Ric Carfagna

from Sequences

From sometime previous
watched the earliest sunrise 
to divert my mind
in a weary effort to render
it immortal

Bent forward again 
she began to sketch
the window frames of an old house 
whether real or imaginary
a person remote and solitary 
assuming the composure of death 
an annihilating figure
just emerging from the door

The middling wraiths
of poor souls with music 
varying again and again 
their apparitions maybe
uncompromising in martyrdom 
and inevitable
among the graves

In the myths of my meditations
a poetry’s strange 
substanceobscured my perception
its grey light’s slow diffusion 
made conscious
a virtue most transient
and shrinking …
a height and depth 
veiled in countenance 
an obtuse gravity 
conscious of a vacancy 
as the weeks pass
half a score of miles 
into yesterday's journey

Still her presence 
unsealed from its depth 
walked on
conscious of the shadow 
of death
a stain
faded into nothingness 
corporeal substance 
still ringing in her ears

Having listened 
to a solitary man
thinking it time to be disconsolate 
I know how hard it was
to glance back 
to being
a boy of five years old
turning from an outward scene 
of so little comfort
it was a strange sight 
not deeply conscious 
of the deepest truths
of the earliest years

A cloak drawn
to the inhabitants themselves 
the unsettled multitude 
among tangled woods
grown only for beauty
yet never having been able 
to describe them clearly
for it was now late in the day 
with brown tint of latter autumn 
beneath the clouded sky

Drawn to the seashore 
it must be considered 
the haunt of men
of solitude
like a corpse in shadow 
climbing the iron balustrade 
every mortal having left
so deep a stain 
inexorably close
to the mind's waking
 to morning twilight

A moody man 
burning the timber 
old gentleman 
almost forgotten 
face still hidden
in semblance of living scenes 
golden tassel
into sullen gloom 
dreams of prophecy 
faith be broken 
then a madman

It was not to be a scene 
rendered melancholy
such was the aspect of the times 
in the morning
a granite obelisk 
extending over the sea
weather in a dream or vision
now obtaining a metaphorical existence 
even now
its voiceless presence 
estranged from human faces 
grey figures appearing
to relate their old fables 
cold embers
in a darkness pervading 
the air’s gathered presence

Ric Carfagna was born and educated in Boston, Massachusetts. He is the author of numerous collections of poetry, most recently: Integral Series published by Alien Buddha Press- https://www.amazon.com/Integral-Ric-Carfagna/dp/B08KH3S73N and Symphony No.3 (caryatids for the firmament) (pending from Unlikely Stories Press).

His poetry has evolved from the early radical experiments of his first two books, Confluential Trajectories and Porchcat Nadir, to the unsettling existential mosaics of his multi-book project Notes On NonExistence.
Ric lives in rural Central Massachusetts with his wife, cellist Mary Carfagna and daughters, Emilia and Aria.
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