"seasonable" poems
(Genesis, xxii.14)
The saints should never be dismay'd,
Nor sink in hopeless fear;
For when they least expect His aid,
The Saviour will appear.
This Abraham found: he raised the knife;
God saw, and said, "Forbear!
Yon ram shall yield his meaner life;
Behold the victim there."
Once David seem'd Saul's certain prey;
But hark! the foe's at hand;
Saul turns his arms another way,
To save the invaded land.
When Jonah sunk beneath the wave,
He thought to rise no more;
But God prepared a fish to save,
And bear him to the shore.
Blest proofs of power and grace divine,
That meet us in His word!
May every deep-felt care of mine
Be trusted with the Lord.
Wait for His seasonable aid,
And though it tarry, wait:
The promise may be long delay'd,
But cannot come too late.
6.7k
Gemini in seasonable evening,
serenely swirling in Septemberous
ferris wheels
reeling in the vast domain
of lonesome leviathans
and witch-fires;
nowhere bound in the boundless fecundity
[ the feral joys of creation... ]
twins
meander in gravity's
well of souls,
swollen with unknowns and proteins;
golden rods in pointless foam
brewing the elixir vitae
in the Dippers cup. the Milky Way,
a wayward gush
from an ancient Mother Goddess,
plump and shameless, pumping teats
to nurse worlds
infused with divine rays of gamma and x...
why set dark apart
from firmament burning
spheres?
dragons
must clutch eggs in the void
as much
as fork tongue white dwarfs.
of course, the Source
unfolds
as Love does. it's purpose,
in thrall of fearless veracity,
spinning yarns for glad garments
to clothe the naked dread
of such fearful symmetries
as roam the wild delights
of the infinite
meringue.
the Pi
on the window sill,
tempting the circular frame of reference
to square with the sublime Will.
another Fibonacci in your
bedpost,
to better hobnob with
broomsticks.
everything annihilates hatred.
from within,
we sojourn to sovereign super-continents
of opulent peace.
profound realities surge serpentine
with Meaning.
we are outdone on the inside by small minds
and farcical
hearts.
so at night
look up.
Love's Tongue Is
Love's
Word.
Apr 11, 2013
Apr 11, 2013 at 1:31 PM UTC
Not the drip of freeway from Pittsburgh but a rough trundle
on chalk roads as flaxen skies shade to molten celluloid
and I can still see them
flash in August fields like a crop of traffic lights
they flare as hay-bale paparazzi or
floaters in the humour and hang
careless in seasonable decadence
so I’ll pass from the frigid, processed air
and join them in their closeness.
No buzz but a minor hum coming from the
moment’s luminosity and then they’re gone
making good on thunder’s empty promise.
May 15, 2013
May 15, 2013 at 7:11 PM UTC
I always held deep reverence
For people in three occupations
Farming, medicine, and defense
For the reasons appealing
*Farmers feeding
Doctors healing
Defense shielding*
Seasonable occasion
To sing about defense
Today these lion hearts
Will be my subject to pen
We may critique our nation
For it slithering move
But one team deserves
Applaud for being resolute
Team defense
For formidable reasons
They fight for us selflessly
Irrespective of seasons
I reminisce my visit
To Wagha border once
It's elating to see
Armed forces lacing
Our pride in balance
Forgetting all bitter
Citizens fervently cry
Jai Hind
Unanimous voice in reflex
Don’t know why
Joining defense is a willful step
A malice can never serve
Day in day out these brave men
Hold our pride in suave
Salute to these people
Who for us
Sacrifice their lives everyday
These true resolutes
Uphold our independence
In every possible way
Second by second
Minute by minute
Month by month
Year by year
And will in
Years to come
For this
Bharti’s
Salute to them!
Bharti
Aug 12, 2014
Aug 12, 2014 at 7:04 AM UTC
Subtly, so subtly, the workings of Time
Must alter the shape of the outer shell
Of a body once vibrant and molded so well!
Slowly, but surely, like a wood-boring worm,
Out of the gloom of a perilous clime,
Firm in the grasp of a seasonable term,
Comes the chill-laden wintry spell
Of sad infirmity in a dismal sphere;
Lost in the woods of a cherished dream,
In the thickening fog of Nature's scheme,
Midst muffled sounds of distant strains
Are earlier years that knew no fear
Of time and age, what now remains
Eternity must rightly redeem.
Jun 25, 2014
Jun 25, 2014 at 4:14 PM UTC
As she rested in her bedroom,
she looked up,
blinded by a blank light shining down
from a spirit she never knew, but to whom she was loyal.
The hazy evening skies and the bright sun setting under the horizon
joined to form a seasonable warmth.
This did not seem to bother her, though,
as she sat on her cot,
a musty dilapidated mattress stained red
like the sky on a summer morning
blue like the veins that flowed through her body,
dried out and callous like her Navajo homelands.
She read Dostoyevsky with a certain ease.
Einstein wandered into her spirit
for a lesson she would never learn.
She looked up again,
saw the sun become the moon, and wondered why that was.
The moon rays and the sun beams continued to shine down on her,
as her mother glanced through the bedroom door,
telling her to stop dreaming
and finish reading her Crime and Punishment.
She looked at her mother with her pearly eyes and asked
"Mother, is my dreaming bothering you?"
Apr 12, 2016
Apr 12, 2016 at 1:32 AM UTC