Silver Verse Poetry

Philosophy into verse. I try.

[silverversepoetry]

Toward the fence of childhood

Memories of countryside were scattered by walks. One moves ahead to make return – return within the hour, within a week - the coming time -

In the frame the shadow cannot stay still, it cannot stand staying in shadow. Head turned down it versifies the freshly mown grass, the grass of a world that is not known,

of a world uninhabited by World. It's nothing but a passing of the torch, a note left lying on the offering box: "I will come back tomorrow."

What will become of it, what do you know, what do I know - one leaves because of nothing one can know, to leave behind a few more branches still along the eternal road of the I-don't-knows.

To come back home one leaves behind it all - I climbed among the words and tongues I never owned – perhaps I never wished – and looking back, what use was there in it,

the dreaming, trembling, and then flying high? It is the earliest dreams of memory that guide the turn back home, back toward the fence around one's childhood.

[silverversepoetry]

Shards - Violin of an old serenade (on Wattpad) On a Summer evening a violin among roses lit up by street voices and by fragrances of memories. https://www.wattpad.com/1635613254-shards-violin-of-an-old-serenade?utm_source=web&utm_medium=tumblr&utm_content=share_reading&wp_uname=silverversepoetry

[silverversepoetry]

After the future comes the blue

No theme, no discourse, nothing at all. A slow meditation of water and ice rains on the wintering branches of the heart.

No question left to go searching for - the wondering has grown saturated as much as the steam an engine needs.

Someone says to look behind you, why do it, if there's no turning back? The past shouldn't count for anything,

but the blood spilled into desires is never abandoned. Willing in spirit, weak in the flesh, failure

is the new boredom to be saturated. To fix one's eyes on the horizon of the present is perhaps the only leap to make,

perhaps it's the most uncertain certainty to accept? to defeat? to endure? Having come this far, where is there left to arrive?

Without will the body goes on, without faith the seasons go on. They will vanish without lament, without

a whisper - the one who laments is instinct, a rebellious and intolerant spirit, first the defeat, then the illusion.

The nail of the road carries no current, nor instant. It keeps the dew of the past, it rusts the future.

And after the future comes the blue, the primordial flower and the dagger of the release to be relived.

[silverversepoetry]

Little ones of light

Little ones of light, the platform stretches beneath the shadow of each body. The Moon attempts, in vain, to widen it - in vain, like the tower on the hill

waiting to kindle the light. It knows too well it soon must snuff it out, sooner or later - knows the circular stones will fall forgotten - that rough

sense of compassion for all things, in search of a star so as not to be forgotten - to bind oneself means to torment oneself for what never came.

The affliction remains even when the lie has been gone for thirty years. The palm of the hand searches for something from the sunset painted in darkened

blue - hope's latest deception? Its blindness is forever incurable - and what if it were the eyes themselves that were incurable - that refuse to be cured?

The blooming will return before long with the bitterness of a smile, and the transparent water will carry off again fragments of choices never possessed.

[silverversepoetry]

Deprivation

Cones of vases upon the prow of sky. Cement come raining down along the streets disseminated by a Sun deprived of every sense. Nor living the dying,

nor dying the living - the wind, shattered of every sense of breath, blows the smoke of wrecks deprived of death - of hypnosis' extreme exercise.

[silverversepoetry]

Daily wayfarings

Seven o'clock, the morning, a luxury to rise at such an hour. Coffee, or tea, whatever it is - another luxury for thinking. The rush to get one's hands dirty, where does one find the finish line, unbearable to behold?

Ten o'clock in the morning, the thoughts know no respite, the body wants the one that has no end. What use would a little self-regard be, the wayfaring has only a single time.

Two o'clock in the afternoon, it does not matter if it's hot or cold, to eat is a forbidden luxury. Two bits of laughter, a bit of chatter, and the silence reopens the meditative bars.

Six o'clock in the evening, who knows if tomorrow will be the same, if the clock will manage to endure the hands of its own ambitions, or these, to endure tomorrow.

Nine o'clock at night, what happened, only God can know. The bus stop has already been announced; within five hundred steps the closing hour will have dissolved the shadow of a smile.

[silverversepoetry]

The will of earth

Putrescence of verses before the light of hope. Time - days, weeks, years? - rotting between walls of prayer.

Existence that gives meaning to life - what does it have beyond tears? Dust clenched in a fist, clenched only to slip like water.

Not knowing how to believe what one believes. The illusion deluded by possibility - in what else must illusion delude itself?

Desperately taking heart to search, with fever in the soul, sweat in the heart, with gangrene bound to the entrails.

The light is ahead - truth, or yet another fiction? Yet another of screams, of rebellion, of eruption in the blood?

But this is the will of earth. To watch oneself fade, to watch oneself be annihilated to attack the law of the world.

