The Advent of Dawn

Why leap ye, ye high hills, hills of Bashan
into the darkling veiled obscurity
of the cloudy shadows east of Jordan?

The tongues of your cows pant dry for water,
and your oaks stand bare in the tenebrae
in the dust of Og and this dim-lit night.

Why do you leap and wait and watch, oh hills?
the armies long ago have fled apace
and lions hide in Golan, waiting too

Waiting east of Galilee for some dim
hint, waiting and watching, and leaping, all,
with a veiled felt glimmer of a Coming

Wait well, high hills, your waiting tones the pang
in the lulls of every creature's heart beat,
even in the sighs and gasps of the earth

And look high, for light will shine into dark
and a king dine in Edrei with marked men
deep in the depths of your rocky fortress

Look high to Hermon, to the north, and wait
remember Job and his suffering heart
and keep a store of fine barley and wheat

and be ready.

...

Somehow drawn, I took courage and fled west ,
from between the Tigris and Euphrates,
way up into the high hills of Bashan

At the Akkadian feasts I have dined
and sipped the verse of Enheduanna;
the rulers have even acknowledged me

But I have left the city to find you
looking and finding only a crumb trail
to the hills where I go to find my Lord

For every trick has given me a brief glee
and every riddle has left me wanting
all my sash and finery is dead weight

What good are wings dripping with silver shine
and feathers golden from spoils of a war
when gravity will surely fell the dove?

A purple glass gives light its own color;
all other colors come into it, but
it is not possessed by what it takes in

A stillness covers the hills of Bashan;
I wander up into a hushed thicket
Where did you call? Did thy mighty voice crack?

or give way?

...

Howl, fir tree, for the cedar is fallen;
the impenetrable forest is swept,
and shepherds wail with Favor and Union

All hide as one lion clamors about
for none is Samson, David, nor Daniel
And we, all, lay cupping our ears below

In silence straining for the tenored voice
which turns dawn to dark and treads on Anu
and raises me from the earthly chasms

Listening, echoes, quietude, crackling,
a fire has taken the oaks and cedars
but leaves untouched the venerable seed

A lowly lone august root will remain;
surely I will not wither in this crack
where I have placed my one audacity

From a ledge, I'll play the timbrel, waiting
for the leap of a stag, who may give word
to the turn of the moon or a strange Growl

Shall I wait in the clouds, or shall I leap
from the highest hills, the hills of Bashan?
(will you meet me in the mist of morning?)

Or give way?

Introducing Ody

Eighteen Ten Syllabled Lines of Assonance

Ody wrote a cogent post about how
a child's home floats like a boat around the
automated moat that molds and controls
him in a pseudo-romance procuring
total focus on cloned jokes but no growth
and how the cornerstone of psychoses
that croak in our throats are shown to be soaked
in an oblique totem that drones broken
down a lone road that groans for one poem
to be a profound opus of knowing
to overcome the societal hold
that invokes the vogue and chokes out the old
for that rote dope provokes us to vote gold
rather than listen and be told with soul
of a rose that explodes out of cold snow.
Ody chose to goad apodictic hope
in a holy hallowed probe that explodes
Rome and an ocean of sober heroes.

Says the Writer of Ecclesiastes

A Terza Rima Sonnet

So everything has been given a name:
estuaries, labradors, rain, stars, wrens
lilacs, espresso, grass, windows, and cranes...

Fine. What gets me, I guess, is the reason,
the point, for all these things in the first place
when they always only last a season!

Given and snatched away: name, season, face...
waste! the woes of we who worry for naught
a sad tactic bringing only disgrace.

The true thing that we have all really sought
is to stop the damn madness of naming
and, for once, just sit and enjoy the names

The names, the seasons, the faces. What shame
that the little we know of anything
we are tempted to let it become fame!

Ruthless virus just grabs from us what seems
was once something noble, something of worth
and exploits it, exploits us, and then gleans

What little is left of our noble birth.
Take care to keep at least a bit of mirth!

Fate of the Tame Gray Moon

An Experiment with Terza Rima and Assonance

A ton of crumbling cut bundles of sun
sweetened even the breezy sea
while I sat by the tide with a ripe lime so nice.

But he, in the heavens, kept wrestling,
(whilst I sipped at the rim of citrus twist)
on a cosmic thought that he was fond of fondling.

Soon that fruit took me for a loop, avoiding the ruin
that might try, from the sky,
to twist the bliss of the willow into a list of quills.

Some fat cat up on a slat cracked up and laughed
and I smirked: one, with mirth at such silly quirks
and, two, at that tame gray moon, poor old buffoon.