"verities" poems
I.
“No doubt they’ll sing in tune after the Revolution.”
-Kamarovsky, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Everyone seems to clench his fist these days
In solidarity with ephemera
While setting fire to green recycling bins
Hurling someone else’s bicycle through a window
Armed with their undergraduate degrees
The comrades liberate a coffee shop
Wifi-ing the revolution of the day
Empowerment by beating love to death
Loudsplaining authentic victimization
Posing for selfies with a stolen ‘phone
II.
Their inhumanity seemed a marvel of class-consciousness, their barbarism a model of proletarian firmness…
-Doctor Zhivago, p. 349
Everyone seems to clutch his flag these days
In solidarity with a past that wasn’t
While setting fire to misspelled cardboard signs
Hurling someone else’s beer into a crowd
Armed with their lurid Confederate tats
The Something.Right liberate a dumpster
Bull-horning the counter-revolution
Empowerment by beating love to death
Bellowing their Reconquista of stench
Posing behind their cheap gas station shades
III.
“I used to admire your poetry...I shouldn't admire it now. I should find it absurdly personal. Don't you agree? Feelings, insights, affections... it's suddenly trivial now. You don't agree; you're wrong. The personal life is dead…”
-Strelnikov to Yuri, Doctor Zhivago (film)
Some few embrace civilization these days
In solidarity with humanity
While lighting one small candle as a votive
Whispering an Ave into the Light
Armed with wonder through pen and flute and brush
Recusants choose the liberation given
In singing of the eternal verities
Self-empowerment happily denied
With love, with poetry, music, and art
Celebrating life on this summer day
Aug 12, 2018
Aug 12, 2018 at 5:09 PM UTC
Angelic minds, they say, by simple intelligence
Behold the Forms of nature. They discern
Unerringly the Archtypes, all the verities
Which mortals lack or indirectly learn.
Transparent in primordial truth, unvarying,
Pure Earthness and right Stonehood from their clear,
High eminence are seen; unveiled, the seminal
Huge Principles appear.
The Tree-ness of the tree they know-the meaning of
Arboreal life, how from earth's salty lap
The solar beam uplifts it; all the holiness
Enacted by leaves' fall and rising sap;
But never an angel knows the knife-edged severance
Of sun from shadow where the trees begin,
The blessed cool at every pore caressing us
-An angel has no skin.
They see the Form of Air; but mortals breathing it
Drink the whole summer down into the breast.
The lavish pinks, the field new-mown, the ravishing
Sea-smells, the wood-fire smoke that whispers Rest.
The tremor on the rippled pool of memory
That from each smell in widening circles goes,
The pleasure and the pang --can angels measure it?
An angel has no nose.
The nourishing of life, and how it flourishes
On death, and why, they utterly know; but not
The hill-born, earthy spring, the dark cold bilberries.
The ripe peach from the southern wall still hot
Full-bellied tankards foamy-topped, the delicate
Half-lyric lamb, a new loaf's billowy curves,
Nor porridge, nor the tingling taste of oranges.
—An angel has no nerves.
Far richer they! I know the senses' witchery
Guards us like air, from heavens too big to see;
Imminent death to man that barb'd sublimity
And dazzling edge of beauty unsheathed would be.
Yet here, within this tiny, charmed interior,
This parlour of the brain, their Maker shares
With living men some secrets in a privacy
Forever ours, not theirs.
6.3k
They fall upon us over the spillways of time,
Burbling at us through some Radio Free Nostalgia
Courtesy of some college station sitting at the far left of the dial
Or streaky CDs at the rear of some forlorn shelf,
And we know them to be to be, if not outright falsehoods,
Among the more variable of truths
(As all truths are, if we’re being honest about the matter)
For when someone sets out to create the Great American Whatever,
It becomes quickly apparent that such paths
Are not straight and clear, but wind and double back upon themselves,
Replete with thorns and weeds with bladed edges;
Egos must be stroked, revenue streams and margins considered,
Leaving one’s primary legacy as a testament to compromise.
But to be a casualty is not necessarily to be a fatality,
And through the narrowness of a three-minute window,
Purveyed to us by quartets of chanteuses
Who were no strangers to compromise their ownselves
(So many staged photo shoots,
So many hokey Christmas songs and cosmetic-sale jingles)
We can glimpse momentary epiphanies,
Crescent-moon slices of the verities,
Which, if not the whole truth and nothing but,
Provide us with something to hold, something to hum
As we go about the tortuous business
Of making some sense of the whole **** thing.
Apr 7, 2017
Apr 7, 2017 at 9:41 AM UTC
Do you prefer space, or the deep ocean?
