Bull Dog III
What is it about the jagged high peaks of stone
that draws the heart of some to embrace again
and again the thin air, crystal silence of obsidian
edged clouds and bare walls upon which no one
ever has nor will walk?
Fewer and fewer of my sentences end with question
marks. What has not yet been answered I shall be
happy to leave as enigmas requiring a sharper mind
than mine to resolve beyond the edges of doubting
shadows. One grows tired of the unknown and
decides that all that he may know is known to him;
all further theories futile; leave the chatter to lesser
minds. Who cares when there are sharp peaks
and blue skies, the laughter of children and tears
of memories boiled without cause from the
kettle on the hearth? Rhetorical inquiries--last
frontiers of tried and tired minds at rest.
There are pinnacles of beauty beyond what
any may believe or think; and only a few may
imagine themselves standing in awe at the
foothills listening to the chorus of crowns
gazing at the dazzling crystal pipes; hearing
the notes each sounds in the orchestra pit
of infinite mutation clashing old forms
together with new like cymbals clanged together
echoing through valleys whose songs have
never been sung.
Top and bottom of mountain
are only a matter of degree
at opposite ends of the scale
they balance in the center
hard stone penetrates
soft sky and clouds
it is where we place
our focus that determines
our view.
It is Midnight
It is midnight
the empty hour
without hugs
or kisses
Many loves
none here now
my body
weeps
How could so
much joy result
in none now
How could loving
all I met even for
a moment be wrong
There is no breath
beside me as I sleep
and wake up to none
Memories sustain
fantasies sustain
the morning release
the day that does
not work and there
is not another near
the echo of the Glock
will not even know
my name.
Specter of Greatness
What sense is there writing lines
unless you visualize them carved
on stones, engraved with authority
on the memory of the ages, pages
and pages of unbeforenowdiscovered
wisdom that is hard to believe the
world has been able thus far to get
along without. All your turns of
phrase are genius delivered from
the voice of Zeus himself via the
Muses whose voices you alone can
correctly hear. Truths thus far have
been many delivered from wide and
far but those that issue from that wee
hole in my quill are those that really
matter, those that shall make your
name as scribe abide beyond the edges
of eternity, echo deep into minds
and change them one by one into
the finest humanity can be by
understanding who you are and
by that knowing we are a single
poem, all others are illusions
that will dissolve as you read my
words and understand the wisdom
I deliver from the ages. A greater
task I cannot set before myself--
truth exists, it is not born--
only borne by crafted tongues
into future ears.
Still again
upon reflections
eyes of this poet look
see in past and future
Plato, Hermes, Zeus are
quoted far more widely than I
and my deep complex
unique understandings
are simply more dross
to be thrown aside
pretty noise
voices from specters
of greatness
that give joy a little while
and then become the dust of silence
among the stars.
D. Russel Micnhimer has been writing poetry for forty five years while working at a variety of jobs and traveling through much of the world pursuing his interests in the archaeology of ancient civilizations and rock art. He is author of several books on rock art, fiction and poetry, including his latest collection, Notes to Be Left with the Gatekeeper, published by Global Fraternity of Poets which earned him the honor of Poet Laureate from that group. His latest book is called Lotus Mirage: 52 New Ghazals in English. He holds a degree from the University of Oregon.
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