Volatility

May 24, 2010

Four Poems

Filed under: Poetry — Russ @ 7:40 am

 

Each night I dream of a redemptive night
Where drafts of nightmare resolve to new dreams.
The lonely darkness brings forth a new sun;
We survived the night by purging this dream.
The winds of the cyclone give way,
The devastation collects itself again.
We reverse the old fate where our spirits detach.
(And yet there still the past could rescue me
If I could reach you the moment before
You slide away to infinity….)
 
The conscience of the darkness is the dream,
We waken to the new light we create.
Awakening, we leap through staggered layers of shadows,
All the antediluvian debris,
The words, beliefs, taboos, and songs.
Do we still sometimes attend the grave at midnight?
Listen silent through the night for echoes to our whispers?
But the only echo is the truth we already know,
Which our nostalgia in arrears
For a moment pretends to forget.
So we cherish midnight vespers tricking down the walls around us,
And have moments of suspense of belief,
Relapses against tomorrow’s cold sun,
Where we must follow fate.
Where fate is breaking, where it revelates,
There the marches sound for us,
Dashing us upon a purpose,
To see the new light on that date.
 
 
 
———————
 
 
 
There’s a frail span of time, luring the way to language pent
And struggling, softly whispering the way to fly.
It trembles into images, communicates to senses,
Innate the play is written to the eye.
A current, froth and depth inscrutable,
In motion, turbulent, hinted terror, lunging to the sea
Forever, to drift infinite;
Such art was promised by the suspended day,
Now a waitful watch, the latent heresy
And wasteful rush of centuries to drown and drown
And carry down the light.
 
                                      Enveloping at summit depth
And tense to be realized as life, the promise fructifies
And harvests the dreaming spirit, to life and light,
Approach of day to wake the prayer
And write it out in starborne verse
To redeem the lost time with a new game.
There’s a frail span of time, bringing to day the language spent
Exhausted, softly gasping its way to die.
It sparkles in its vestiges, luxuriant in senses,
While sunshine marvels its way from sky to sky.
 
 
 
——————–
 
 
 
The stillness blackens to dawn,
And history summons its time,
At first to crawl portentious and hesitant.
But we’re bright with suggestion of yesterday,
Haunting our sleep with visions of primal fire.
 
We wake with throbbing drums echoing from our dreams,
Heedless of the shadows that scatter to chaos,
Rubbing our eyes in desperation.
Wit for betrayal is the human genius,
A talent scorched in the ancient smithies of murder and war,
A song sung by Homer and Thucydides
Echoed ever after in the flashing refrain.
 
Perhaps war is our tomorrow,
The future dons its wardrobes
In visions which ghast before our pregnant terror.
Our dreams beheld the future in suspense;
Now we wake to the forced rise and the forced march,
The witless trails history has torched
Through the futile receding years of oil.
The brazen mountain looms,
The mystic surprise blasting rockets and fire
Through the chanted waking dream of the Millennium.
If God could arrest the dawn,
If time could tattoo a braille,
(If a child were all we needed)
Then the rest could keep.
It could lie ruined and forgotten under a pile of dreams
Recycled through sated sleep.
 
But this unreciprocated tithe is too precious to evade,
Its implied grin completes the cycle of betrayal and redemption,
And there,
Life truly becomes One.
 
 
 
————————–
 
 
 
I stand at the edge of forever,
   and glimpse the shredded pictures of every story
   ever told before.
I hear the distant winds,
   which circle into all memories
   and grace them all to starry fixtures
   etched across the void.
I sense an endless mystery
   which surges with a purpose,
   fired by yearning faith which resonates
   our underlying souls.
It spells a waning story
   through letters’ hazing distant line
   that conjures its horizon
   out of nothing but our dreams.
Without redemption’s hope,
   and lost against tomorrow’s emptiness,
   we listen only for the echoes
   of every song ever sung. 

2 Comments

  1. Russ, as usual, I like them all. I have to say that as of this comment, the fourth one is my fave. I may change my mind upon reading them a third and fourth time. Well done!

    Comment by Bloodgroove — May 29, 2010 @ 2:09 pm

  2. Thanks.

    Comment by Russ — May 29, 2010 @ 4:01 pm


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