Or the void at end of the world
where the ocean was before
it turned to salt? Or all of the above?
Me, I prefer the all-out sprint to the edge
where the toes abandon the sun-warmed planks,
the infinity of just existing in air, a moment
before the infinity of just existing in cold water.
There is boundless freedom only found
constrained to a minute's unreversed decision.
There is endless wisdom only gained when lost
to the great unknown, unwritten verities.
There is uncanny comfort in this pastel wind
over gray land, in the unconcerned moon,
in the one thing you don't even think about until
you need to find where you dropped your keys.
In reality, "all of the above" is the correct response,
and you can with joy fling yourself into the abyss
of any unfathomed mystery, any new creation
to discover whether you will float, or sink, or swim.
Or we could just spend the day together
at an art museum, leave your jacket and keys there
on the benighted beach, hold hands, and jump
through the wormhole at the center of the galaxy.
Mar 18, 2025
Mar 18, 2025 at 3:23 PM UTC
Inglorious light
To strand light from darkness the greatest victory Jesus said I am the light of the world it was fixed and
Sure no dividing nothing to confuse but then man’s desires arose as in all instances when he would
Dismiss God’s sovereign authority honesty is missing they don’t say initially the truth spoke thusly no
They craft well their superimposing disfigured light it has to appeal it must have the essence of
Misrepresentation with this you will be enlightened and thankfully you can do it by a measure that you
Can control you will be god and have the authority see all the lights draw them together into a super
Beam they are outer bold strokes of genius variable dreams exists in this bright coexistence with
Darkness you can blatantly satisfy all manner of appetites and keep you heart from alarm you are
Walking in light there is a supreme being and he too is known as the angel of light that is filled with all
The arts of deceit he will dazzle and from his inner light you will fall from heavenly heights the same as
He there is no end to your trouble nor his but what a ride to control thoughts and destines of others that
Innocently trust your words the breach know the true word was abridged to fit a morality that didn’t fit
Into true and right nobility no matter substitute your own please make it glowing the greatest
Subterfuge must look closely like the original we are speaking of eternal verities fine tune the sphere it
Must pass the acid test for the casual adherent only the best divisible means must be employed you are
Substituting bedrock truth with the illusion of truth never say the devil won’t give you your do even he
Plays fair to a point you are giving up a kingdom your right as an heir not to mention love will be changed
To murderous intent the death of a soul is not a minor undertaking you laid the ground work so expertly
Now to keep up the pretense it’s not really like its hard we are all rebels just play into the general feeling
That is maximized when you add the poison of deceit its the drug that will never fail love be dammed see
You in Hell
Jan 9, 2012
Jan 9, 2012 at 7:17 PM UTC
The world is too bright when it’s full of lies.
Darkness lacks without any trust.
How I wish to dim the deceit,
For too much can hide behind florescent lights.
Cold penetrates
What once was kept warm by the golden world in the celestial sky.
Soon to be a myth of long ago.
Pity will cease
For not a tear will be seen
For cries will be lost
In the midst of agony,
Felt by a world too far gone from all verities.
Rain will fall to wash away
The remnants of falsities
To reveal, even to blind eyes,
All the truths long forgotten.
A world of fragile things
Hidden by far too many a luminous glow.
Rapture all the shadows;
No longer apparitions of the hidden psych.
Free they are
To roam a deceptive world,
To spill every obscure secret.
Like the crimson blood shed
By countless who fought
Through the murky seas of deception.
Shattering is all will be
When the sun fails
And we must confront the face in the cracked mirror.
Oct 31, 2014
Oct 31, 2014 at 12:32 AM UTC
Come with me, I’ll show you where
The wonders sparkle beguiling blessings
Arousing perceptions of gratitude innate
To heedless humans in lack of deceptions.
Irrefutable eternal verities unfolding
Elegantly before disallowing eyes
On the expanding canvas made of space
Moulding elements of plasmatic grace.
Wind back the hands of time with me to witness
The emergence of the first and most abundant substance,
Hydrogen out of recombination epoch
Finely orchestrated by physical laws to form and fuse in stars.
Stellar nucleosynthesis where nuclear reactions
Are boons in disguise for new combinations
To bear lithium, carbon, neon, oxygen, iron,
The entirety of the essentials on the periodic table.
Indulge with me in the mesmerising marvel
Of watching those incandescent stars go supernova,
Their shock wave thrusting silver and golden nuggets
Throughout infinity creating planets.
Now return to Earth with me and look around,
At the stars’ debris under your feet, feel the ground.
Take this glass of water, a cocktail of hydrogen
And oxygen, breath in! Gaze at all that exists.
