"auguries" poems
leaves start to fall they're mango-red and dry
but seem like scattered tears in the grey dawn
when i have got the paper from the lawn
and sought the new day's fortune in the sky
with hope the auguries will not now lie
while those who sleep behind curtains still drawn
miss happy sight of trotting deer and fawn
for all the world like neighbours passing by
now this is change and magic in its way
which multiplied becomes the world's own form
and contains us such moments we retain
in deepest memory against the day
of dearth and sorrow in the heart of storm
when we are lashed by coldest wind and rain
Sep 5, 2011
Sep 5, 2011 at 1:14 PM UTC
your gloom rubies roam the miracle, miraculous; lasting orange in the parlor of our most red wednesday... your mood blooms in the parlor of our most red Wednesday
in convolution, bathing everywhere in discrete voluptuous, nocturnal by day and dawn purged. a complete confusion of unique bliss and utter distraction,
masking the perfect lonesome of lost buttons.
to magnify the utter not so !
and not so
at all !
Mab is the Queen.
you float on black goats. fallen. small feet in fleece of midnight. star lit.
your imminence faire beyond pondering. Literally.
you are dreamt intensely.
you leave me as empty as a horn of plenty [ enigma ]
where you. And you alone; have spread
your feast.
you float on white lichen and baby's breath,
churning the waters of auguries
too lovelorn to be well met, but yet, they sustain life
at just that pitch
that forks
the road
there ! you glow in the mirk of my desire. gilded in shadows
far too fierce for the sun's darkside
there !
you abide in
nameless
wisp
your heart, Fey
and indolent.
and your
throne
cats !
Jun 5, 2013
Jun 5, 2013 at 6:56 AM UTC
. . . . . . .
. .
. . . . . . .
i would like a space marked out
wherein in silence i'd observe my sacral auguries,
and insularly divine
amid mid-dawning light contingencies,
to sweep a magic sweep for sunrise-
-tabula|_|rasa
and find, founded in a flout: a sect beyond sects
to section self sectionless~
inwrought helix interhelix nest~
and there reside attentively
()blinking() s l o w ...ly
in rainbow eyelash quiver flow,
arrows soaring ' ' ' ' ' 'centerly
to pin
each
whirl
of dream,
of sleep,
mneumonic residue,
prehensions right or wrong clear through --
symbological goo, too--
all too evidently called
from out an obvious deep
oblivion of plenum om,
or so it's said it's seen
in clear eidetic percept room
of alter overmInd of mindstuff's tomb [*]
and form of selfish altar drama gone and soon
for looking in or out or neither both
oblique, about aboutness-mirror zoom~
to which what spectionism halves
behaving in a twofold twining intro free: the finest of the fine:
insight-interred intuited sign
quiescently, albeit doubtfully at times, benign
.
.
.
.
Aug 4, 2012
Aug 4, 2012 at 4:32 PM UTC
By your leave, let I slumber once forever..
And my moment shall never realize itself.
My portfolio possess no wherewithal wager,
My seat of affection is now dull and rough.
Sepsis leak a foggy black since blight is nigh,
The sea is feeble whilst the sun shine naught.
The corpse of venal men flow unhealthy dye,
Henceforth pervade the soil with miasmic malt.
Lest my mistimed demise be not remembered,
Shall the script mark y'all failed to deter abuse.
Today my ember is snuffed and plundered,
On the morrow a bright star will rise, I muse.
Heed thine auguries borne from frigid stupor,
Vicious tendrils cascade upon my rigor mortis.
O gray vision as though gazing through vapor,
Hear that silent gasp veiled under my spicy lips.
Aug 28, 2010
Aug 28, 2010 at 5:11 AM UTC
A sonnet of moonbeam,
a moonie for a son.
Hey Salkind and Salt, too!
Once young peeple gathered
we magicked the world
to shape a future out of the Cold
We demand no more curtains
No poppets, no straw men, no g-men
Mother nature's calling
She cries out daily
for her children
the moon, her star -the Sun
Earth magic and wishes alone
can no longer fill the breach
of promises too long forgotten
Let her rip,
like a lioness
Roaring at the injustice of her first ****
Oct 16, 2013
Oct 16, 2013 at 9:52 PM UTC
If any item
should retain
eldritch potency
in this present age.
It would be
bacon.
wild magik
is released
by the fat
contained
within its
thick sliced rind.
Glamor can be
released
in simple
domestic rituals.
All you need
is a pan
& a heat source.
Many magi
have reported
in secret books
about bacon’s aid
in seeing
the future.
When bacon cooks
within a simple pan.
