Wednesday, December 18, 2013
Whispers of Immortality
by T. S. EliotWebster was much possessed by death
And saw the skull beneath the skin;
And breastless creatures under ground
Leaned backward with a lipless grin.
Daffodil bulbs instead of balls
Stared from the sockets of the eyes!
He knew that thought clings round dead limbs
Tightening its lusts and luxuries.
Donne, I suppose, was such another
Who found no substitute for sense;
To seize and clutch and penetrate,
Expert beyond experience,
He knew the anguish of the marrow
The ague of the skeleton;
No contact possible to flesh
Allayed the fever of the bone.
. . . . . . . .
Grishkin is nice: her Russian eye
Is underlined for emphasis;
Uncorseted, her friendly bust
Gives promise of pneumatic bliss.
The couched Brazilian jaguar
Compels the scampering marmoset
With subtle effluence of cat;
Grishkin has a maisonette;
The sleek Brazilian jaguar
Does not in its arboreal gloom
Distil so rank a feline smell
As Grishkin in a drawing-room.
And even the Abstract Entities
Circumambulate her charm;
But our lot crawls between dry ribs
To keep our metaphysics warm.
Source: Poets.org
Wednesday, December 11, 2013
The Loss of a Poem of Heart and Soul
February 22, 2002
What was that lovely sentence written yesterday?
The one incredible first line.
The beginning.
A break from imagination that wouldn't allow me
to stop, but bring to a shine.
The civil course of action is to have it done.
Later - probably much later - a little annotation.
The results may not be the gift of great sound,
the arrangement may seem like your world
is a little warped, a little down.
To handle it: write from all places and vacant spaces.
May forces allowing any mind to stack further on
the ego, resolves for some importance of pinpoints
that will not delay the chart.
Especially in the middle of great thoughts.
© 2002 Jarrod C. Lacy
******
There is true light and life in Africa
May 16, 2007
Someone, somebody, maybe someone all wrinkled and everything
sat me down and regaled stories of tribesmen, whose toes should be
tormented with ingrown nails, whose craggy feet should bear the right
to whine of bunions, hardened corns and calluses, old warts, unsightly
hammertoes and constant hectoring from heel pain.
This is because they travel by plain walks and runs, they hunt this way,
and the bold directness of their lives should be mirrored beyond the
mere travelling beams of accolades.
© 2007 Jarrod C. Lacy
February 22, 2002
What was that lovely sentence written yesterday?
The one incredible first line.
The beginning.
A break from imagination that wouldn't allow me
to stop, but bring to a shine.
The civil course of action is to have it done.
Later - probably much later - a little annotation.
The results may not be the gift of great sound,
the arrangement may seem like your world
is a little warped, a little down.
To handle it: write from all places and vacant spaces.
May forces allowing any mind to stack further on
the ego, resolves for some importance of pinpoints
that will not delay the chart.
Especially in the middle of great thoughts.
© 2002 Jarrod C. Lacy
******
There is true light and life in Africa
May 16, 2007
Someone, somebody, maybe someone all wrinkled and everything
sat me down and regaled stories of tribesmen, whose toes should be
tormented with ingrown nails, whose craggy feet should bear the right
to whine of bunions, hardened corns and calluses, old warts, unsightly
hammertoes and constant hectoring from heel pain.
This is because they travel by plain walks and runs, they hunt this way,
and the bold directness of their lives should be mirrored beyond the
mere travelling beams of accolades.
© 2007 Jarrod C. Lacy
Wednesday, December 4, 2013
Jeff (an excerpt)
July 16, 2005
He said he had the
gift after I shook his hand.
There was an
out-of-town accent:
"My name is
Jeff."
Winn-Dixie had a bit
of skeptic on the front of
her property, but
there we met.
Forward, I was but
uneven with his face, bearing a
trembling stance.
To myself, "Can
I trust the All Mighty to corrode
my concerns about a
new face, and protect me as
I clutched the
far-side of my grocery basket?
I trust you,
Lord."
He said he just had
to comfort me, for there was
something about me.
He noticed my doubt
and caution.
"Man, I'm just
goin' give it to you straight, man,
and be
honest..."
I was immensely tight
with the pause of readiness, if
self-defense would
become prevalent, but there was
a little
embarrassment, though I listened.
His twenty-something
handsome features correlated
stunningly with his
slightly over 6-foot frame, and as
I studied the smooth,
unblemished driftwood that was
the shade of his
skin, while I waited his narration, I told
myself that,
"Yeah, I'll just keep my eye on 'im this
way."
He was dressed for
the humidity that day, and despite
his lean muscularity,
he was easily identifiable as a
jock, before he even
mentioned it, looking awesomely
luscious in man's
laziest apparel: a bleach-white tank
top, exposing the
youth and strength of his arms, saggy,
grey sweatpants with
dangling white drawstrings, the
bottom legs scrunched
to his knees, and crew socks
matching the
retina-frying brightness of his tank, and his
dingy sneakers were
no surprise, while his left hand clutched
a thin dark jacket,
as if to say he was expecting the temp
to lower at night, in
the middle of an Alabamian July.
"I've been here
for over three months, and even though
the missions here are
nice, they have same problem as
any other, anywhere
else: too many bodies to provide
for. I'm not saying
that I'm better than my situation, but
every now and again,
it'll be nice to stand as a man
if I wasn't always
standing in line, waiting for another
sack of something
provided by unknown hands; it
makes me feel as if
I'm not trying hard enough to get
back on my
feet."
All I could do was
reply with a cool hand "I here ya, man."
He furthered his examination
of me, and continued with a
softer flow.
© 2005 Jarrod C. Lacy
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