The snow falls with supernatural slowness:
As surreal as ceremonies of dying;
As stark yet serene as a seer’s presence;
O mid winter’s malignant spell is binding!
The soft spirit of grace fades from the world’s face.
I’m moved by the crescent moon’s subtle caress,
Not the dazzling, febrile glow of cyberspace;
Where the blare of the counterfeit displaces,
Our time honored notions of noble Truth.
And floods the senses with miasmal confusion.
In the fashion house of fleeting youth
Sparks spatter from the anvil of illusions.
Airbrushed models leap from magazines & screens.
Their skin is as smooth & deluxe as vinyl.
Symbolic myths are pasted onto tomorrow’s dreams.
Sentimental surfaces mask the violence.
I watch, with august judgement from the wings,
As the heady, hackneyed scenes are replaying
This is the era of the passing impulse.
Irony dissipates in the desperate light
Of a phantom sun that mesmerizes us;
While the frail human subject’s shadow declines.
Slyly parasitic in our ‘cozy’ homes,
Like preening cats we crave supine asylum.
We are content to embrace shadow kingdoms.
We no longer seek a transcendent domain
Of fire & air; that stirs the stars & seeds.
We lack a profound hunger for higher needs.
There are only intermittent murmurings
– Lullabies of the lost that sing through the cracks.
We‘re content with the cut price in sensation’s quest
Not the fresh miracle of warm surprise that’s blessed.
Glittering fragments adorn our cave walls.
We are far removed from ultimate concerns
And the contemplation of Platonic Forms;
The pure pools of silence, in which we once
Dwelt, are now polluted by the endless din
Of distractions that deny the source of things.
The Word is strangled by syllogisms.
It is wrecked on the vast shore of sophistries.
This is the age of tainted information.
It’s replaced the richness of ancient wisdom.
An abyss now sneers at verdant creation.
A brand new form of bigotry has begun.
I detect it in the marked decay of doves.
It can be deciphered in the death of Love.
The halo is now outdated & defamed.
Poets are ciphers writing metallic verse.
And ‘activists’ reek of narcissistic aims:
What manic, translucent clowns of dissidence!
We seek an arbitrary sense of order.
There are no more prophets or passionate pilgrims.
Only starry eyed tourists crossing borders;
There’s no seamless coat of divine harmony
I can only trace the warped patterns of those
Who weave coarse fabrics of their own devising.
I sense the power of the vainglorious.
There are no reference points of virtue or sin.
We are left with mere remnants of beauty
That only the refined artist can perceive.
I gaze knowingly at black, skeletal trees;
For their gnarled, ice laden branches plague my dreams.
In these bleak mid winter moments – dark spots in time.
I await the coming of spring & its’ vital wine.
Leave a Reply