"granites" poems
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, wars and loves and all that’s tragic.
A Father’s lust, an Uncle’s hate, a puzzling labyrinth, through the gate,
A Cretan born, another covered, a starry symbol, placed in the cupboard,
Special place, where heroes meet him, mindless creature, murderous ******
South in winter, man below with a bull above, placed in the heavens by two father's love,
A strangeness here, the seat of trade, in forbidden tryst, a beast was made,
Man of blood, tortured soul, stalks the maze, that stalks the pole,
"Stranger still, this wild pattern, revolving Seventh, Circle of Saturn?"
Unholy corridors made of granites, trace out the movements of the planets!
Life of horror, a soul of pain, terrorizing, with no refrain,
Smells their fear, scents of sin, raging actions, threshing men;
“They call me Moloch! They call me Baal! Tear your body, festoon my hall!”
In trepidation, to gatekeeper sent, a ****** start, for your punishment;
“I collect the hearts, I eat the eyes, I eat the liver, before he dies!”
Olives, figs, dates and mastic, wyrd or oracles, fates and magic, life and death and all that’s tragic.
Jun 9, 2016
Jun 9, 2016 at 11:48 PM UTC
It seemed that out of battle I escaped
Down some profound dull tunnel, long since scooped
Through granites which titanic wars had groined.
Yet also there encumbered sleepers groaned,
Too fast in thought or death to be bestirred.
Then ,as I probed them, one sprang up, and stared
With piteous recognition in fixed eyes,
Lifting distressful hands, as if to bless.
And by his smile, I knew that sullen hall, -
By his dead smile I knew we stood in Hell.
With a thousand pains that vision's face was grained;
Yet no blood reached there from the upper ground,
And no guns thumped, or down the flues made moan.
'Strange friend,' I said, 'here is no cause to mourn.'
'None,' said that other, 'save the undone years,
The hopelessness. Whatever hope is yours,
Was my life also; I went hunting wild
After the wildest beauty in the world,
Which lies not calm in eyes, or braided hair,
But mocks the steady running of the hour,
And if it grieves, grieves richlier than here.
For by my glee might many men have laughed,
And of my weeping something had been left,
Which must die now. I mean the truth untold,
The pity of war, the pity war distilled.
Now men will go content with what we spoiled,
Or, discontent, boil ****** and be spilled.
They will be swift with swiftness of the tigress.
None will break ranks, though nations trek from progress.
Courage was mine, and I had mystery,
Wisdom was mine, and I had mastery:
To miss the march of this retreating world
Into vain citadels that are not walled.
Then, when much blood had clogged their chariot-wheels,
I would go up and wash them from sweet wells,
Even with truths that lie too deep for taint.
I would have poured my spirit without stint
But not through wounds; not on the cess of war.
Foreheads of men have bled where no wounds were.
I am the enemy you killed, my friend.
I knew you in this dark: for so you frowned
Yesterday through me as you jabbed and killed.
I parried; but my hands were loath and cold.
Let us sleep now...'
2.7k
To tell any story of you I should begin with stone –
Marbles, granites, slates – in slabs and blocks so large
They surrounded the family plant like cold-faced
Soldiers, armed not to keep out, but to keep safe
The secret knowledge: how to turn function to art,
How to harvest beauty from earth’s dark home.
We could count on you to be part of our home.
After school days and weekends of shaping stone
You appeared at our table, wearing your appetite large
And wooing my sister until our brother’s blank face
(Your best friend’s cold face) blinked there was no safe
Way to have them both. Somehow, for you, the art
Was in the trying. At work, you created a new art
Cutting and carving miniature relief scenes – of home
And history and Greek goddesses in soft marble stone
Streaked pink and black – with callused hands larger
Than the finished pieces. My sister lowered her face
In refusal of that first gift. Believing you were too safe,
She married someone else. You married, to be safe,
Someone who didn’t care to understand the delicate art
Of your labor. Soon, some chasm reached your home,
Splitting you in silence until you no longer were stone
But shards and pieces scattered at the bottom of a large
Abyss, unwhole. Your grief too hard for you to face,
You led your wife along a trail up to a rocky west face
Above a summer pool. Here, you thought, you were safe
To perfect an absolute stillness between you, a terrible art,
And somehow avenge the jagged cleavage in your home.
You struggled (the papers would later report) until stones
Slipped, hands unclasped, the space between grew large.
Like a pebble thrown, your wife’s body created no large
Ripples until shallow breath returned and she surfaced
Flailing, waving one unbroken arm to show she was safe.
But it was too late for you, whose new attempts at art
Had once again failed, and so you turned to go home
To become immovable, unreachable, a dumb stone.
At home, you recorded failures and defeats you faced
In large hurried script, writing to set forever in stone
One final success: a safe shot to the head, your newest art.