It sizzles
prophetic quatrains
of coming days,
and often is served
with well-cooked omens.
Seers
have reported
the auspicious energies
properly displayed
when bacon power
is properly
presented.
When the curl
of bacon
properly
interweaves
the tips of tongue…
For in
the tingle
the taste bud
apprehends
the shape
of infinite spaces;
where the future
is foretold
within
the chew
of inward knowledge.
May 6, 2015
May 6, 2015 at 6:08 PM UTC
All other seasons usher their expectant Mother--
lay her down, and let her be.
Her's is a great birthing...paean of the eleventh hour.
Air blown lukewarm, honeyed...showers soft as
tears that place the face of growing significance.
Inbreaking rumors of life to be, the exultant charge,
moment of creation split green, thus created to divide
but moment ago where none was.
Early fires of greenery...the irony lost on nothing--
the harshest season precedes the gentlest.
Analogous to the truth of hope, where from the dead
of winter...a flower.
Broken open its color as tangible light, to it--the bee's
figure eight prayer, partaking thereof.
The rampant crisis of consciousness creature to newborn
creature, all immersed in the golden wave of renewal.
It's as if a standing ovation burst in a monastery...
what's been withheld in the making is withheld no more,
Mothered by Spring.
Mar 20, 2015
Mar 20, 2015 at 11:33 AM UTC
.
*Morning ears flower
One monarch butterfly breezed
Chiming temple bells*
Mar 31, 2017
Mar 31, 2017 at 4:27 PM UTC
Mush have i reap in the light of noble verse
that glide the divine reason of deeds and fact,
truth as it may seems through the tongue may pass
the mind that differs,the world that need no maat.*
*maat:an ancient egyptian god for truth.
All right reserved.
Jun 1, 2012
Jun 1, 2012 at 1:06 PM UTC
Intwined in sweat soaked
fev’rish delusion
A rav’nous serpent
coiling illusion
An ouroboros
slurps its slith’ring self
The prism lies fissured
’neath a cracked ice shelf
where flaws like veins branch
blood of dark gods flow
a heaven lost in smoke
nothing good here grows
Atlas underground
sinews straining stiff
auguries of beasts ablaze -
Spare a pity for what if
Apr 22, 2022
Apr 22, 2022 at 11:10 AM UTC
bleak darkness and its measure:
squandering the light
no definitions
no spectral haze
no inhibitions
its onerous labor is one
with me.
live life at the edge of the fall.
holding a hand
fallibly.
live alone, love alone —
these things pulse with strength
in singleness, even the glances
of prying neighbors are sequestered
reduced to sealed shut, hermetic,
no sight or hindsight.
i'll run to where the sunlight is
and wish for the moon, slumber
like a dead log adrift in the current.
buying myself love and selling its pleasures to defunct markets.
trying to repair what is beyond salvation,
trying to amalgamate what is perpetually
scarred, sundered.
clangorous *** of metal, herding jeep
and riotous chariots; mad men fill
the lines waiting for encumbrance,
bardic in the streets of Marilao
hungry for something:
give me a blank piece of paper
and i will try to reinvent the world
with impunity and lostness.
the world gives back such awry stare
and all imperative darkness reigns
supreme, mine are all emergencies
as shadows are succored not,
retained in their caliginous thrones.
living alone
yet not so much alone.
the dog outside does not bark anymore.
the well-placed gnome of stone outside
stares stonily across the thick space.
the nosy neighbor does not meddle
through the rusted ocher grills.
the old moon wanes outside
as the lift of light sways to where
there are no disappearances.
somewhere in the metropolitan there
is a derby of fools and all mirth;
i wish myself there and curse my presence
right then.
work does not fill me anymore,
money does me no good. my soul
bangs the walls and slams the doors
it threatens to leave without auguries,
and demands a new sense of necessity.
tonight, i will go out, drink at a local pub
and crawl towards the ajar door of
my father's car. smoke will caterwaul
the pressing scenes of the vicinities
crumbling at the tremor of clocks;
i will open my dresser and discover
all books dissipated, some naked
in relished pages, others abeyant.
the curtain can fall later,
and the night too, falter evenly
widely spread across the sky.
— all is broken.
Oct 28, 2015
Oct 28, 2015 at 8:49 AM UTC
The collie, fur grayed and patchy, lopes away from his house,
Ostensibly bound for nowhere in particular,
Knowing only that it is that time, his time,
And, as he wanders away for to await that last solitary purpose,
Meanders past a pock-marked and rust-patched single-wide,
Occupied by a young woman (a girl, in truth)
Nursing a newborn, child whose father
Is one in a wide range of unpalatable options.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
They walk, the residue of some boy meets girl,
Along the quiet main street of an equally quiet town,
Utility poles garnished with benign, contented snowmen,
Low-hung five-pointed auguries strung with tinsel,
Brobodingnagian candy canes swaying rhythmically in the wind.
