Wholeness has no existence - the fragments
Spin and foment their silence
And roar hymns of transience
I sit here somewhat thoughtful, on the ferry,
waiting, wary, or hopeful,
or just staring, feeling dull.
With all these coughs and sneezes, I get tired
and uninspired... diseases
like this, health's antitheses.
The sea foam wasn't involved, nor the stone,
rather alone, she evolved,
emergent, blessèd, absolved.
Mitra the covenanter, his heart full,
chased the white bull to slaughter...
and what about his daughter?
englyn penfyr on a pseudo Mithraic theme
The data refused to show the meanings
instead leaning down below
truth's cool superficial flow
The self-reflective essay: a mirror
showing clearer how I say
I am than I am today.
Some trees have fewer leaves, now, than others.
They would rather wonder how...
or this winter disavow.
I go outside before dawn, taste the wind,
feeling chagrined by shapes drawn
vaguely, thoughts un-acted on.
There is a gray cormorant just sitting,
looking, waiting, head aslant,
on the dock's arch, like some plant.
Those hieroglyphs that are drawn by blinking,
a vague inkling, but then gone,
as my eyelids' world moves on.
The trucks on the expressway zoom along
tires sing their song on rock - gray
gravel kicked around all day
A chill drizzle touched my neck, a ghost's hand
prodding me, and sought to wreck
my work, reduced to a speck.
The morning's light disburses in fragments:
day's integuments, night's verses,
like introspective hearses.
The first frost of the season kissed the earth,
betraying mirth, fighting sun,
limning puddles one by one.
The slugs climb the gravel stairs, all fearless,
but confess to the bears
that pass with glowering stares
their sins and their weary cares
– an englyn in Robertson Davies’ style
Here, the sea is not just sea - rather, too,
Islands throughout feel free
To commingle, and to be
A green, fractious committee.
englyn in the style developed by Robertson Davies
I'll write this "englyn penfyr" for Dylan:
may this young man know no fear,
may his wisdom grow each year.
This englyn was written to commemorate my nephew's upcoming graduation from 8th grade.
[daily log: walking, 2km]
(Poem #482 on new numbering scheme) My two plants don't do that much - the table
holds them, and their leaves just touch -
This is an
[daily log: walking, 7.5km]
(Poem #351 on new numbering scheme) The two men fought in the wood.
Winter's breath made clouds. They stood
facing. The fight was no good.
A rose appeared in the snow.
Then another drop fell, slow -
from the wound his blood did flow.
He threw his knife to the ground
and wobbled, spinning around.
At last, he fell without a sound.
englyn milwr, telling a little story.