The Rough Surface
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original verse poetry
— and photos —
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The Rough Surface

On waste oe'rstretching, pockmarked by decay
with weariness of long mortality
I wander parchèd, march but to allay
my thirst for meaning. Harsh reality
obliges not but raises gleamed mirage
to stifle my despair and draw me on.

In hints of glazèd stone, in sharp relief
she paints the blueprint cryptic with deceit
to reach the tribal council by their chief
who holds forth with a loyal, slow repeat
of the import of the signs oft seen
that show their faces solely in soft dream.

Here a hieroglyph, a blur, a tome,
apocalpyse-averting scrawl, a scroll
from haste and from unwisdom as they roam
concealèd — rise of midnight to unroll
the orders of the light, at break of day
refine the sharp divisions in smooth change.

Rough surfaces and grit, luminous grime
that catch sunrays and set the world afire
repeat, and seem to mimic in each clime
the harmonies, discordances of lyre
divine which strums the silent rythyms made
symphonic, by conductor cosmic played.

On waste o'erstretching, bending eye and ear
horizonward, beholding beauty's veil
I pause and blink, become the sated seer
who finds dear rest upon the roughshod shale.
The surface rough that armors memory
is worn down low enough that I may see.

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