They have arrived at the unspoken yet mutually understood conclusion
That they have taken their particular accident of birth and geography
As far as such a thing may go, yet they walk hand-in-hand,
Fingers intertwined, though tentatively, in some interim rationale.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
On a hill above town, there is a rambling, low-slung edifice
Multiple-winged single-story octopus of a house
Well appointed though sparsely and diffidently decorated,
More hotel than home, decidedly transitory in form and function.
In one of the rooms, dimly lit with little ornamentation
Save a Charlie Brown-esque tree squatting forlornly on a bureau,
A woman is reading softly, almost mechanically,
As if it is a story she has read out loud countless times before,
To a man who is heeding, perhaps, though it is clear
That the act is more essential than the words on the page.
They have a daughter who would be there,
Sitting in a chair or on the edge of the bed,
Hands clasped, though in service of or supplication to nothing tangible,
But she is home with her toddler, a whirligig of a child
Who has found some hidden presents
And is tearing away the wrapping from the boxes,
Laughing unrestrainedly as he showers himself
In a red-green-gold ticker-tape maelstrom.
Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.
Dec 12, 2016
Dec 12, 2016 at 9:05 AM UTC
O like a breeze they stemmed,
From the north, like a storm;
Trampled these feet of ours!
A far reaching spell alone brought
Auguries of a will and ravage;
A hunger to be scorched.
Standing at the crossroad of a time,
Holding the floor tide by tide;
Aiming thus far fair and well.
Nor a soul ever was to complain,
First were they once they came;
And seats taken all the same.
Minuscule down the immense
Must all find where to commence
A motion towards shared quests?
But as these perish, unsheathed swords,
Their sediments to restore the world
And all else shall be vain!
May some through fortune stand and last
Upon all this dream of a burning land
Way up high beyond stars.
Jan 5, 2020
Jan 5, 2020 at 4:21 AM UTC
Masked back-packing militants descend on DC.
The instigators' antics indicate true agitator's instincts. When the rest buy it, the best... riot ? Putin set the precedent by rootin' for the President. As for the protestors -- are they seeking to serve justice or just the Secret Service? Joined by thousands of patriot motorcyclists, the black-masked boast of hikers may be lost on a host of bikers. Hmmmm... the silent verve of our veteran friends proves that the violent serve wicked ends. The verge of silence may mean a surge of violence.
While snowflakes melt down, the state will clamp down as militants storm town. Eastern sages know: a mean Taoist turned teen Maoist may raise the base rating for race-baiting just to get a rise. Erasing a different face is not the same as facing a different race (and many of these mad Taoists seem a tad Maoist to me...) Opening the trunk, one forgets that elephants remember: when the mob rules, they rob mules. Democratic icons are stubborn things. Until the bandits are punished let's banish the pundits to the hinterlands of fake news.
It's inauguration time, Dumbo.
Jan 18, 2017
Jan 18, 2017 at 8:24 PM UTC
.
*Morning ears flower
One monarch butterfly breezed
Chiming temple bells*
.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 7:35 PM UTC
after 2 AM the tinnitus of a withering day has abated.
the shrill un-boundaries of our servitude
collapse into auguries seeping
from a perforated moon
like white honey.
all it’s thought
a dot on a creature
made of holes.
stumbling home from a mansion
to a flat.
in a yellow car.
Sep 5, 2022
Sep 5, 2022 at 6:20 AM UTC
The ancients put tremendous matters
On oracles and auguries.
When godhood speaks, the priest agrees.
Glib cunning fails when trouble batters.
Calculations have a thousand ways
To err, while chance can cut the odds
To one in ten, or more if gods
Drop hints about our dossiers.
Augurs read events to come
From entrails, bones, and scattered sticks.
Their guesses are arithmetics
For problems reasoning can’t sum.
Jan 17, 2022
Jan 17, 2022 at 10:06 AM UTC
MOTECUHZOMA
Our priests have proven green and tenderfoot
By goggling at our late, ill auguries:
Dumbfounded, counselless, they scan their toes.
For this have I agreed to pawn my pride
In dabbling with questionable cures
By calling forth the aid of sorcerers.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Dread lord, how might your grace with confidence
Place mercenary warlocks in your trust,
Who twist their gifts toward late-night banditry,
It’s said, to paralyze their shaky preys.
