Convergence

None of this will sooner be fixed
Unless there’s some convergence,
Some commonality of purpose
Across all the eight divides:
Politicians,
Protesters,
Conglomerates,
Educators,
Scientists, and
Cause celebres,
Artists in their artists’ beds;
Capitalists in their
Marxist sheds;
Royalists,
Republicans dead,
Leaders and followers,
Families and a hermitage;
Straddling the global
And ego-moribund purpose
Of the macrobiotic;
The squalid and the divine,
The sanctimonious and the suppressed
Within my squid-like mind.

I want my flint spark find
To be returned,
Folded into my soul,
To undo all this time.

The Past Is The Future Is The Past

This bed must be the same bed
Where scarcely I slept as a child;
Though always morning light misled,
Outside captured sons were filed.

A different house in future,
This bed retains a frame;
Love’s blood behind a suture,
Mnemonic skin for shame.

A childhood I’d not chosen,
A place where no one goes,
For future wealth they’ve frozen
And buried guns in tundra snows.

A dusty damask, gin and tonic,
A different time no longer near;
Herons strut through bamboo colic,
The past again will disappear.

Makrókheir

A tutor I met from Cappaducia,
Home of hills in white,
With hands as long and godly thin
As a lost Andalucian delight
Within such market throngs,
Clothing of mute go-betweens
And azimuth mosaics
Draped over impossibly
Bulbous urns concealing frogs
Carried on the blue heads
Of astrophysically bright
Prophetesses and their sons,
Absorbeing my attentions
In orbs of their golden horizons.
Relief had carved a mitre,
His hieroglyphics spoke
Through tokens in mouths
For passage to an afterlife,
Though sometimes also of loss
So profound as to stay unspoken;
Or if not unspoken then staccato;
Yet all that remains of his riches
Are in seven broken glass cabinets
Beneath a taxidermied albatross
In a museum, in a long-ago Morocco.

Herakles Of Antikythera

In all probability
Such acts of importunity
Would go unnoticed;
Artists’ strokes still pondered
Under rising sands,
Poets who wrote with much-devoted wonder;
Murmurations from ancient loves
A league beneath a perma-land.

Forebearers’ genres costed now,
Ashes pack a summerhouse,
Berries bluesy caterwaul,
What did we know of here at all?
They dredged his head, encrusted prow,
Entrusted to blind seabed sows,
A bludgeoned god dislodged himself,
To find his home on a pastor’s shelf.