poetry – Endeavors Heroic

Archimedes’ Cup

Perched on the rim of Archimedes’ cup

watched waters recede with what it will

a lever works the chain that folds us like

hooks in the bay lift ships by the treble

it’s a slippery spiral up our inclined plane

rising above oneself to grasp the world

when the heft of the crown is essayed in gold

value is measured in the slop of the bath

otiose ablutions squat soaking in thought

sloughing off eurakas in serpentine coils

a puzzle box at the bottom of his crater

love’s labor devises your own orrery

knees in dirt drawing cylinders in spheres

limiting endeavors to seiged Syracuse

red tip Romans quick to the gladius

leave us massaging a phantom limb as

a windswept whisper spars with Cicero.

Tautology

There, a black iron pot bubbles from the froth of a piston plunger

churning contents into an oobleck concrete overpressure fractures gout release

reforming sealants crawling sideways stiffening shells sublimate strike slip

tectonics in turn crusting upturn shale depositing crystalline foam birthing

flying mites down a whirring fibonacci spiral fossilizing into a

hardened piston plunger churning a black iron pot.

Bandit Eyes

I saw a raccoon on the side of the road

her fur gently ruffled by my passage

head between her paws, bandit eyes asleep

her tail in the shape of a question mark.

There was no time for an answer as

I was compelled by red command to

share a moment beside a looming yellow wall.

In each portrait window a grim face of youth,

pressed against glass unyielding. Behind me

horns sound in the shape of a question mark

so I place my head between my paws

and keep my bandit eyes awake.

As I race towards that looming wall

ruffling the fur of grim faced portraits

trying to find the time for an answer

the shape of my tale a question mark

on how to share a moment and allow

the passage of a raccoon on the side of the road.

21st Century (i)Scrying

Your darkened phone makes

a wonderful mirror and

if you grasp it just so

you can angle it to peer over

your shoulder at what

is behind you.

With adroit dexterity regard

the wavering sheen and

with steady purpose frame

the shaky reality dancing

on the surface.

Care must always be taken

that an inadvertant and

misplaced application of force

not trigger heavenly backlight

dazzling the view.

The mirror mirror on the wall

comfortably rests in hand

now proclaiming the fairest

scours the land faster than

the light it uses to

bewitch the eye.

Hoist your periscope sideways

so you may ensorcell and

capture as many naked

moonbeams one can within

a watt’ry vessel which obscures

everything and nothing.

As you lift your view

above the white capp’d and

gleaming froth the absence

reveals not what lies

behind but what lies we

wish to see.

These are the kingdoms of the

glowing closed (i)’s and

those with waxed half

open lids avoid the blinding

light that sings in the land

of the transfixed.

In the land of the blind the two eyed gorilla is king.

Black Hole

I know what it’s like inside a black hole

few think it a fate that could befall

those with nimble feet on the ground one eye

focused through the lens and aimed at the heart

the other open to the terror of skirting too close

giggling at the maelstrom reflecting the glow of all

those stripped down bare to their elemental nature

dancing daring darting toe to toe nose to nose

smudge on the mirror through the looking glass

paradox reigns in her palace we name empty yet is

compacted infinite vacuum, here she divides by zero

while those with nimble feet are bound together and

trapped between the insatiable monsters named

always & never

as always whispers none

and never shouts out all.

What good is a poem?

to the three in Giza or

the boot grooves on Tranquility

even

the rough wood bench

where William rubbed ribald. . .

but no.

The argument makes itself really

just as every solution contains

the germ of a problem

flowering

following the sun off

main sequence into a

timely staccato.

Less ephemeral than a kiss

and far less satisfying in nature

the p’s and q’s chasing

meaning

like a metaphor around

electrons of an atom

positively negative.

A poem is what good

students sit stuffed into small desks

chipping phonemes from sly syllables

fades

when words have no

sense nor feel when

spin fails.

People make their own sense

out of desperation to survive in

a world of words reduced

eventually

powerfully driven existence depends

upon that which we

imbue within.

So –

What good is a poem?

the argument makes itself really

less ephemeral than a kiss

a poem is what good

people make their own sense

to the three in Giza or

students sitting stuffed into small desks

and far less satisfying in nature

out of desperation to survive in

just as every solution contains

a world of words reduced

the germ of a problem

the boot grooves on Tranquility

the p’s and q’s chasing

chipping phonemes from sly syllables

when words have no

powerfully driven existence depends

like a metaphor around

following the sun off

the rough wood bench

where William rubbed ribald

main sequence into and

upon that which we

sense nor feel when

electrons of an atom

imbue within

timely staccato

but no

positively negative

spin fails

eventually

flowering

meaning

fades.

101 Well Wishers

one hundred and one

well wishers, tread a sylvan road

picking up and leaving off

a careful harvest left ahead

by those planted before

twists of root and thorn

levy a toll on

the gentlest of slopes

all while nodding agreement

in elevation and clime.

one hundred and one

well wishers, thumb their coins

flashing impudently past

critics of art and ferrets of fate

listening for lonely

echoing cistern strikes

of promises unmet like

thieves crouched in closets

wishes are farthings when

dreams cost a dime

one hundred and one

well wishers, linked arm at elbow

comb a golden cornfield

open upturn mouths seek

manna raining down like

islands athwart the shore

scant feet above fertile soil

remembering days of

base clay and black vineyards

beside a usurped kingdom

one hundred and one

well wishers, apart stand as one

forever limned in dusk

toe in the rosy mourning

knowing full well

that hazy smudge of stars

sad heart songs and

gentlest loving lies

linger longingly best in

the darkest night.

Kaleidoscope

I see –

corrugated refractions

incessant distractions

wheeling skies

unheard cries

congenial fashions

windswept passions

outstretched theft

unmeasured heft

cold disputations

warm incantations

singular focus

hocus pocus

lost translations

awkward hesitations

waiting cymbals

dusty hymnals

strident quotations

surprise visitations

pulsing signs

sharpened tines

sly refutations

queasy reputations

overgrown trails

rusted nails

sad dispensations

tepid conversations

absent friends

auspicious ends.

Liberty Bell Alarm

Frodo lost a finger, Luke his whole right hand,

King Arthur lost his kingdom,

and Lennon lost the band.

Nero fiddled sweetly, Neville said it’s cool,

if you can’t see what’s coming,

then brother you’re a fool.

Sound the bell with vigor, the thugs at the gate,

are shoving on their jackboots,

and shouting out their hate.

Whether you’re a farmer, wear a suit and tie,

what we want to know here,

is where your conscience lies.

It’s ok to stumble, some will even fall,

for you to be a hero,

you first must hear the call.

Slide into your armor, sharpen up your sword,

link arms with your sister,

get ready for the horde.

Frodo saved the Shire and Luke saved his dad,

Arthur saved his land entire,

and John was never sad.

Nero was an asshole, Neville even worse

if you can’t see what’s coming,

then brother you are cursed.

Alazia; The fear you are no longer able to change. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows. John Koenig