Poem Definitions XLV-LXXI

LXV. Life, for Brian

Let Soliloquy sleep in prose
In poetry we will make her dance!
What is Life but a lively mess
Of successive good and bad events?
The uneventful solitude
That living man may prescribe;
Silence has turns of peace and torment
But is silent all the same.
Then arrive the smiling days
Where a man might risk a small wager
To risk seeing her once more, and once again
As risking gets dearer and bolder
So he risks his very tender heart
Before she who enchants and frightens he.
Life, continuing unhindered
By the outcome of this risking
Will present new events with new demands
Pressing man on to find his living,
(Not just work but intrinsic meaning)
His heart will wane, his soul will faint
He must be braver that he deems secure
If he will be heroic-- he must Live!
And what is Life but living's opportunity?


LXVI. Splendor, for Amy

What is the colour of darkened things?
What shapes are hidden from our eyes at night?
Is there rest in darkness
Or only peril and fright?
Bring forth the dawn and hurry
The glory of exposure
Present in the present light!
Let me basque in truth's glory
That all terror is swallowed in day
Storm clouds relenting express
Through tears all color dwells in light!
Splendor is dressed in liquid radiance
As it drapes the shoulders of its source
Might is formed in boast of Him
And life was born in His naming word
 Time looks back and forth upon His face
His eyes glow on me in a loving trace
Of all I've done and meant to do
In our complex history
Still He says this glory is mine to keep
Ashes washed from my mind and arms
As refining fires at last subside
To reveal the same garment of glowing light
Declare the splendor in each member of His bride.


LXVII. Sever, for Rosie

How quickly the motion executes
Unconcerned with history
No respect toward the attachment
Of a pure, affected hope.
Death equalizing the masses
In one hand's swift signal
A motion drunk on power
Ruling the distance of a body from the head.
I wonder if death might not be sweeter
If a regime might be clearer
For the sake of seeing my own enemy
That I might recognize a uniform,
An undisguised doctrine
And shoot, before seeing the whites of his eyes
Yet, this was a pain between shoulder blades
A friend betrayed in the garden glades,
Sever from me my life, but not my friend!
Take my breath and not his loyalty!
But if only his motion was sharp and clean
Leaving a cut too perfect to be felt or even seen.



LXVIII. Orange, for Sam

The classic trap is set
What can a poet manage
With her poetry when
The pen meets limitation
And the masses call up
To the writer in the stocks
"What can you rhyme with orange?"
"Orange?" Shakespeare, Keats and Byron!
Will the public never know
The miracle of the poet is not
Nursing the Goose's Elementary
We are the keepers of a history
Of Virtue and confliction
Of married thoughts
And of Hell's projection
The poet is not a trembling Tesla
In the sight of simple peaches
Or apples, apricots, and oranges.
Rather the poet's knees are weak
when looking on a future
Run on the fumes of unbelief.


LXIX. C. Edwards, for Jesse

Take him at his value
His true value and not what he will tell you
He will fluctuate with weather
But that is unmatched to his character
He is more feeling-- more considerate
Than he would have strangers believe
More devoted to his values
The ones which do not concern himself
But build up and compose himself.
If he were as honest as his spirit
Or as cunning as his steeping thoughts
He might tell you his friendship is worth
   A thousand other friends--
Yet he will tell you a thousand
Will be better friends than him.
His measuring stick is broken,
Believe me, and stick with him.



LXX. Song, for Bret

There are two kinds of magic
Practiced today in sloppy mirth
The Musician and the Poet
Both aiming to take possession
Of the weary soul's emotion
And transform their deep transmission
On the spirit by their own composite.
Senses-- a memory preformed
In an emotive cadence
Counting sound and silence
His art touched two sets of strings
The wooden instrument
And the set wrapped in human flesh;
A single heart is moved,
A magic moving to unconsoled tears
For this is the deep enchantment
Binding to notes affection, transcending years.



LXXI. Karate, Brendan

I took no time for marital art,
Afraid of a hidden power
Nesting between me sinews and my bones.
I imagined my strength being awakened
Untamed like a burning Phoenix
Harming all I touch
Consuming myself with them.
The belief my hands could do anything
Slice concrete, use chopsticks
To snatch a passing fly.
All the dreaded possibility,
 Which stayed my hands from practice,
The fear which fled to ignorance
And keeps me buckling a belt
Of black synthetic leather.