"incunabula" poems
Beauty the
incunabula
-first traces of
anything-
of poetry
Feelings
-known but
unnamed-
spurned
from the
sublime
Jan 1, 2015
Jan 1, 2015 at 11:23 AM UTC
Upon arrival it smells
exactly as it should,
or only slightly different
than how it ought to
it should be
equal too; not you
like a morning mood
it can be a fickle youth
A poem lays:
a floor
It asks: what
am I naked for?
~
Beauty the incunabula
—first traces—of poetry
Feelings—known but unnamed—
spurned from the sublime
~
So fine
the lines
widening
like child’s
eyes before
fruit
ripening,
before it’s
known what
right is
any
good for you
—as mud for
elephants—
Snacks at
noon
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 8:22 PM UTC
Music is the incunabula
-the first traces- of poetry
an attempt to put the sound into word,
not in the lyrical sense: some set rhythm and
rhyme and words, no,
in a biblical sense
in the shape and form:
in a transcription of
minor and major lifts
and dips
Apr 1, 2018
Apr 1, 2018 at 3:06 PM UTC
And so the curtain closes on another mortal year,
the shadows still fall close behind but light stands ever near,
staring deep into the void of all life’s hope and fear,
we smile for all that’s yet to be and those we hold most dear.
For though the sun soon sets upon the times that have gone by,
the dawn will bring another chance for each of us to try,
to change the world around us as we gaze towards the sky,
And be the best that we can be and never let love die.
So let the clock tick down the time towards the final hour,
Worry not on what's ahead and do not hide or cower,
Make your future plans with all that lies within your power,
Build a new life rich in love to be your cherished dower.
Dec 31, 2015
Dec 31, 2015 at 5:17 PM UTC