O’Clock
O, Sovereign Clock, we to thy chimes arise
With queries thick’ning our sleep-heavy tongues:
Where go lost spans of time—sweet subtleties
As minutes, hours, days breathe from our lungs?
Do seconds venture to a space obscured—
Beneath lush, chartreuse canopies of leaves?
Or to neglect-scarred rooms is past time lured,
A sepulcher to which bygones do cleave
Thy poker face of porcelain beguiles,
Concealing where the present’s fast cajoled:
To music staffs where rhythms reconcile?
Each syncopated note beats uncontrolled!
Though veiled slyly, no tick rests in peace—
Each settles steep in mem’ry, ne’er to cease.
The Sun Risen
Foolhardy soul to chide me so
You err with airs;
Thy lascivious virtue ne’er compares
To the primrose gold that tints my tableaus
Cloudy clod thou baffle me—
Egoistically likening thy mind
To the rank of a Heavn’ly deity:
Hast thee been cast adrift by some trade wind?
For thou underestimate my love’s power;
On it your praise and respect should shower
In truth, thou lauded my keen, brawny beams
Art thou jealous?
For thy contentions seem overzealous—
Thy bed: the “Copernican centre?”[1] So extreme!
Mine eyes are not blinded, leverage not curbed
Even as I wane, my brill’iance persists—
My paint palette shifts, but I’m no more perturbed
(Lackluster you claim; legacy mere gist?
I smile on you ruefully, vile withal).
A mother of pearl sheen coats the Great Falls
I know what I am and what I am not
And the nothing[2] that thou art!
If states and princes ye be, royalty I’m part;
Prepared to conquer any Gordian knot.[3]
Indeed I warm the world: amber and fierce
My gaze accentuates your slumber grand
Mountaintops and canopies I too pierce
And I take pride in the distance spanned
Thy sphere is my own and thou art but part
Of my domain in which dwells thy servile heart
[1] Copernicus was a Polish astronomer who proposed a model of the solar system in which the planets orbit in perfect circles around the sun.
[2] “Nothing” alludes to the 21st line of Donne’s poem in which the speaker claims that nothing beside he and his paramour exist in the world.
Fed Up With Concession Stands: Memoirs of Motion Picture Magnificence
Resplendent velveteen of blushing red
A stately throne from whence critics pronounce:
“A humbling plot,” “Director’s in great stead!”
All poor reviews and comments they’d renounce
Is Regal entertainment not its name,
Its legacy fallaciously imbued?
No more am I seat for fresh acclaim
But withering—in pools of Sprite I’m sloughed!
My golden seams do burst with bloated stress
As crunching, clapping, slurping permeate
My cushion’s globbed with Sno-caps!—I digress,
Is this indeed the fate I must await?
The culture industry’s to blame, I swear!
For unseating me to “casual affair.”
Perfection (I)
A world unabashed—Pandora’s sealed box
Before curiosity intervened,
A frosted cake tier pearled with pink fondant,
Sliced, syrupy apples languishing in a flaky crust,
A baby’s slight, milky fist curled around a parent pinky,
The breath of a misting fan on a steamy summer day at the zoo,
A car trip devoid of the incessant “Are we there yet?”
A graduate’s smile captured in a frame,
A thornless garden of dew-laden blossoms—
Swaying as wind whistles, glistening as heaven smiles,
The blessing of adoption to a family unable to conceive,
A picnic unperturbed by the arrival of crumb-craving ants,
The sea foam veneer on a spiraled nautilus shell,
An unexpected yes from a love yet unrequited; attainable Perfection (II)
Pandora’s sealed box, scintillating
Before deep curiosity befell
Unleashing demons of corruption, sin,
Hope itself just retained, nearly quelled.
A gymnast acrobatically entwined,
Competition taut as she dismounts:
An unremitting battle with the scale,
“Lighten and prevail”—her coach recounts;
A workaholic reeling for success
A caffeinated sleepwalker: entranced
He yearns not for his wife’s caress, and worse,
Neglects his toddler for métier financed;
A soldier, seeking homecoming at last
His uniform unable to disguise
Reality: he’ll leave as he returned
Boot steps ling’ring longer than his eyes…
Immobilizing motivation sought
At any cost: perfection is hardbought.
Autumnal Tree
Autumnal tree, festooned in auburn garb—
Sienna branches draped in patterns rich,
Leaves faintly clasped, no need for Rose’s barb
And with sweet dew each crispy blade is stitched
Reverberating with wind’s whistling hymn
As through bark hollows notes are whispered brief
Thy leaflets sway in cadence on each limb
Raindrops descend, seas’nal aperitifs
Ye grace our lawns costumed in russet, gold,
Accessorized in gauzy, umber slips
Thou manifest what wild Zephyr[1] foretold
As nakedness becomes your fingertips
Yet thou ensemble is but transient
To summer, winter, spring—not ambient
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