|
To Music
Written By Bob Ludden
Exhausted,
all the artifice of words and hands
will never capture or approach
that urgent pressure rising out of chaos
and then exploding into sound
in place to draw a misplaced breath...
then vanish in the ether of a realm
unmarked by milepost of space or time
and recollection will release a hollow grace,
A call sardonic to revivify
these ghosts whose moving arms
create a transcient art
and leave us with a page of spirit ink,
a phantom path
to take us to our graves.
And still demands can smother
any act of breath or sight
to birth a world of robots
strewn along an barren path,
denied imagination, art, or love
or yet the question "why."
Bereft of hope, or pain, or tears, or loss,
or joy.
Here, thus, a cause to fight
the vacuous god whose terror is ennui,
that soiled creation built by those
who scorn delight.
A cannoneer of mirth transforms the night
with fusillade of trumpets, tympani and song;
the raging power of ecstasy
forever free of guile,
forever fed with light.
IN YOU
Written By bob Ludden
Unfathomable.
That which words alone can soil.
Such is the nature of a bond
confirmed in sight, and scent,
In voice, and tears, and blood.
Suddenly, the matrix of desire
is altered by
a life undreamed--in you
reality mistaken--until you
my hope to be complete--is you
all longing focuses--in you
insistent hardness--grows in you
the product of my body--gushes forth in you
and my love's depth--is deeper still in you.
As man, I see
a man as animal, yet prone
to scoff at his mortality
when past the boundary of will,
perceives himself endowed
with strength to give.
The highest pleasure he can know
was never grasped before,
as open arms were never more receiving-
as open lips had never made such welcome-
as open body never sparked imagination-
never showed the sacrifice of giving all,
before my queen.
And were a new millenium to draw its shades
before this restless birth and death
with scales upon its eyes
its hope would be exhausted
well before the dawn.
There is this new reality,
in sexual congress, confirmation
of a frame exalted to the apogee
of sense on earth--
and to the best of heaven...
outdistancing the unseen stars-
infinity beyond
the faltering power of dreams.
.
Time's end
Written by Bob Ludden
It is well.
The questions hang like fireworks aloft
to tease the conscience, then,
and fading into sparks and smoke
to tumble down,
unsatisfied and useless;
vaporous, sharp in scent,
they ridicule
the little kindling god
of boyish wonder
who would set the heavens aflame,
for it is well.
Remembering eyes may pause.
Full of wiser days,
they search, and fail, and gather fuel,
like karma, for a vision of
what might have been.
The ancients nod their heads,
for all is well.
Hopes and dreams have slipped away
like shadows in the evening.
Passion wanes,
fences fall,
the meadow makes its peace
with history,
and yellowed leather crumbles.
Put away the book,
for all is well.
The Captive Judge
Written By bob Ludden
Look to yourself, prisoner!
For you have built the walls
and set the bars,
and labor on them mightily
each dark-clad day.
You alone will beat them down
and tear the scales away
from moon-besodden eyes
that crave the night.
You see as I, and share the lust
of victory and conquest...
yes, of righteous ridicule,
all within this tiny cell.
Here, laureled heroes freely pass
beyond your touch
while you caress their crowns,
grind the tattered vanquished
underneath your feet,
and shun the scarred and bleeding
face of love.
You fatuous fool of fortune!
I see your image in the
silvered glass, and I am sick.
What hollow insight gives you
measure of another mind,
or bids you place it on the scale
of justice?
What vantage point upon
the mountain side can clarify
your vision of another's
fogbound climb?
Each soul is at the moment
of the now, and for eternity
he cannot step beyond,
or emulate a journey not his own.
No human power can make his will a code of justice for all time.
No heart can synchronize
another's beat,
yet all will find redemption
in that common spirit breath
inhaled at genesis.
Nested
Loops
Written By Bob Ludden
For consciousness is
little race tracks
running through the mind
embracing tiny thoughts
until the body politic
can isolate
persistent rumors
of mortality,
and muffle
every agonizing scream
that threatens to delude
the next-of-kin
Return to
top |