Tezcatlipoca, our capricious master,
Might cloud our muddy minds yet murkier
For slumping to such dubious helps as these
If they make mock of his peculiar knowings.
TLACAELEL
Don’t worry. If they cool your fevered fears
We’ll hail their hocus-pocus as white physic.
If not, then as black fiends in iron they’ll rot.
MOTECUHZOMA
Bring in these esoteric ministers.
A guard leads in three Sorcerers
You three obscure and dicing conjurers:
Have you beheld grim omens in the clouds,
Or prodigies upon the earth? You three,
Who fathom ‘neath earth’s black and gem-jammed caverns
To skim atop cold pools of stone-blind fish
And witness those who have not winked at day;
Who sink into the water’s murky deeps,
And loiter drowsily among the weeds,
Mustering fronds and nightshades for your charms.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Have you encountered stray and mongreled men?
Or lightless nooks congeal as dead men’s shades?
Or midnight women, crablike, creep in broods?
Shall we be leveled flat by strange disease,
Or locusts, pirating their greedy shares?
From sudden deaths, from wars or wild beasts?
Shall rainstorms sink our rooftops down to jetties,
And Tlaloc drown us in a tide of bounty,
Or broil us in cruel sabbatical?
MOTECUHZOMA
You must not candy up **** truth for me.
Have you not heard our thirsting goddess cry,
And nightly croaking from the earth’s deep faults?
Oct 21, 2016
Oct 21, 2016 at 12:37 PM UTC
3/1/2016
"* The river is rising
over the thawed ground
and the banksides. When you come you bring
an egg dyed lavender.
We shout along our bank to hear
our voices returning from the hills to meet us.
We need the landscape to repeat us.
[...]
In the debris lay
starlings, dead. Near the park’s birdrun
we surprised one day
a proud, tan-spatted, buff-brown pigeon.
In my hands she flapped so
fearfully that I let her go.
Her keeper came. And we helped snarl her in a net.
You bring things I’d as soon forget.
You raise into my head
a Fall night that I came once more
to sit on your bed;
sweat beads stood out on your arms and fore-
head and you wheezed for breath,
for help, like some child caught beneath
its comfortable wooly blankets, drowning there.
Your lungs caught and would not take the air.*"
wd snodgrass, 'heart's needle'
here it is and here i was
succinctly woman,
growing into my title as one
never deciding whether or not
to be the one to upturn her nose cruelly
or ground her feet into the dirt shyly.
i revel in my past
and i believe it happened, yes
reading back at old letters
two years prior to the day
looking for any
auspicious auguries,
anything that would have alluded to
this swollen self.
winter this year lasted
maybe a day
i cannot decide
if that is good for me or
for the earth,
but i have never been
an
excellent oracle.
Mar 1, 2016
Mar 1, 2016 at 7:20 PM UTC
CUITLAHUAC
It’s said Huitzilopochtli’s temple burns.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
It does so, to the sinking of my gut.
Great rains of sparks dripped on his chapel’s thatch,
Which torched our war god’s crematory pyre,
And lit the flabbergasted rabble’s face,
Their eyes and open mouths like perfect ‘O’s.
Afar, the old, old fire god, aloof,
And chortling at his native element,
Was in his shrine extinguished nonetheless
When shards of lightning from a cloudless sky
Forked up his walls. It seems the gods contend,
And waste their earthly halls as game-board chips.
CUITLAHUAC
Have you beheld the floods?
PRIEST OF TLALOC No. Floods? The floods?
CUITLAHUAC
The boundless lake that rounds our rafty town
Shrugged off her boiling banks, uncorked her wrath,
And, in a breaker to out-swell the sea,
Has drowned our residential waterfront.
House after house bobs in a flotsam fleet-
A drear, domestic archipelago.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
What does the emperor your brother say
Of these most inauspicious auguries?
CUITLAHUAC
It’s in the bag and in the box with him.
He closets up his fear in trumped-up shrugs.
And yet I can not blame his fickleness.
If judgment’s based on past experience,
How to interpret, then, such spectacles,
When what is weighed has never once before
Been seen or rumored in the known-of world?
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Lord Tlacaelel claims that Hungry Prince
Tonight held council with the emperor,
To state his gloss on these phenomena.
CUITLAHUAC
He stands on shaky ground. How did he fare?
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Like to a hummingbird trapped in a hive.
Motecuhzoma’s bellows rattled rafters.
He challenged him at dawn to the arena.
The sacred ball-game shall resolve their feud.
CUITLAHUAC
The stakes?
PRIEST OF TLALOC Unknown, but speculated high.
CUITLAHUAC
We’ll meet then in the morning at the court.