Stare at yourself, made of trillions of cells,
Nourish the awareness that you are part
Of the bewildering opus yearning for you
To live your life and honour with consciousness
The wonders sparkling beguiling blessings.
Jun 17, 2017
Jun 17, 2017 at 5:22 AM UTC
one thousand and one dreams ago
you pierced the cityscape below
with a single word unspeakable
truth
we scattered white ash and black snow
up the spires shrouded in clouds
above the skies and higher and higher
aloof and removed from our sight
the camouflage of flawless reflections
cracked
the fortress sheltering certainties
and mile wide shadows billowed
through my memories and returned
in one thousand dreams after we woke
to the colours you called our own
shades of wisdom within
the last circle of dream catchers
where the light broke and shattered
into rainbows we could embrace
dancing under the storm ahead
and the rain of disbanded verities
Jul 2, 2013
Jul 2, 2013 at 6:34 AM UTC
Meteors compared to falling stars,
the fire flung by pacific angels
against evil spirits when they
approach creation and
annihilation covered by smoke
to near the gates of Heaven;
The casuistic piffle of laughter
and fears the mussiness of
demons detached from
Gods creation according
to their newly venal
violent nature; devotees
for material benefit.
The enjoyers of sacrifice,
the renaissance passion
of faithfullness- the highest
occupational work as chosen
souls of the book of faith
made of eternity are
drawn like water from a well;
verities senescence, fidelities
essence of everything
troth superior to renunciation
via hermetic knowledge and
sense control onus of
life's attachment.
ELEETE J MUIR
May 31, 2016
May 31, 2016 at 12:36 PM UTC
Think of it as a thirst for Truth
That can’t be quenched by dry Vermouth.
Those souls who in the bottle find
a sauce of solace for troubled minds.
Because I can conceive of wine,
Somewhere there grows a fruitful vine.
Existence made certain by concept possible-
an essential premise Ontological.
From the grapes sweet nectar flows
To please the palate and charm the nose.
Its mysteries bring blurred speech and vision
At bottle’s bottom they find religion...
Some seek their Truth on distant peaks
From Fakirs dressed in linen sheets.
Some in bare ruined choirs dwell
With thoughts of Heaven spiced with Hell.
Still others have declared wine evil
An attitude I find Medieval
Their wine grapes meet a sadder fate
reduced to raisins on a plate.
From Vine to press, from field to glass
A boon companion to Life’s repast.
Red or White, no cause for Schism
A sommelier hears your catechism.
Jul 24, 2014
Jul 24, 2014 at 6:46 AM UTC
I shut my eyes to block them out,
But their screams howl so ******* loud,
My nights turn sleepless,
My heart yearns sweetness,
Empty souls overdose,
Verities exposed.
Aug 22, 2016
Aug 22, 2016 at 9:46 AM UTC
The ancillary argument is an asclepion which is anaphoric to anathema, anointing anecdotal evidences as an asymptomatic astonishment, assumptive of an averring the verbiage unwavering used to auxesis an auxiliary found aiding the circular back to an autonomy, assuaged in its entirety, appendant to an irony, giving appurtenance to astronomy yet astringent to all company of asters in the wovenry.
A sweetened ingredient in life’s vermouth, is a lesser known but still common truth, resounding voice a sound so routh and unforgiving of jockeying jocose uncouth but the greatest parts of life we know are sorely wasted on the youth and so fundamental is this truth or verities vivacious muse that some might say we light a fuse when using such verbose abuse that angry are they who find our use an anathema to amuse?
To wit so that I must abjure the painful notion there is a cure to a playful mind’s language of slur not meant as such but thus obscured the difficulties so inured on my ment-al-lity of thought a crime, a retching twist of someone’s time thus wasted on a poem blurred, a freedom though has just occurred; my mind a paradise, my thoughts a bird...
You wonder why I wrote this po-em,
Think on your life and about your ho-eme,
Look back at youth’s wondrous days,
When life was new and full of plays,
And ask yourself is this a maze?
Jun 5, 2016
Jun 5, 2016 at 12:06 PM UTC
Praising silence delusional pagans
interpret perception of finite senses
fabricating concepts outlawed by reality,
as sounds audible and imperceptible
travel through mediums elastic and viscous,
eardrums capture peculiar waves of pressure
whilst bodies distinguish pulsating tremors.
What a prodigy! The auditory privilege
aural ability to hear, billows crashing
on shores, winds blow through crispy leaves
of ancient trees, where enamoured nightingales
sing, mating tunes humans reproduce.
Deepening breaths and sighs, musical
compositions voicing instruments while
vocal chords intone words that bring us closer,
exchange ideas, bequeath stories of verities.
