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Tony Spicuglia

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Lompoc, CA, US

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Sailors Tale Of The Sea

by

Tony Spicuglia

SAILORS TALE OF THE SEA
~~~~~
Across the 'spanse
of trifled seas,
.....of weathered storms,
.........or blue dyed earth.
*
Knifed the dance,
of ships at ease,
......when calms the norm,
...........'cross oceans girth.
~~~~~
Kindred the feel,
of solid sway,
.....of languid swells,
..........of moon stretched weirs.
*
Rings the peale,
of hulls which play,
......in whispered tells,
..........subduing fears.
~~~~~
Reborn the cry,
of gulls awake,
.....of breathtook souls,
..........of men at sea.
*
Spent the lie,
of tumults quake,
.....which takes it's toll,
..........in tragedy.
~~~~~
Sprite the glare,
of mornings gift,
.....of prospered silk,
..........of charted tales.
*
Spent the dare,
of vessels drift,
.....through natures milk,
..........and frightening whales.
~~~~~
Ardor'd the whim,
of lengthened sight,
.....of sailors song,
..........of ports to glean.
*
Trestled the trim,
of oceans might,
.....can ne'er do wrong,
..........though wrong be seen.
~~~~~
Repeated the wish,
of lonely men,
.....of thirsty tongue,
..........of endless streams.
*
Flayed the fish,
of meals again,
.....when songs are sung,
..........in landless dreams.
~~~~~
~~~~~
The sea in me blood,
it ne'er be gone,
I hear it boil,
I feel it's draw.
~~
Me ship and me rudd',
forever be drawn,
away from tilled soil,
and man's own law.
~~~~~
Fled the scene,
of empty steins,
.....of helpless greed,
..........of heartless land.
*
Sailed the bream,
of foreign wines,
.....where hearts are freed,
..........and nature grand.
*
Yea, sailed the bream,
of flowing wines,
.....where hearts are freed,
..........and nature grand.
~~~~~

Looking Through A Dirty Window

by

Tony Spicuglia

As I see it, momentous and holy,
or disdainful and sacrilegious,
the snails poisoned and hated by one,
are consumed and delectable to another,
the difference being,
whether one sees a rainy day dismally,
or recognizes the beauty in the condition,
or vice versa.
My defining moments are many,
however all have in common a theme,
I am laughing for joy, or crying in exaltation,
or laughing in misery, or crying in broken heartedness.
At times, sitting here between the poles,
I long for each.
As I am seen, I often ponder,
and can I blame anyone one way or another,
for often looking into the mirror,
I search to see myself, and do not believe,
the exterior matches the heart.
Considering this, how hard it must be,
to be seen truly, amidst the errors and playfulness,
and the sentiment or resolve?
Should I need absolution or canonization,
are faults compounded if I spend my time,
striving for one and never reaching the other?
As the world appears,
through shadows of despotism,
most like to fault humanity,
when actually such qualities exist in all of creation,
from the animated "higher" forms of life,
to existence, sedentary or invisible.
The struggle to supplant and destroy,
is a common theme,
it yet appears.