PRIEST OF TLALOC
Let’s get inside, lest Tlaloc should suspect
We dare the tempest-tosser to his worst. They exit.
Oct 11, 2016
Oct 11, 2016 at 12:38 PM UTC
a century ago the world began
in blood and pain the auguries were wild
so many things have changed in a short span
my father’s world the currents overran
there was no time for words or thoughts too mild
a century ago the world began
we have to choose which of the screens to scan
it is too easy to become beguiled
so many things have changed in a short span
and we are all entranced woman and man
by all the facts that overcome the child
a century ago the world began
two shots and then the faeces struck the fan
for all mankind none would be reconciled
so many things have changed in a short span
the light itself has been placed under ban
and all that once was purest been defiled
a century ago the world began
so many things have changed in a short span
Jun 27, 2014
Jun 27, 2014 at 8:12 AM UTC
a severed midnight
taking the calls of a thousand
dreaming souls, fading
i wonder if the rain will wash us away
drifting into a somnolent embrace
against clashing tides of aegan
until i have sand between my fingers
breathing in the hawthorn blossoms
reaching again until it falls
and stops crying beneath my feet
just close your eyes and softly
rest amid sounds of synaptic crickets and
faint traces of chanterelle
between your slightly-open mouth
waiting to hold onto forbidden auguries
coalitions of sweeter reveries
i couldn't find behind your eyelids
and then, perhaps, after a million years under
the stars, i'll open my eyes to revelations
the light sleeps on. where can we be alone to watch them?
Feb 14, 2018
Feb 14, 2018 at 2:50 PM UTC
.
Morning ears flower
One monarch butterfly breezed
Chiming temple bells
.
Aug 28, 2018
Aug 28, 2018 at 11:20 PM UTC
Dear ...
Yours is a post PhD thesis and sets us thinking about what life is but definitions are relative and subjective as philosophy and morality is not science--more by way of speculation and hypothesising. Truth is sui generis--we de-sanctify it by claiming we know it but it stands askance.
I would look at life in awe and in recognition of the limits of my own understanding, also in acknowledgement of my lack of maturity and perspicacity ---I shall not pre-empt bur rather live a day at a time-if lucky enough, I might learn to know a bit, just a tiny bit more ,of myself and my relation to life.
I do not need to have an answer to life's mysteries, complexities, nuances or its contradictions as my happiness and wellbeing does not rest on knowledge--I would deem myself lucky to have some oblique insight--to be able to see a moment in its intrinsic state is quite enough--though it is not enlightenment, a new consciousness would have dawned upon me as what was reflected by Blake in his AUGURIES OF INNOCENCE.
Whether life has meaning or not is definable only by personal experience, stripped of external influences or the ranting of writers and philosophers---it is the perennial 'I' and 'Life' that is the crux.
Existentialism is but a lonely and isolated way of looking at life and might be better suited for Western thinking in its vague and dubious search for answers to living unlike the Eastern which seeks to live in harmony with the self and the universe. As such, the West is Yang and the Eastern, Yin--the former involves struggle of the self, the latter is strife-free in its benign acceptance, acquiesce, humility, compassion and subjugation of the ego and not over-doing or over-achieving. That the West is bending more and more towards Zen, Taoism and Buddhism clearly shows a sharp shifting of thinking in espousal of Eastern wisdom.
Love is more real than life as it impinges upon me in my relation to those whom I love and also in my knowing I am loved in return.
It is not an abstraction like life or truth.
What shall save me at the end is not understanding nor knowledge
but rather in recognising I am but a ripple in the limitless vastness of the sea of life and my acceptance of such.
Do I make sense, dear Master?
My IN THE FOOTSTEPS OF ZEN--THE PATH TO A CALMER AND HAPPIER LIFE (published by Brolga Publishing, Melbourne) is on sale in 14 countries under Lim-- for rating vide Lim Sing AbeBooks, et al.
It mentions, inter alia, existentialism, Camus and Sartre
with my deep esteem.
Aug 8, 2020
Aug 8, 2020 at 11:59 PM UTC
There is alchemy in Blackbird song
an opal paean through early doors
of infant sensing
Sprung limpets of the broad leaf crowns,
Will, heliacal, from chimney spires,
A crocus bowl of canticles
unwritten in the Latin blush.
of uncorrupted eloquence.
There is prophecy in blackbird song
from red Victoriana glance
those rippled satin auguries.
Sloe philharmonic oracles
untie the mellow chords of rest,
to sing as they have always sung
in allegories of days to come
beyond the headstone houses.
Aug 4, 2017
Aug 4, 2017 at 3:13 AM UTC