Posts tagged ‘poetry’

Two Studies

imaged reflections

delayed cascades
of shattered moments
eye-blurred                lens-caught
form fractal expressions
of beauty, made
by the shaping of near-molten metal,
are many forms of speech.


the image is of a smith at his (her) trade, hammering almost liquid metal


inflected experience*

the fragments of you i remember
i know are (half? mostly?)
certainly part self-perception

it is
like seeking true reflection
in the scattered bits
of a shattered mirror


frantically seeking that mirror’s repair
symbol of my longlost soul
or your clear remembrance
(no matter the foreknown pain, i

struggle to recapture
that searing moment
that our meeting was

but as i struggle
to collect those fragments
somehow they cut free, and i bleed
once again
remembering you.


These are both ‘studies’ in the sense that they are exercises of a kind–experiments might I suppose might be a better word–in styles and in one mixing of an experimental style I basically abandoned with my ‘normal’ style.  If there is a distinctive difference in much of my poetry and writing and general it probably results from the usage of more than one viewpoint or perspective.

*This in particular is a purely conceptual poem, the image created by a shattered mirror’s reflections (and the attempt to suggest that the apparent distortion may lend a kind of truth that may not be entirely specious). [There is also an echo of
‘sun on bright water
narcissus, shattered
by a pebble’
which was my landmark poem in that it represented a definitive step into my own style without any hint of apology.  Since I deliberately employed Grecian mythology in the poem to the extent that it is meaningless without its knowledge, it was a fairly brazen act.  I lived with and amongst Christian Reformed people–Calvinists, who abhorred idolatry.  But then my book report for the class for baptism was on Ship of Fools…  I couldn’t resist and no one called me on it.  In retrospect I still can’t believe it.  I’ll leave it to the reader to find out which particular book I mean, with the hint that popular literature was just beginning.

March 24, 2017 at 5:17 pm Leave a comment

book of sayings (3)

Book of Sayings (3)

about names and thought*

today there are hurried motions
in no direction, though
that sullen half-silence turns
quickly to rage if even slightly

no speech;
the crowd grumbles and snarls
wordlessly; it does not name

but without names it cannot speak
nor therefore think. has
it somehow cast me out?

i wonder for a moment.
then i realize again
my namelessness
*or, when i learned to speak
i forgot all truth

January 27, 2017 at 9:23 pm Leave a comment

An Ode To Our Leader

An Ode To Our Leader


There was no stopping

Time, nor place nor mapped way;

we  just voyaged unpausing

to our GOAL which


as we voyaged, we found

was mostly what it was*

–a word, and vague fancies.


…Freedom is barely valued

until it’s lost


*our goal, i should say,

which simply receded


his goal was to rule us

and easily succeeded.

most of us simply wanted CHANGE;

that goal we’ve certainly achieved!

We have a Leader now

Long Live The Leader And The Party!


I wasn’t going to make any comments, I’ll make one.  The entire resemblance of this to certain manifestoes is quite unplanned, of course.  That would require sarcasm, which I barely know how to recognize let alone use.  I am proud of knowing the word, though.

January 2, 2017 at 7:12 pm Leave a comment

(Apollo’s) sister


stripped trees reflected in water;
i turn away, quickly, fearing Apollo’s wrath.



I’d imagine the legend should be identifiable.  Watch it, you might be turned into a deer!

November 24, 2016 at 11:46 pm Leave a comment

unmeant revelations

unmeant revelations

you scratched me–meaning
to tear me–and left,
never realizing pain
has its own language, and
you’d told me you hurt
far more
than i ever could

New: this is the territory of; if you thought about it you probably wouldn’t ask out of decency, and would you really want to know?

*Poetry published in blogs like mine are in fact automatically protected by Common Law Copyright.  All I ask for in poetry is that if it’s reprinted–reblogged, one would assume–there is proper attribution.  Glenn Charles, although Voices (originally with no caps) was written with the intended pen name of Samwise Davies. **This is a clue, since I think my comments which somehow come from that appear while I’m publishing under Glenn Charles.  Since–to add to the confusion–although Glenn Charles is my rational name it’s also in respects an assumed name, I’ve taken latterly to simply using that.  Samwise is in respects quite literally the “ghost in the machine”.


I would say “Happy Thanksgiving” but first I wish to say:  remember what this celebrates.  I wish you enjoyment of what it should be, but I think all who are not AmerIndian should pause very, very long before celebration of togetherness.  The actual event cannot be undone nor forgiven; less can the dismissal of the fact that there began the conscious slaughter of the Indians.  I read the facts as a child and was a bit shocked.  I was a child in Vietnam, too, by the way.  xxxx happens.

November 24, 2016 at 6:28 pm Leave a comment

Let the Buyer Beware

Let the Buyer Beware

Let the buyer beware.
It was in winter
that he met you, and
shyly touched you:
frost-whitened trees, and grass,
he gave you a stone,
a small flawed agate.
(“I look for them on the beach,”
he said.  “It gives me
something to do.”)
It was in spring, perhaps,
that he loved you, though
he never claimed it.
You took him
or he took you…
the definition troubled you,
at times.

It was in sered summer
that he left, still
saying nothing of love.
Weeds in the socks,
in the hose…and if
you could (somehow)
clean the heart, too?
Let the buyer beware.


To some extent ‘he’ is a portrait of me at a certain age; the selfishness portrayed is the vision lent by hindsight, whether wise or no.  Note that who the buyer might have been and what might have been bought are markedly absent.

October 31, 2016 at 1:31 am Leave a comment

The Hierophant




The Hierophant


We’ve waited for hours

in this dusky, dusty place.

Anger and fear

are mixed in our breasts

as we wait on,

kneeling, heads bowed.  (Perhaps

the blindness

is hardest to bear.  I think

I’ve memorized

this cracked patch

of floor.)


Or perhaps

these hours

have been my life

as I wait

for meaning.










The personal pronoun, unusually, is capitalized, but it seems fitting.  I generally don’t use it simply because English is the one and the only for many things, but I think most irritatingly for this; it capitalizes the personal pronoun.

September 25, 2016 at 5:48 pm Leave a comment

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