whispered over all -

when I have missed the siren sign

of words that I cannot recall,

one shall remain, and shine,

however small.

King and Slave and I

2009-08-08T10:00:00.001-07:00

It has been such an odd couple weeks. First, day after day of blazing, sunburnt heat - the sort that turns bedrooms into midnight saunas and makes even a drive with the windows down a blistering chore - and now, Autumn-like clouds and chill, and I couldn't be happier for the change. It does bring a melancholy feel to these downhill days of Summer, but it is a soft, gentle decline, and, anyways, I'm quite sure we haven't seen the last of the sun.

King and Slave and I

The days are wide and windy as the sea,

as waves and hours roll in steady swell

to delegate our duties. Slaved and free

the two compel.

A king can drop his knee to genuflect,

and, yet, the flux will draw him further down,

till he is, equally, a base subject,

of no renown.

The slave, alike, is made a slave again,

when cast into the fierce and fathomed tide,

where fluid bonds supplant a sturdy chain

and breaths subside.

And I, though neither king nor slave I be,

am subjugated strictly, as the two,

for hours set their ocean-weight on me

and so subdue.

Then I am yoked by time, in spring and neap,

and king and slave and I are spiraled low,

to rest our common heads in common sleep,

as hours flow.

Two Trees

2009-08-01T06:47:00.001-07:00

I was walking though the woods, near my family's home in Southwest Washington, when I discovered a beautiful, old tree. I have no idea what type it was, nor quite how old, but it was almost entirely bare of leaves, and there was hardly a straight line to be seen on it. It was bent over at a sharp angle, and beneath it, growing through its thick branches, was a much younger tree, which is probably the only reason it was still standing at all.

Two Trees

There is a tree, not far from here;

its stature, lower press,

is labored by a long career

of weary wilderness.

No stately back nor seasoned crown,

no callow consecrate

establishes its bearing down,

when burdened by the weight

of limbs divested, twist they so

that liveliness, alone,

declines the scattered buddings grow

and proves a weaker bone.

Its final strength, upon the eve

of fell majority,

is taken from the buttress heave

of this, a younger tree,

that holds the old man up, aloft,

and supplements the might

the other lost, as age is oft;

but here, the two have height.

Fate

2009-07-25T09:23:00.001-07:00

I picked up one of my volumes of Emily Dickinson the other day; it was the first time in months that I'd touched it. I'd forgotten how stunning her poetry is. Her name has, unfortunately, been connected with saccharine poems about bees and flowers. This could not be further from the truth. Open a book of her poetry at random, and the chances of finding something fit for 'Mother Goose's Nursery Rhymes' are minimal, at best. You are far more likely to find yourself enfolded in delicate and complicated word-play, with hints of Hopkins and Eliot, and subjects too serious for any child to fully appreciate. So for those of you who have never read Dickinson, I encourage you to begin, and for those who have read and rejected, I beg you to look again.

Fate

Our fate is not for hands and eyes;

its score

we hope to settle, willful-wise.

No more

can turning back the ticking face

make rest

the heavens in their steady pace

to west,

for feet can only fall within

the groove,

and, ceasing to resist, begin

to move.

Hope

2009-07-18T00:02:00.001-07:00

I'm on something of a sonnet kick. Shakespeare had it right, you know. It really is the perfect rhyming scheme. Three verses; it is, inescapably, the right number. Any less, and one is left wanting; any more, and one grows tired. And yet, three is not enough to bring the poem to completion, for the reader, taken by the constancy of the rolling rhymes, inevitably expects one stanza to lead to another. Something must break this cycle, and so, the final two lines. Thus, the sonnet is fulfilled, and both the poet and reader are satisfied.

Hope

If love, in longing, found a holy hand,

as palm and palm, profaner than the eye,

enfold and follow, as the two demand,

and make communion in a mute reply,

or if it sought a cheek of softer flesh

than falls upon this settling embrace,

prepared to offer up, and so enmesh,

as ought to marry hearts in happy grace,

or if it heard, again, a hushing breath,

unfinished until breathed afresh in turn

by other lips that long for sober death,

when told to love will only be to yearn,

then there is hope that heaven will arise,

although it be obscured in mortal guise.

The Night

2009-07-13T08:54:00.000-07:00

Another Monday. This is becoming a bad habit, and I'll try to break it soon. Well, thanks to summer vacation, I've taken to staying up late and watching the sky and the stars. It's a very nice change of pace from the early evenings of the school year, and has given me a chance to appreciate the night in a way I never really had before. There is a wonder, you know, in morning and night; it's just difficult to find that wonder without going to sleep very late or waking up very early. In the morning, before anyone else is awake, everything is quiet, like an empty cathedral, and the possibilities of the day seem limitless, while in the night - the late, late night, when everyone has been fast asleep for hours - a sort of second life awakens, as the stars light up the world and the drowsiness of sleep missed is forgotten and falls away. Both are full of wonder, but at the present, I prefer the night, as does this sonnet.

The Night

The night is not an old man, yet, nor I,
when stars have barely broken from the blue,
to overtake the slowly dusking sky
and bid the final limbs of light adieu.

We two, we sit, below and there, about,
and watch the other watching each in turn,
but little hope have I, a poor devout,
of demonstrating any great concern

for you, so vast in silence and in strength,
and throwing over millions in your might,
as captivated subjects lay the length
of bodies down in somnolent delight,

but I will ever wait and watch your brow,
and take my dues from sleep I disavow.