Man

by

Tony Spicuglia

She's leaning on a file cabinet,
and her hips were slanted as only a woman's can;
there is something about how a loose blouse,
caresses the contours of breasts,
and hers, revealing no cleavage at all,
incited in me what throughout history;
instinctively is aroused in a man.
This is the way it should be,
the biological mix of male and female;
it is a part of life that grants identity,
something that in it's uncomplicated pureness;
returns beauty to it's innate form;
away from modern philosophical complexities;
which are intrinsically in err.
She’s leaning on a file cabinet,
and her hips were slanted as only a woman’s can;
there is something about how a loose blouse,
caresses the contours of breasts,
and hers, revealing no cleavage at all,
incited in me what throughout history;
instinctively is aroused in a man.
This is the way it should be,
the biological mix of male and female;
it is a part of life that grants identity,
something that in it’s uncomplicated pureness;
returns beauty to it’s innate form;
away from modern philosophical complexities;
which are intrinsically in err.
.
Oh, without a doubt there are issues;
but because of the despotism of sexual abuse,
and the systematic misunderstanding and criticism
of the male of the species,
most of these issues fail to address,
the truth which lies at the center of life,
and when analyzing that truth,
do not celebrate the wonder that creation
has granted.
Beyond the trappings of dress and status,
above the façade of occupation or age,
long before Freud misanalyzed the human species,
men were men, and women, women,
how advanced we have become, for we contest that.
.
Some may claim such a philosophy as this,
espouses free love and sex,
but it does not, for the essence of maturation;
which is the mainstay of our evolution,
has made us see beyond the externalities,
and has also made us fickle.
How damn arrogant we are setting ourselves,
above nature and creation,
thinking our copulation is holier than
the others in the animal kingdom,
thinking our developed characteristics have credence,
while the others who share this world,
are guttural creatures who follow simple appetites.
Strange is it not that such simple lives
harbor no guilt for what is natural and integral,
yet we, the advanced, manufacture fault,
for what is normal and desirable.
.
Now, back to man, do I denigrate the male,
for being more attune to the base instincts;
those drives which at times become overwhelming?
Certainly not, for women have not altered,
to an equal extent their tendencies toward preening;
as in the animal kingdom, leading the male on,
until that time when she is ready to mate,
and also as the beasts, holding at bay fiercely,
any approaches which do not meet the criteria,
or the timetable of consummation.
Oh yes, the male is a sexual being,
but as always, beyond the hormonal fire storm
which rages in the loins,
there is always before him the lavish,
the woman desiring to appear favorable,
more often than not pleased that she appears,
a palatable representation of her gender.
If man is required to pretend that sexual attraction,
is debase if not fitted between the sheets of maturation,
then it is time women cease their daily ritual,
of looking and smelling wonderful,
both are natural properties of gender.
As a species, we have more in common,
with the "lower" species,
than our "evolved" preeminence cares to admit.

I, So Shod, Regret Not Thou

by

Tony Spicuglia

I, so shod, regret not thou,
though tempest blinds shameless peace,
and roads I pass of sacred trust,
bid that I should cease.

How in conscience, pure or tainted,
can such presence escape discerning eyes,
when beauty beckons relentlessly,
withholding naught as I passed by.

To pluck, in course, or far appraise,
leaving untouched, or taken today,
deliberate scrutiny mentions to me,
blossoms regrow if hastened away.

And you, of the heart, I have not ignored,
though we're destined to memory be,
wonder I such, if better had been,
to leave beauty untouched by me.

I, so shod, regret not thou,
though tears and parting remain.
For know forever to my eyes,
your beauty respects the pain.

Ambivalence, Scepter of the Poet

by

Tony Spicuglia

I have felt this way before
a familiar affection
though distant and stale.
Certain songs,
a whiff of perfume;
from long ago,
or the deja vous;
send chills and longing
for something distant,
causing me
almost in desperation,
to grip the shadows of remembrance,
and bring my soul
to full conception.

Privation;
such is the culmination
of dreams made real.
How is it that necessity
spends it's absolution on destiny?
Past days, in my madness, my sojourn,
passions seethed from my soul,
as did the tears and travails,
which drew desire from within
corrupted, as gilded founts.
Such misery befriended me;
I cannot fault her,
but I have found,
when hope transforms,
to reality,
complacency steals my soul.

Do I complain
that fortune has smiled,
and graced my life?
Ambivalence is my answer.
Can destiny be second guessed,
and quality faulted?
Ambivalence is my answer.
The lamb who harms nobody,
is devoured in
abject innocence.
So it is with me;
there are many times
that I long for those days;
the uncertainty and innocence,
of madness.

Of The Soul

by

Tony Spicuglia

As so, here is a conscientious guide
to the premonitions of the soul,
whereby, captive with mercurial swiftness,
resolute in matters rote or forced,
the sword which in err vanquishes the fool,
or the fool who in err makes light of tragedy,
or the tragedy which by foolishness is caused,
mayhap the cause of such foolishness,
through panes of colored virtue is seen.
Virtue remaining the stain on the sword,
the adjudication of the soul.

Abated, the primordial inclinations, such that
when in ages past the allusions of reality,
whether deceived or in honesty perpetuated,
presented before the throne, answers required,
however loyally or altruistically placed,
ambient reality projected it's onus.
Whereby there is lucidness in moral illusions,
more oft they are immersed in dark seas,
of creations striving towards light and shore,
or the desperate first breath of new born child,
desperately loosing of manacles of the soul.

Tributary flows beneath impregnable fortress
the blaring of horns and the falling of walls,
alike as flowers planted in eager soil,
the euphoria of discovery, disdain for loss,
defying definition while felled to repetition,
imbibing the ambrosia with the bile.
Whereas the strength of satellites are their orbits,
their orbital propensity forgives naught.
Hallowed instincts self perpetuating,
as well as the cycles of shaded disclaim,
so is love to, and of, the soul.

