[l]ink Weavers - Poem by Jonathan ROBIN
“Wor[l]d weaver we would know what may transpire
when Chronos fear’s un-ravelled on our earth.
Will waitress Time serve course with dainties, lyre
rewiring taste-buds with sweet morsels? tire,
no second servings dish? doors closed, expire?
close restaurant, avaunt, as if birth, berth
is was spun bill of lading, pre-paid buyer
obliged, wait_tressed, to pun de_sire?
Will waft and weft swift smoke in final fire,
or will we wait, like mammoths, for rebirth,
within ice walls unsung by phantom choir,
lost, silent, windless, sunless too, our worth
our empires under rock of ages' mire? '
“Light years spun long before minds of mere men
climbed through primeval slime to seed far stars,
reopening vast universe again.
Dice walls or calls life's stakes, gives, takes, or mars
when cycles turn Fate's wheel, when nothing bars
intelligence renascent. Beings then
may lodestars search or perch on Shangri Las.
Beaux arts may flourish, while noteworthy pen
might music rediscover, strange sitars
send notes afloat on timelessness suspen-
ding Time itself, once more feed hours
and powers the heady appetite empowers
to choose the course it views upon life’s MEN
YOU: only you, may taste, may waste, till when
wheel turns in haste, bill paid, and fade the flowers.”
'Wor[l]d weaver one would well your lore inquire.
What can become of all our storied mirth,
our idle chatter, dreams, ambitions higher,
lost generations, fame aims, prayers entire,
imaginations vivid, poets’ lyre? ”
Should one feed now? How choose? when whine lists’ worth
may rancid ransom prove, but tannin briar.
Should we treat Maître D to trust as Sire,
or, tricked, of course off course, t[h]read into gyre
whose tipple ripple, pointed Fate’s denier,
may earn return, new menu’s venu, dearth
or plenty find behind mind’s blind rebirth? ”
“Should, mad, mankind continue as today
to overcrop, to overfish, disdain
swift seasons’ reasons, all that may remain
could well be drowned beneath reef’s swirling spray
as tipping points are reached. No time to pray
remains as heat felt, poles melt. Greed for grain
encouraging pollution, won’t restrain
equations which imbalance interplay
in ways all may regret with needless pain.
No fire, no ice, no cities, no ex_plain.
No restrooms, silver settings, crystal. Chain
reactions sweep both waiter, wait away.
Dessert is served in some Bagdad café
as carpetbagger man’s precocious reign
turns paradise to desert by the way.”
'Star gazer, silver tongue shows that the shire
can comprehend words' worth though some be long,
and some belong to circles rare where strong
means little when there's little to admire.
We're here today, tomorrow, lower? higher?
dust into dust croaks sweet canary's song,
rain dancer's rites' successful seen to throng
or arid desert still, no versifier,
no book, no flask of wine, no deep desire
that lasts beyond un echoed dinner gong.
Weave-world we leave, who'll grieve those passed along
the Way whose pace, race, ne'er a trace may sire?
Sun smiler's caught by seasons' cycle dark
with scarce a sign one's life-line once showed spark.'
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Comments about [l]ink Weavers by Jonathan ROBIN
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