Aug 18, 2010
Aug 18, 2010 at 3:59 PM UTC
¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯ ¯
As I walked the cobbled road,
a fallen leaf had called to me
*“There, they sit atop the elm
and sing in wing'ed harmony!”*
As I looked beyond the limbs,
t'was as the amber leaf had said!
Crows—a trio, black and jade—
sat sewing thoughts into my head.
Doting all, their call, acute.
Feared, as they began to chime
and paint the scene in cackled rhyme—
a stunning scene of ag'ed time!
*“As the Earth sits up on high,
Await the end; the end is nigh!
And shaken from its pedestal,
a common custom—gone awry!
“And as the scrib'ed granites tell,
the darkened lord shall cast his spell,
and all of praxis slashed to
barren ash and taken to his Hell.”*
Their words, a curse to roam the world—
a call, aloud—a siren's scream—
their call—the Cawling of the Wind;
this flawless song's an endless dream.
**They sing an endless, painted dream.
They dream of endless misery.**
As I walked, my mind raced on
and paced about this patchwork key,
both singing of that cursed song
and laden with reality.
And then this bent my hashing mind:
this pasture’s blinding paths abroad!
So ****** by its ****** disguise,
what once was fair is now but fraud.
The thought of sin had bound my feet—
a burning chill that once was good.
His hell was just beyond my reach.
My body fell; yet, there I stood.
And through the void, his spirit falls.
Gone, entranced, as he recalls
a house of cards with meager walls.
Atop the crown, his spirit calls:
“Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life you lead.
As you age, the world will die.
Your questions, answered;
so, says I.”
Around me, then, were those a’brood;
their dreamless nightmare once bestowed.
Our numbers fall; his rise in lieu.
Alas! Submit! We chose that road!
This pasture waned an age ago—
a mountain, this buffet of lies.
For in his realm, the truth will show
that deaf ears harken not our cries.
To a deity of piqued display,
upon a steed of dark dismay,
a fleeting wish, we're told to pay.
He'll raise his staff and he will say:
“Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life you lead.
As you age, the world will die.
Your questions, answered;
so, says I.”
**Your eyes say no, but his say yes.
A curse is thrown, and so we stress:**
*Our Hell is just beyond the green;
past the lies and life we lead.
As we age, the world will die.
Our questions, answered;
so, we cry . . .
. . . and so, we cry . . .*
Aug 3, 2015
Aug 3, 2015 at 4:05 PM UTC
Of all the things in life,
I had, and then lost,
It is my mind. I miss the most.
Where do the stars end?
If i am here all alone.
There are no granites.
I can set your heart a ease.
Because no one ever knows.
How the felling come and goes.
When you get the feeling so strong,
that it will always go on.
Suddenly it goes
Of all the things in life,
I had, and then lost,
It is my mind. I miss the most.
Nov 29, 2011
Nov 29, 2011 at 2:33 PM UTC
Chants of forefathers ever enchant these halls,
calm the winds, steel the hearts of the people.
Each time the land breathes in a dawn, unveils
the toil of cloven granites and honed slates,
born of the struggle between two equals:
perseverant mind and unyielding stone,
a pursuit to cause, and mainstay of stillness.
The night that made them pause is almost gone.
The wait now condensed to a single moment.
A flash of acceptance for the unknown,
fresh ease brightening alike the dew and insight,
breeze of release from what’s coming, and what’s past.
The clash resumes. Opposed sides collide anew,
in concord of efforts, each playing their part,
to witness as one life’s storytelling might.
Oct 1, 2024
Oct 1, 2024 at 11:55 AM UTC
At times
You wonder why life seems so tight
You try to do things right
But all efforts goes futile
You aim at the stars
Yet you fall on granites
When your hopes gets high
Everything seems to be working right
Suddenly it just flows down like drops of rain from the sky
Surrounding you are people gaining new heights
But its just like you're stagnant
Your plight is just so appalling
But
Do you ever wonder why??
Do you ever think of what's left, not right??
You see,The Great wall of China wasn't built in a night
Neither did Edison invent light in his second flight
All you have to do is just try till your time is right
Apr 18, 2018
Apr 18, 2018 at 12:44 PM UTC
RECORD: ONE PAST
FROGMAN: CHINESE MAN
Suzy's: Oh!
poor Prometheus SHOULD be recounted as a ftoule,
from above and
Under
and behind
and inside everything we trook for granites—
something tear-able had been growing.
-- You and Me and Everyone We See
Frank: One from the memory banks...
Don't be calm.
It was a mercy thrilling.
He had a certain naive cHarm,
but no hustle.
Johnny's: missed the line, but hey
STOP: TURN'a'THrOUGHT
Feb 16, 2016
Feb 16, 2016 at 11:53 AM UTC