Reclusive claims on an expanding universe,
trace the compliance of lethargy and aspirations,
one of ill repute and one of bounty,
all are existential beyond the achievement of solace.
Of dreams which relegate status quo to the dung heap,
dung fertilizes the foundations of life,
life aside from dreams is lethargy,
and lethargy is the product of aspirations in demise.
Albeit in resolution is borne precincts of destiny,
destiny regards resolution as the device of futility,
yet in futility is found the desires of the soul.

In consuming diatribe, earnestness
regurgitates foundlings conspicuous by their absence,
those force fed moralizings spoken by harbingers,
who lacking the foresight to ascend beyond;
determinations of foul, scent encrusted air,
discharge their defeatism in among the living,
to quash hope, and love, and magnificence,
before the heirs of epiphaniacal heritage,
become stout and sentient of wonder over demise.
The incorporation of eternity to the tangible,
is the transcendence of the soul.

Platitudes released and climactically performed,
lend scenes which convince of the perpetuity of living,
whereby love is often relegated to vagary themes,
beauty exists not if not appraised.
The soul, taunting, is more than just a concentric being,
more than the animation behind mannequins eyes,
for the externalities of existence are void,
until given its pricelessness by a seat of honor,
there in the throne room of cherished life,
in audience with a soul absorbed in wonder,
thus, existence, the self determination of the soul.

Sonnet XXV, As I See It, Epistle to Paul and Nora

by

Tony Spicuglia

I The Offering
Love, which summons from unseen augured thought,
Stealthily their Elysium was built,
Through tempests passed and battles bravely fought,
Grandeur unveiled, spun in Clotho's quilt.
Whence in rhymes which Fasti thus supported,
Noble knights jousting in bannered esteem,
Thus troubadours in ballad recorded,
Life's regard expediently redeemed;
Abreast eternal two poets collide,
More than appears and more than accorded,
Verse to verse Love encountered a reply,
Passions bestowed, charity concorded;
Bared endowment and a temporal boon,
The promise that Love's forbearance end soon.

II The Epiphany
Recalled the occurrence which brought to light,
Akin to Tristam and Isoulde the reign,
Whereby searching blindly gives way to sight,
Before Samson, sightless, sorrow was slain,
And now awakened from slumbers demise,
Love vanquishes what hinders it's advance,
With tenderness Love arduously plies,
Enchanted, the two, absorbed in romance;
Observing it all, myriad's of stars,
Whose lives the lovers in manifest tries,
Drew oil of life from the widows jars,
A bounty that flows forth and never dries.
Beauty! So great a beauty they would share,
The fruit of their love will always be there.

III The Postlude
Confined, Milton in chaste passionate tale,
Spoke of virtue for whom heaven would praise,
Our lovers in lives they touched are entailed,
Conspicuous by the lyrical phrase,
The Phoenix born whole from out of the breast,
Laid later in ashes destined to fall,
Rising again in pursuit of the quest,
Death seemingly, meaning nothing at all.
For beauty to Dante never repressed,
Lovers born twice, to each other and then,
Their epic remaining to always enthrall,
Poets enlivened who pass where they've been.
To wit, to pleasure, they always will be,
Witness to their decreed recitative.

When The Theatre Finally Empties

by

Tony Spicuglia

A matter of some significance,
came to be misunderstood,
through the barer of redundance,
amounting to less than it could.
Thereby homilies in happenstance,
persist and push the envelope,
amoral spirits gavotte in dance,
to fickle whims of garish hope.

Intrusion to vicarious dreams,
aspirations embellished with zeal,
promises time seldom redeems,
wisdom struggles with answers repealed.
To understand from naught which seems,
uncovered before a waiting throng,
mannequins in jungles teem,
never imagining what is wrong.

Requiem at the village feast,
where the idiot lives and dies,
chartered to entertain the priest,
of religions of whos and whys.
There the fool feeds the beast,
dancing in colorful regale,
hoping that sometime soon at least,
he eats before the food goes stale.

Seeking what gratification is,
to pad the moment with relief,
to figure out is it hers or his,
stretching what's left of belief.
Phones ringing now answer the quiz,
can you pay this month or not,
waiting the soda lost it's fizz,
and somehow life is caught.

Temptress this liege of living,
given here and then denied,
wrought with heartbreak and misgiving,
filled with the murderers cry.
Sometime in the futures reliving,
death comes stealthily to culminate all,
doesn't matter whether not or believing,
all must answering the call.

