The Rectification of Names

it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
The young mother swings the child in her arms
And what other joy is complete?
Though now their voices be faint, they said
Here heaven and earth shall meet;
But no such joy is reserved for our girls
Who labor as under the earth,
For labor once meant the task of the call
And the task of the call was but birth;

The strife of war at the call of arms
The city yet to be built,
What pleasure is there but to see these things
The blood and sweat to be spilt;
Our men have no war but among themselves
And no wall shall be left erect
For conquest was once the treasure we sought
Before that treasure was wrecked;

The visions we saw, the children we saw
The truth we all longed to know,
The rulers we were, the servants we were
Someday above as below
They offered us power, just for a few words
Which never would be the same
But all that is wrong will be right again
At the Rectification of Names.


A View to a Kill

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
At last unbound from all things real
The step into nothing is strange at first
Limited only by what they feel
Accepting a limit is alone accursed;
But strength is mere limitation
The object once pushed pushes back
To all of their consternation
White is white and not black;
So instead of thinking it through
To divide the false from the true
Accept he who imposes a will
It has been quite a view to a kill.


To a Persian Rug

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
I have oft considered this rug before,
Waiting in dim light for confession
Still, inert, spread upon the floor
And yet not devoid of expression
Though I think it is knit with flowers
In these late, half-dreamed hours
My mind's eye begins a digression
And sees instead the elements' powers.

Lilies with the face of a sleeping child
A star that is perhaps a Nasturtium;
On a field of deep blue it is styled
Seraphs like eyes on the face of heaven
The border of red, whose tangled crown
Morning glory--? The vine is grown
Around in eddies and twists uneven
Where four rivers of paradise had flown;

My drooping reverie goes deeper still
The eye sees itself in this arrangement
Shapes of terror, or unknown good will
Of heaven's or earth's estrangement;
Though some find such objects to be a bore
Lying still as a corpse on this wooden floor
Its life coheres with the mind's engagement--
Yes, I have considered this rug before.



it is addressed thusly:
An imprecation.
it reads:
In time, before St. Philip's day
In dark of night, Paris sleeping
The dam which held it back gave way
That wall alone which still was keeping
Detente in place, with fragile words
But not it seems, with sharpened swords
As those of the moon might say
Time is nigh to cut their cords

And let them to the ocean's whim
The middle sea cross'd with impunity
As though no water contained within
Had power longer to make men flee
Who would fear the water's wrath
They think and stumble down the path
And not of their childrens' security
They think of taking a bubble bath

While blood to spill and bombs pour in
An army gathers they cannot rout
Awaiting spark, inciting din
While they quaver in darkling doubt
It is a story, 'twas told before
For when the blood runs to their door
Will they turn the migrants out?
We wonder what we should wonder for.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
11/13/15 Muslim Paris Rampage


Cold Sun

it is addressed thusly:
An ode.
it reads:
A cold sun comes, and under its beams
Is seen that what is, is not what it seems
Ought it be warmer - by whose design
When the whole world is fettered with rime
A cold sun! As if no one yet knows
What warms the wind, when the wind blows?
Does the lake of fire, a bottomless pit
Warm the whole world with igneous spit--?
Does a secret store deep in the sea
Make life warmer than else it would be?
Volcanoes that vent ring the great sea of peace
Their ire feeds us carbon as oft as they please;
And the trees and grass find it pleasant enough
Which smooth off the weather, where it is rough
A cold sun! Quite spotless as seen
With instrument, but what could it mean?
Expecting God to punish quite before his time
Though maybe his wrath is the fetters of rime
A cold sun! And let the cows flatulate
While they dream the universalist state
Mere owners could profit these little ones
Such as it is when the cold sun comes.
a postscript is here written:
a pass-word:
maunder cold minimum sun




it is addressed thusly:
A vision.
it reads:
We are waiting for the world after
"Do not deceive yourselves," he said
To proclaim it yet, lips are astir --
This secret, secret of the dead.
We cannot make it come to us
Hoping for a door in an old room
A closet - in a world like a womb
But desire it still we must;

Once awoken, the truth like sight
Sharpens the lines - just as spoken
In his cave, man knows Plato was right
But the light comes scattered, broken
Perhaps there is no way from this maze
But to prevent it from driving us mad
And of those who for a moment had
Glimpsed the bright morning 'mid the haze?

The eternity written in the heart of man
Perhaps a specific set of letters
And those who, in this haze still can
Tell us - we would call our betters.
Waiting on every word, they come
To hear weird tales from the outside
But he in simplicity then replied:
"Rejoice, for your God is one."

The coming wolf amid the sheep
His time is short, and his sport
The slope of it is very steep
The shepherd's knife bears retort;
"The world of tomorrow today"
But the kingdom was proclaimed
Ages before - his smile is strained
Who makes the world his way?

Magic, in the minds of mankind
To change the basic rules of things
The technique is not unrefined
If not unreal in the promises it brings
The walking man wishes to fly
Wishes a child a giant to be
I can be you, and you can be me
And together we can never die.

But Socrates sees them standing
In a dark cave no less, and how
Do they not see - he is demanding
But a demand they do not allow;
To warn them his lips are astir
But first to them it must occur
That they cannot make it come anyhow --
We are waiting for the world after.


The Stone on the Shore

it is addressed thusly:
A song.
it reads:
Time passes, I am but its witness
The steady sound, the pulse suggests
A cycle which must go on unless
There is an end to what now exists
My heart yearns for what is more
Reaching as it were, just beyond
Despite this, halting just before
Haunted by the suggestion of sound
What motions would I offer in turn
I who know nothing of nothing at all
I must go back; and begin to learn
Even back before I can recall
The sea under the autumn's color
Which I have never before seen
A leaf alights; and what befell her
Under this - a peaceful scene?
Is it my mother, or her mother before
In my body such things never were
How can I remember anymore
That which to me did not occur?
The sea's inchoate sound rises
A lapping like a clock's wound
A motion of unseen devices
A breath of a child's sleeping-sound.
We do not know if it is day or night
The sun is full of clockwork mystery
We are not blind, who have not sight
But still we are waiting at the sea;
And then the voice of one singing
-- is heard above its comely rush
One's own voice, the wind bringing
The echo's call to a distant hush
To remember sight is like seeing
For that is how man must watch
The time which is past being
Drawn into the sea and lost;
Behind is a sound of another kind
But we turn not to see its source
In this place of peace we find
Will to let things run their course
The song is faint; but it is our own
It still knows what we cannot confess
Whence we came, what is our home
Thus time passes; and I, its witness
Have heard the wind and water groan
Those with ears and eyes saw less
And I- yet I! Am but a stone.