Poetry by Richard Kovac

Good Intentions, The Best

We set out to destroy sophistries
and get drenched in a torrent of words.
There is no direct method at hand
to illumine casuistry's cave.

The philosopher king is sunning himself
at Acapulco.

Making Three Religious Vows

We are paltry things
like periwinkle
who yet make oak-tree claims.

The wind will
wilt the wimple,
nothing attains its aims,
to tie loops.

No one achieves
until infinity

The Weather Vane

Dream on.
The young woman
named Zephyr
whose hand you held
has long since left
with the peace march;
it is a muggy day
and the sun bakes
your bald spot.

Beauty is finite
in this world.
This world is
an illusion.
Desire is to be sated
or miserably end.
The weather vane bends
with singleness of intent.

A Terse Apocalypse

All is fire.
God is all.
God is fire.
And truth is a horsefly
left buzzing in flames
when worlds end.

Time Binding By Ferris Wheel

Generations go around
on the Ferris Wheel.
My daughter went around
with me, as I had
gone around with my parent
the generation before.

The Ferris Wheel measures
the passing generations
as a hourglass, in sands,
measures time,
only the motion is circular,
and we are the grains of sand.

The Ferris Wheel, invented,
will know no end;
it delights children and angels
who hover over the carnival,
with its bright colors,
from the view.

The Stately Poplars

The windchimes at night
make eerie tinkling
like a burglar's tools
and all the lights are
extinguished in fear
of displaying owner's loot owners'

We are uneasy in the shadow
of the stately poplars
under the light of our very own
brilliant full moon,
because of our very own loot,
and even the stately poplars
tremble with a premonition,
but we build fences meant
to stab the bellies
of thieving, invading cavalry,
while hounds also howl
and satellites scan
even the slightest movement
in the ground of our being.

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