[silverversepoetry]

Tomorrow

A strange thing, to climb the mountains and their peaks where lightning strikes from a clear sky, where to hope and to imagine is a crime.

Go on, one more step upon the lyre of shrieking and of weeping. On the arm of the mirror - to whom does that shape belong?

The angel is disguised as a demon - and what if they're the same? And what if they were the necessary beasts of good and evil?

Spring is not only Winter - Winter is the myth of blind hope, of the Plant begotten of blood.

The Lion stands between the blue of Heaven and the yellow of the Desert - it stands within the black fire, the fire of sorrow and of oblivion.

Even if it hurts, it won't be painful. Pour out another drop of your own toward the white summit. Tomorrow is the Veil of God.

[silverversepoetry]

What should I do with them?

Keys received, what should I do with them? Give no explanations.

[silverversepoetry]

Spare oneself?

To spare oneself the embarrassment? No - to live it, skirting close along the walls of the laughing sewers

fondling the soporific odor of the ridiculous

insufflating the nausea and colitis made of vomit

inflaming the contempt scattered in the subsoil

waiting for the hatred to erode the oral cavity.

To spare oneself the farce? No - embody it, inject it full of nails and searing flames

tear it from the lyric we are forced to recite

accept it from the world into which we are hurled

thank it for having torn away the white veil

praise it in the immense theater of stasis.

To spare oneself the letdown? To render the spit like medicine for every ambition

the pressure a channel of mental discharge

the you-brought-it-on-yourself visceral betrayal

the waiting the coin easiest to sell

the shadow of one's own spirit the immortal corpse

the eternal contempt in adoration.

[silverversepoetry]

Upon the errant mirror

Upon the errant mirror coils and clings the drunken, heady fragrance of the Fall. Resolve decays, and with it all the dreams… if life were nothing more than just a dream.

No sire, it is within your own domain that your own fate revolves. The bell that still hangs fastened to the walls of home rings on until it's discharged every duty.

If I throw the door wide open - no, throw it - how could one still remain detached from it? To gut it is to repudiate the possible that's born amid the weeping of the pines.

The brook that drips and trickles down with frost - it's useless now to think, to hope in the journey of return - that return is the blind hope of childhood.

Then let the water wear away, erase whatever warm impulse grips and claws my heart, so nothing of my passing here remains - and let the nothing itself be useless.

If life were nothing more than just a dream - and what then is a dream? I dream the eye of the wind that buds and blossoms in the garden where breath is everlasting, and is useless.

[silverversepoetry]

To solve is to recognize

Within the slit of time still left empty how to fill it?

Beside it, leafing through pages anew - how much does the mind's own product satisfy? Instinct weighed out in costs and profits.

Observation congenital to logic. No desire.

Leafing must be automation of feeling - to lay foundations upon the mechanics of feelings.

But does the clock never stop its teaching? And what does it teach?

The old riddle is still there. To solve is to recognize the delphic, anguished lesson.

[silverversepoetry]

Suspended prisons

Surge in the elevator. The hands keep counting the flickering of lights.

Howling spirits in the jaws of dogs slam the windows.

The machines follow protocols as one follows the good shepherd.

Footsteps in the room echo blasphemies silently written.

The windowpanes envy each other bearing in silence buried horizons.

The drama of the night awakens by day under a black light.

[silverversepoetry]

On the southern bough

On the southern bough, the diamond-grey slowly warps its tornado flight. The black eye crosses south into the storm of pines and deserts, of grass and cement.

The red cheek - does it wither, or resist the grey palm betrayed by the sky? Its flight is one of papier-mâché, sorrow never knows how to save.

The pearl feathers spin out time - the time of a seed of Spring - a Spring that perhaps will not see the pearl of the feathers sprout.

Winter has improvised the graveyard beneath a Sun that is no longer trust. Its recipe of yellow and azure - centuries that console no more -

it is a window that is not chosen in the chromatic orange silence. Everything accepts that branch just broken - that branch just left to fate.

Some drops have remained on the grass, the Sun will see to profaning them. Some heather berries have fallen, Nature will be the one to take them back.

[silverversepoetry]

Remained where it was

Up in the attic the discreet turns into irrational.

It will pass as the station passes, awaited and refused by the specter of rain that fell upon its body.

The rough wood betrays that stratum hidden in time.

On the bed where captivity once lived, what is more prisoner than the present? Only the stopped wheel of the future.

The old chair has remained where it once was. Inert reflection.

The stairs that still remain are not from here. Are they kept alive, or do they merely survive? Echo of an answer that rests.

[silverversepoetry]

Kiss of Luna

In soft diffusion of lights in the piazza a kiss of Luna.

[silverversepoetry]

The mockery of the Seal

Something is passing. Why is it always something? Let it only pass.

Watching oneself all around self-discovering rhythm as translated by the farce.

Azure or the gray always returns the always deposited still.

The mockery of the Seal fragments of correspondence for ages upon ages.