Was
February 19, 1994
This, too, is time,
That mountain climb. Referring to what's linear but brittle -
That carries melodies of temporal tides.
It is the tenure tender legacy
Coddling growth so gently.
A granted once-chosen sample
Of a second to a tick, then further graduates in minutes.
For the lackadaisical, the zestful;
Some so minimal and others ample.
It's a wave crashed, but never fully abated from its family matter,
Rather frozen in the moment.
As rebirth becomes an imprint
Of the inevitable.
The chase is movement, motion alive,
Not forms of activity now stiff -
A photograph derived.
"I'm yesterday. I convey all as a fare.
My magic, if you will, renders what's here and there."
Age is a monniker
That pledges to its science.
It's immovable, defiant, and to understand
This cosmic inhibition should nullify
The causation of strain relentlessness.
Bow to the all-star prominence
Of permanence.
The warring flat line that whines
That all is done; the wind isn't here
In a world that no longer turns,
Then the comparison to trees.
Look at them, now, and gloat; look
Again at the differences that can only
Erode if to reminensce on
Prior glances and seize thrills that emote
What's clear.
It's the rider of space,
It's precise and placed,
A past that's not last,
But the old face of formality.

　

© 1994 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

　

The Wind Before the Rain

February 21, 1996

Symmetry is this moment,

the wind before the rain.

Another gift from Mother Nature

To acknowledge the purely sane.

With a brush of sweet air,

Drip drops sprinkle upon faces

Along with the aroma of sweet earth,

Our dear mother delivers her good graces.

Longing for overcast of skies,

During an ill-bred summer's bane,

A concern for the withering of constant flora.

Hoping for the wind before the rain.

© 1996 Jarrod C. Lacy

******

Croak

January 2, 1999

An infantile influenza,

The impossible, manned

Grandstand.

Unruly and seedily neutral,

The opposed is adjacent,

Distance paired to a sealed can.

Sluice. The sound of something -

Something

That clogs the grooves.

Those little funnels

Are now

pudgy entrapments,

Poor water will never supercede

a body's block.

Privy to the lack of tools.

A carass,

And salivates all nightcrawlers.

Remember, the main line has stopped.

Tremble to the prickliness

Of simpleness,

Or be a source red-gushed,

Then to cool.

Listen,

As malady croons a final nocturne.

© 1999 Jarrod C. Lacy