“Nihilism Inside”
Painting by Sabrin Mahran
From deviantart.com
the poet must bear at least one
piercing splinter of ice in his heart
he must put painful pen to the paper
without reservations of conscience
observe with objective dispassion
grim features of human proclivity
render them brutally colored
by truth in its ugliest spectrum
else poetry puffs with a pander
to boast overweening with bloat
false idolatry singing man’s praise
only real in the realm of the mind
George Washington Taking First Oath of Office
US Capitol Mural by Allyn Cox
From uschs.org
the bloodless exchange
of quadrennial power
suffrage rewarded
“Moon on a String”
Drawing by J. Ferwerda
From fineartamerica.com
untie the moon
let it float
free to find
its own way
self-determined
unobliged
by the pulling
demands of
your dreams
it was never
your charm
to begin with
no mere
trifling astrolog
toy of indenture
to limited human
scale sense
of aesthetics
it has dreams
of its own
give it time
grant it space
to more fully
experience
cosmic existence
to roam and to
reach some
warm place of
its choosing
an orbit perhaps
round some star
that appreciates
even the smallest
of planets
then you can
find comfort
take pride
in the simple
release of
your power
conferring the
greatest of gifts
in the galaxy
freedom
it only awaits
you to
untie the moon
“Blind Wizard”
Sketch by MlleBienvenu
From ellenmilliongraphics.com
only the blind
hold their bearings
in darkness
remember the routes
between now and again
travel time with
success making
progress on
dismal terrain
as for we
vaunted sighted
what good
after all
is the eye
without light
not so much as a
flickering match head
no trickle of stardust
we stumble and
bump along
circular reasoning
dead of direction
a convolute world
we ourselves
worked to blacken
extinguished its points
of enlightenment
only the blind
understand how to
use special sight
rediscover the
peace and prosperity
hidden within
misused histories
ready to remake the
bright broken mind
only the blind
have the courage
to lift us from
deep in delirium
refill the vacancies
left in our learning
philosopher cowards
who nearly destroyed
our own species
Antique Cast Iron Bedstead
Photo from ebay.com
no rest for the crazy
compelled to bide runaway
days in beds black as obsidian
heaving itself through
wrought curlicue shadows
it races through channels
that penetrate nights
soundless restless and
reckless its feet melt
in puddles of madness
while porcelain finials
spin with the heat
of an inhuman speed
the whole hurtling mass
on burn-to-ash course
with its conscious cadaver
to charnels no soul
ever chose or survived
no rest for the crazy
compelled to ride runaway
sleep into nightly oblivion
Pine Sapling with Deep Taproot
Photo from jhaa.org
tenacious yearning
thirsty taproot snaking deep
man’s curious mind
Typical New Hampshire Winter Scene
It’s been a nasty week here at the old poetry farm. I got knocked on my ass by some flu-like thing just as we were getting our first good snow fall of the season. 17 inches is pretty normal around here, but this was real wet and real heavy.
That means the trees bend and sag, and in the process, take down these old New England power lines. So Wednesday afternoon, we along with about 300,000 other New Hampshire homes lost our power. That meant no electric, no heat, no water.
So many trees and lines were down that most roads were impassable. We have about 600 very tall trees on our property, and the birches, being the most fragile, bent over in perfect, low, snow covered arches across my driveway. About half of its 1,000 curling feet looks like a tunnel. And on top of that my plow man’s vehicle broke down.
Jan and I were hunkered down like a couple of dog sledders dressed for the Iditarod. In our 10 years here, this is the first time we lost power for more than a few hours. My youngest daughter and family live in the next town from us, but they also are in the dark.
And I do believe it’s all because of politics. Seriously. For our first 8 years in this home, our governor was a neighbor, and I believe that fact somehow gave our area an unspoken top priority for restoration of power. Alas, our current governor lives elsewhere, so this time we just had to wait our turn like all the other good citizens of the Live Free or Die state. I guess accidental privilege can’t last forever.
Well, we just got power back a little while go and, boy oh boy, am I ever thankful – it’s 2 degrees tonight. And I’m feeling better, too, thank God. But as to Thanksgiving Day itself – well – there’s always next year.
Hope all of you, my friends, had a blessed and happy (and warm) day.
“Barn in Snow”
Photo by Shari Fleming
From pinterest.com
snow peaks the barn
owls doze in its loft
latches glisten with rime
quiet drifts among fenceposts
rural architectonics of winter
put moose and red fox
at their ease
vernacular serenity
“Ancient Baskets”
Photo by skelter
From flickr.com
ancient craft of the hearth
weightless vessels of reeds
heavy laid with comestible time
hunter gatherer provender
stored against inhospitable
seasons of winter and drought
humble finger weaved heirlooms
served cave and encampment
arranging prehistory neatly
by light of domestic red fire
asylum for civilized impulses
nurtured by small worlds of
family and clan within still
savage spheres of existence
where pharaohs drowned babies
but missed one new basket-borne
son in the bulrushes he of the Levite
cloth grown to be shepherd for
one humble nation of men become
lawgiver unto all nations all men
for the rest of all God-given time
“Trust”
Painting by Lynn Rushton
From dallasartsrevue.com
vulnerability lies
in dependence
reliance is a risk
such is life for
we social beings
biographies told
in tales of trust
joys often tied to
trust reaffirmed
agonies grown
from its painful
miscarriage
but poor is the
life who in fear
closes down from
relationships
withholds its trust
for in final analysis
that is the one
and the only thing
we own of value
sufficient
to let us invest in
that most sublime
human exchange
of risk for reward
Writer Lynne Sargent
Poetry Puttering by Pax & Company
Sometimes everything has to be enscribed across the heavens so you can find the one line already written inside you. Sometimes it takes a great sky to find that small, bright, and indescribable wedge of freedom in your own heart. David Whyte
"drink from the well of your self and begin again" ~charles bukowski
no dust here
Looking ahead, without looking back (too often)
flights of fancy from New Zealand
You're never alone, if you've something to share
All you touch and all you see / is all your life will ever be
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I am where the valleys are deep, the mountains are high, and the wind moans through trees...
rejuvenatement - not retirement
Poesy plus Polemics 