“We Will Need to Bomb Iran,” Trump Just Announced

Inland from the ocean

A wall of clouds

Glides away—

 

Gathering

Underneath

The grain of rain,

The sunset dust

Has begun to turn

The air of the hour

Into a piece of art—

 

As  blooming pines

Took one by one

A different,

 Deeper breath.

Ad Fontes!

 

From Greeks
women still
draw pose,
clue,
heart—

fair enough,
once
art stood
fine,
not crude—

no dress
rivaled
nudes’
forms,

frozen
in stone,
hoisted
at agoras,
stoas,

guiding
strays
back
home.

Centaur, a Horse Named After a Bull

Penelope’s envelope
holds a letter,
red on
her ivory—

she passes
arrows
to those who care,
lends her bow

to test
who bends it—
hipped
like a horse,

heeled
to tally—

till she sees
the Bull
from restless sea

wiped
by her winged
Pegasus,

best bowman
of them all.

The Ever-Staying Art

No one knows
how gods see
or women
sense
what’s behind—

a glance
beyond their eyes,
as if we’re
mere flesh
and feel.

Yet humans
swear
gods savor
opaque scents
better than experts,

relishing
libations
while we,
blind to gods,
dim to women,

know less still—
yet never doubt
how to honor
or please
either,

rushing
with gifts,
buying grace,
treating
our soul’s flame—

celestial bloom—
as a flick,
a puff,
light smoke,

when beneath
its fragrance
dogs and cats
could scribe
tomes.

Slavs Are People of Bread

What’s good old golden bread?
A charm’s invocation,
finest common
magic spell.

Warm, fresh,
handmade,
ploughed field
and living breath.

Its ancient keys—
Пожалуйста! Будьте добры!
in Russian,
Молим вас! Будите љубазни!

in Serbian,
Prosím, buďte laskaví!
in Czech—
please, a code
of love,

unlocking
hearts and homes,
bridging shores—
be it seas
or Donbass steppe.

Bread,
a tender flame,
crust and shape,
mellow aid,

born of flour,
water, light—
of Heaven
and Earth—

ageless form
of mother’s
touch—

its throne—
a polished plate
on tablecloth
in calming ease.

Back in Czechoslovakia, At the Heart of Sorela

 

From that flat’s

balcony,

narrow-doored,

I’d muse on Orion— 

 

his gladius

below his belt,

three stars

perfectly aligned. 

 

I didn’t know

he hunted Pleiades,

clutching

the Bull’s mane, 

 

or at his heel,

Isis as a dog

barked,

seeking Osiris. 

 

Below, a plaza

named for Peace

taught sanctity

in solitude.

Wasn't God of the Bible originally Persian?

Was God
Persian first,
shaping
Paradise?

Gardens were
works of art
when nature
meets a thoughtful mind.

Is that how we pair
heart’s lost and found—
a kiss you meant,
scented reward for a dish?

Pleasure-shelter,
divine treat—
a song’s pen,
nectar in her
rubescent lips:

if there’s a garden,
let her craft
delight and ease
in timeless pause.

Chinese Emperors Used to Have Poets for Advisors, Though Less And Less Understanding Why, Less and Less Then Knowing Of the Spirit’s Universal Sound

The flute, a dead wood piece,
can still return a sense
of grace with mere sound
as it did for Chang Yueh:

winter’s leafless woods,
disturbed and roused
by their blushing buds,
swayed alive

with the wand
of changing times
that cannot but follow
reasons and rhythms

of which mortals
barely or dimly know—
that’s how greater
and deeper

they are, those
cosmic decrees,
ever holding all,
even what we missed.

Even if Mortal, Transient

 

Without certain sights, 

some lines—perhaps 

even soul dries up, 

 

no fountains flow 

in a Nymphaeum, 

where a Goddess 

bends her thighs— 

 

as at Sagalassos, 

Turkey, Pisidia’s 

first city, high 

on its rim, 

 

the Cascade House 

over the spring

near Neon’s Library 

 

on Gelincik Dağı, 

Hill of Poppies 

(or Weasels, Stoats)— 

 

gods desiccate, 

turn to ghosts 

of Eastern deserts, 

 

and sans aesthesis, 

nous, Slavic um, 

mind’s art and grace 

for beauty, truth, 

 

turn Phaedrus’ brew— 

Lethe’s oblivion, 

leaden speech, 

parched soul seeds 

(Phaedrus 274e, 276a). 

 

Yet rain might hand 

me down a line, 

memory divine 

of lost arcs— 

 

a sudden sight 

winks knowingly, 

beauty strikes 

that single track 

 

to join the soul’s 

own minting— 

fresh new line.

Great Mystery: American Feminism’s Love for Misogynist Kant, His Categorical Imperatives

 

—“Western feminism 

strives for poetry 

too, no?”— 

“Taking a bud…”— 

“Beer’s for us too!” 

 

—“A bud, a plant, 

its flower mute, 

for Buddhahood?”— 

“Past that lull— 

 

we’ve grown 

to kick some ass— 

nothing cries 

like man’s bottom— 

when we’re armed!” 

 

—“Poetry’s point, 

its bud?”— 

“Push buttons, 

flip the script!”