In the heart of the cavern, light
that stands ancient behind time, beyond
phenomena, the observer of melodies;
This is where it all began,
those aeons lost when the mollusc
heeded the call to man.

Inward, stalked by worry and loss,
an inversion of the lines of time:
beyond the zero point of recollection,
where zoom microcosms of possibilities
a realm not realm, but like that
an existence beyond existence.

Here, arose an affliction, in
curled expanses that exist as some among
an infinitude of potentials,
worldlines, some dark and featureless,
others growing and meaningless
and some like here where sentient,

observatory, a shadow grows around
the probing ray of infant awareness.

and so the ascent, from light to light
through alleys of darkness. Vast,
the beginnings and interludes
between phantasmagoria; What
accedes of in slumber, the knowledge
of things and nothings.

And up even until the day when
the babe says 'mine'.

Thunder's Rolling drum
Across the churning heavens,
Lightning’s mighty discharges
Flash across the waves,
Illuminating torment
Of a momentary vision
In portraiture of Hades,
A kaleidoscope of craze.

Hard rain horizontal
In howling gale of deluge
Revealed momentarily
In silver sheets of rain,
Writhing tongues of lightning
In jagged forks a-searching,
An instantaneous funeral
Through a million volts of pain.

Standing at the cliff edge
In the drenching after midnight
Fearful pulses racing
In the violence of the storm,
Spectator to the vastness
Of Devil’s work unleashed here
Spectator to a fearsome sky
Where the Gods of Wrath were born.*

Marshalg
Witnessing the most spectacular, violent lightning and thunderstorm immediately adjacent to my hilltop front door in Taranaki @ midnight..
11 April 2014

The World's Times* chronicled
Crusades and Fatawas,
Jihads and Inquisitions,
Coups and Genocides.
     Such resourcefulness

The Construct.

Another Cathedral rises
In a destitute country.
     Do-able

We're told
From the leader's lips
     We'll always have the poor.

Uh huh! The poor!
That's what was said.
We can always put them to work,
And there won't always be work.
They'll need membership cards,
And birthings and burials,
Like always.

     See the pyramids along the Nile
     You get up every morning from your alarm clock's warning

Another temple
Will grow from
Rice paddies;
A synagogue,
A mosque will
Cinch tiles
On the backs of peasants.

I've had enough
Laundering by recluse
Single mothers,
By crooks posing as shepherds,
And Holy Wars
     so oxymoronic
     cleanses too

Any Divines
Benefitting from
Our labour and wages;
Our drachma, denarius and shegel,
Aren't worth the worship.
Yet the lenders are good
At getting their pound.

          *Don't drop a coin
          In a wishing well,
          Pay cash for a mass
          Where they'll ring your bell.
          Choose a charity,
          There's so many,
          That need a
          Pauper's Penny.

-

i took no pleasantries in that adjustment
from the top shelf of Pastry Perfection
to the wicker-wire dust bunnies at the
"sole" level of humanity

after i mistakenly thought —you—  took
some element of freeverse i had posted a
couple of years ago at one of the more-read
poetry sites on the internet-

then i realized something, Poet..

that for all those sleepless hours you
spent cramming for the SAT—

i posited on how many welding rods
could be burned down during a two
hour period of trade school

and with respect to those thousands of
words diligently packed into your
undergrad dissertation—

(including that humorous description of a
knitted strap you used to keep the pencil
from rolling off the table)

i wrote a brief essay of commonalities
on how much Gerald R. Ford and
Elwyn Brooks White
actually disliked
football,

and to those thoughtfully crafted lectures
in front of scores of distinguished
scholars and senior staff—

i was projecting shadow puppets onto a
screen during a slideshow while the
teacher excused herself to the restroom.

basically this;  

as to the volumes of books
you have published
over the decades—

i have a few thousand words of
amateur poetry posted online
inside of a few years.


That Said,

for those carefully-placed words
(of mine)
you incorporated into your
latest masterpiece,

realizing poets will not always
happen upon the same instant
at any given intersection,

i recognized that most familiar sensation
we Both get when having correctly
delivered the punchline to the funniest
joke of the evening.

we —in fact— have only the readings
of fellow writers to blame for each
other's blending of creative impulses,

that during these miraculous,
yet humble birthings of verse—

i have it now on good authority,
that we all could possibly exist
within this capacity

                                      as mere equals...



"The Lanyard of Amateur Poetry"
© 2020 by Seranaea Jones
all rights reserved


.

I've never cried at funerals
Beside the bowed heads
Looking past the markers
In this gated community.

I've never cried at weddings,
Those blissful, blessed tears of joy.
Seeing the children settled and content
For the years they've yet to live.

I've never cried at birthings,
Though tears are warranted
For years of trouble and ecstasy
They will surely cry.

I've never cried before the courts
Pleading for leniency,
Or alone in a cell.

I've never cried for lost innocence,
Those tears that only come with experience.
The loss of a love.

I've cried for myself,
And I carry a hankie
To marvel at the wet spots.

Its that mystical moment in time
when serendipity and fate
conspire to create
a cross roads
between you and your ultimate desire

cross roads become one road
and you find yourself
making odes
singing loads of love songs

its that time when glances
part crowded rooms and
for that brief second
a thousand words would have dimmed in comparison

late night conversations
stolen kisses and
needing more wishes
lunch time quickies
during meeting messages
ambiguous phrases

fill the air with cupids touch

your love struck
yet you find yourself stuck
between a rock and a hard place
and you declare
that serendipity and fate
had lost their case


for your intimate space
was already occupied
by a decade worth of memories
by a wedding ring
a couple birthings
and a husband who would have died
just for you

what ifs fill your mind
yet you remind your self
you would not have wanted it any other way
so you create a secret place
memories of his face
tucked neatly away
you smile with the knowledge
you'll love him always

"Sonnets From a Conversation With a Friend XXXI "

I exists after the fact form follows
Function cultural paradigm selfish
Me centric universe causes birthings
Of effect anger hatred depression
Apathy mixed appendages of thought
Once grown manipulated consciously
Or pre-consciously from conditionings
Familial T.V. others self school work
Associations numerous random
Unseen out of the darkness fear more than
A word life bone pillar construct of worlds
Entire here a breath then gone we pass
A steaming moment turn around and look