Yet, increasing volumes may disrupt
fragile minds eager to listen, in a society
creating noises of its own to fill the voids
left by melodies unheard, disregarded
to the benefit of klaxons, traffic jams, alarms,
frantic rolling stock, people shouting
offenses, constructors drilling to insanity,
and if you listen carefully, energy stream
through electric wires an incessant hum
to which we are clumsily attuned. Our silence,
all but silent, ridded of the rest we could hear,
eyes bat, air flow gently into our lungs, blood
run through our veins, heart beat to a rhythm,
synapses sparkle thoughts impossible to hush,
internal heat engender emotions, flickering
sensations roar. Seducing silence only purpose,
perceive the entirety of all
the universal melodies unheard.
Feb 12, 2018
Feb 12, 2018 at 5:58 AM UTC
There is a space, hidden from the eye
Of all creatures residing Earth only I,
Cognise and call my own as I alone,
Walk its secret paths entangled
Meanders ascending towards thoughts.
A cave of shadows revealing its nature,
Where senses are dismissed for ideas
To sparkle intuitions of reality I grasp,
Eyes closed, ears shut, no fire burning
Behind me to project illusions before me.
Here, I defy the diktat of physical condition,
Truths only true to animalistic interpretations,
Inebriated by the spirit of greater verities
A place as immense as the Universe,
Concealed within me pigeonholed Mind.
Jan 11, 2018
Jan 11, 2018 at 5:29 AM UTC
The cartographer coddled by the satnav
He used to be king of the map
But he's become so reliant on it
Feels He should hand his qualifications back
The photographer produced such sterling work
Unattainable to the average ****
Now his darkroom tricks
Honed over decades
Leaves all cold
who can't do that?
We all reckoned
The scriptwriter a decade back
Pretended empathy with the working man
Total automation was the track
No human error was the plan
I'm ok I'm a creative they wouldn't dare replace me
Besides he laughed
No virtual engine could capture
The eternal verities.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 8:07 AM UTC
Let there be dark
in your life.
One day, you will
be able to see the light.
Wind would sleep in the
earthen lamp during day.
Come evening―
tears will light the wick.
Hordes of moth have
resumed their sorties. Any
cruise of moon was
impossible.
Not acceptable was hiring the womb
for manipulating the race. An
eagle dance, brings out the
savagery of man.
Dec 29, 2016
Dec 29, 2016 at 12:40 AM UTC
The memory is so clear, so here-and-now
That it most likely never really happened,
One of those scenes which lead you to insist, rather huffily,
That it indeed was just that way.
In my mind’s eye, it is a mid-November late afternoon,
The light, no longer tinged with October’s sepia softness,
Slanted, harsh—bitter and defeated, perhaps,
And, in a stand of denuded trees
Some distance beyond the barbed-wire fence
Sitting just past the pavement’s end,
Placed there to enclose a scruffy herd of cows
(Fence and bovines equally shabby and time-worn,
Thus ensuring peace between animal and sub-division lawn)
A mad surfeit of crows shriek and scream and babble
Like the end of days, and I feel—no, I know—
The birds are trying to say something to me,
Impart some secret normally revealed
Only to those ancients skilled in the arts of diving truths
Found in their entrails, but I am unable to glean anything
From their frenzied clacking and jawing.
Soon, it is time to go in
(The day, not unlike my dinner, is getting cold)
And presently it will be time to receive
Those gently stated but unassailable verities
From the evening’s designated wise man
(Rotarian glad-handing Mickey,
The madly winking, almost leering Scrooge McDuck,
Perhaps even the good Walt himself)
Words requiring no pre-washing,
No parsing, no translation.
Oct 18, 2018
Oct 18, 2018 at 12:34 PM UTC
The cast is ever changing, be it at Old Eli its ownself
Or various other institutions, most sans ivy,
Their distinguished here-and-gones
A touch short of presidents and laureates,
And certainly the songbook has changed
(Out with the Crosby and Waring,
In with the Cobain and the Stryper)
But certain verities, gnawing and implacable,
Remain unchanged, the inevitable realization
That, for all one's promise, all of our ilk
Have preceded us in our arrival, flush with pride and promise,
And made the odd ripple or two, perhaps,
Before shambling onward to other things
(Very rarely bigger and better, sadly enough)
And all those songs we sang and steins we hoisted
Have now been consigned to less fashionable quarters
In the anterooms of memory,
The melodies and laughter filtered, transformed, muted
The sound not unlike the slightly discomfiting bleatings
Of some distant barnyard animal.
Feb 10, 2018
Feb 10, 2018 at 8:47 PM UTC