THANK YOU TO MARK ANTONY ROSSI OF ARIEL CHART FOR PUBLISHING MY POEM TODAY.

https://www.arielchart.com/2024/01/crossing-river-without-bridgr.html

Crossing A River Without A Bridge

 

In a canoe carved like ivory,

crossing east to west,

I will arrive at great halls,

singular and pure,

erected with utmost magnificence.

 

The pleasure of traveling

on so long a journey

will be within my embrace

as I emerge triumphant within sunbeams.

loving—recalling.

This trip will take me to my victory.

The answer to the mystery of the stars

I will bring with me.

THANK YOU TO MARK ANTONY ROSSI OF ARIEL CHART FOR PUBLISHING MY POEM.

https://www.arielchart.com/2024/01/almost-prayer.html

Almost A Prayer

 

There’s no power or strength beyond love.

Love is not cast in a mold.

Instead, nature, as artist, arranges

each individual’s fancy,

ordered to bring

some charm to the narrative.

 

Within the decrees of friends,

there stands a high level of

profound admiration, in corrective balance

with a countenance that shines.

 

And if we believe in the power of such,

the way is clear to express a wide smile,

and to answer earnest requests

for the world-wide opening of dialogues,

sought as almost a prayer.

 

 

THANK YOU TO EDITOR MARK ANTONY ROSSI FOR PUBLISHING MY POEM IN THE JANUARY ISSUE OF ARIEL CHART. 

https://www.arielchart.com/2024/01/afterimages.html

Afterimages

 

Only quiet, still visions,

emotional afterimages

of a once bustling historical form

known to have existed.

Evidence of old tradition is here,

but only one chapter can be viewed

of the book of its past,

all other chapters being conspicuously absent, 

abandonment’s factors not known.

 

 There can be only so many causes for its defeat,  

which begs the question -

over the course of time

what took it from its short endurance,

this once dynamic place, 

with citizens living in such a dynamic way,  

with the continual rise of activity evident in daily life,

and dropped it into its entropy,

then into the final stage of collapse

leaving only this eerie forlorn location,

a site filled with haunting mystery,

relinquished by any who survived

and went in search of better optics.

 Thank you to Strider Marcus Jones for publishing my poem in Lothlorien Poetry Journal.

 

Thank you to Editor Mark Antony Rossi for publishing my three poems in the January Ariel Chart. 

Evil As An End In Itself

 

I imagine a terrible machine,

thrown out of balance,

that will end the world.

 

I cringe while hearing

tarnished truths,

on account of glittering lies

meant to produce hysteria.

 

We plain folk seek refuge

from instant horror, 

from the might of legions.

 

But not kings not dictators,

nor scholars of tyranny,

nor those who wax or wane in power,

will heed the oracle’s alarm.

 

I am too tired

to try to absorb

all that the hours wrestle with

in the great race for peace.

 

All I can clearly discern

is that if evil’s definition

is that which causes silence,

the world will be still soon enough.

------------------------------------------

Secrets in the Dark

 

Tell me what you dreamt,

while you were unable to speak in the dark.

 

I carry the insomnia of martyrs.

I hear sounds heralded,

lost in chaos.

I heed them against 

the quiet march of dead sons 

in the hallway.

 

What were your impressions carved

within the sound sleep

of your high road?

 

I’ve asked you to tell me as best you can,

asked you to unveil,

what must be remembered.

 

What did you dream in the dark,

that puts you at ease

upon your foggy shelf?

Perhaps that’s a question

for another conversation.

------------------------------------

New Bronzes

 

Arched hooves of demons,

skin as silk or leather

wearing constraining vesture.

 

Worshipping black crosses,

a series of other vulgar effigies.

A bowing intoxication to pitch,

unsaintly indifference to anger burning.

 

Contemporary statuaries,

dark with the stain of blood,

their legacy carved on corrupt hearts.

 

Their deception exists in their own psyche

and de-evolves beyond.

It’s easy to pinpoint their fallacies.

 

Thieves at work,

found in the latitudes of torments drawn down.

All seasons thick 

with the suicide of broken hearts,

terrified with shock.

 

The crude quarantine of salvation,

nothing but distaste for the councils of heaven.

Occult power desired,

and a new age with new bronzes stands,

where that once beatified is dead.

 

New Bronzes will stand 

until man finds new mettle

and a more dauntless spirit.