Sonnet XIV

by

Tony Spicuglia

Of what does heredity thus presume,
Circumstance, therefore predisposition,
Patterns by chance revealed in the loom, or
Passions discovered by exposition?
My love, patron of love precipitous,
That responds beyond our circumscribed lives,
Grant me beauty in my long pursued tryst,
Bestowed in my dreams, but my dreams belie.
Accomplished, yielded, of sweetness made,
Seeded to soil, desolate or fertile,
The resultant wholeness or anguish bade,
Charts maturation to adult from child.
Oh sweetest treasured Love, my love ensconced,
You are my specter whom in pleasure haunts.

Your Time With Me

by

Tony Spicuglia

The wind blows carelessly through me,
no matter what has been.
The tepid feel upon my soul,
is a burning from within.

Tethered to a rampant blaze,
stoked in passion insane,
a kiss that takes my breath away,
inferno's uncontained.

My eyes in haste search longingly,
to sate this ache I lust.
A gentle voice when you are seen,
aroused because I must.

In lieu of tempest's zephyrs,
I am carried to dreams afar,
as your touch which sears my soul,
clutches waiting stars.

On my mind and in my heart,
each moment I'm awake,
when I sleep and dream at night,
to be with you I ache.

I rest in vibrant memory,
of the desires awakened in me,
drawn from sources I've never known,
craving's industry.

Emptied now but ever filled,
tonight I hope you'll be,
laughing in my loving arms,
as you spend your time with me.

Chanced A Meeting 'Tween Love And Hate

by

Tony Spicuglia

Chanced a meeting 'tween love and hate,
opposed it seemed the poles of fate,
with passion spent one decries,
with equal zeal the other replies.
While the orthodoxy is somehow lost,
both have given and paid the cost.

Harangued of hate a malediction,
and love proffered it's benediction,
parry and thrust the conflict protracts,
unrelenting their paths detract.
Who could have known how well matched,
two of goals conversely detached.

One springs forward crying foul,
while laughter sets to disembowel,
tables turned in aberrant license,
to love or hate mere decadence.
Depending on who wins the day,
determines the rules for which they play.

Counterfeit or contrary pled,
from one alive is paradox bred,
to ascertain a fit demise,
would reft the other of discerning eyes.
Little does the world receive,
not measured against what it believes.

Neutral on the subject discussed,
but inherited from passions trust,
one should recompense the due,
that what is false is also true.
Hate survives in love's abyss,
love, endeared, recalls the bliss.

From Beneath The Veil

by

Tony Spicuglia

In what way is the travesty of lost love
irreverent?
Proposition; that within every prominent
position and relation
is contained that which makes each wonderful
or obtuse,
one without the other,
prohibits each.

Watching the cool transition and colorful regale
as summer transports into winter
reveals little of the death and trance-like sleep,
as the world is covered in watery silt, comatose
in preparation for
the regeneration of transformed earth
bursting forth into rebirth
bringing spring to the soul,
and once again symbolic life.

The worm devours green growth,
chomping with great jowls,
inviting disease and illness to a
plant better served not digested,
but the worm sated and engorged
is later entombed in a sarcophagus of apparent death,
to emerge, metamorphisized into beauty,
a flattering embellishment from
the meat of the leaf.

At one time in eons passed, again
as inertial velocity was expired
and gravity's
innate undeniable preponderant force
overwhelmed the universe, it collapsed,
to become one small, impossibly dense point of space,
destroying all beauty once wrought,
only to explode with such virulence,
that beauty has no choice but
to once again appear.

Who has not been so spent and weary
that weeping was a relief,
and in sobs and anguish
the purposes of living verge on insanity,
only to cease still and sated,
and despite the internment of previous,
still existing difficulties,
all is somehow better,
and breathing is a little easier.

To feel the color of emancipated love,
that which creates
and frees the ecstasies of the soul,
and then to lose it, little
can converge into death so quickly,
and too much of life is spent
in states of despair,
but from the pinnacle, climbed once again
from extinction, the air is cool, refreshing,
respect remains for the agony of desire,
but the pinnacle is shown to be worth the climb,
valued more than the risk

The Chesire and the Monk

by

Tony Spicuglia

He smiled and laughed in raucous tone,
this imbecile as such,
and the sun arose to the west of Eden,
and nobody cared too much.
See,
the sensitivities of rabbinical cloth,
worn cross the loins of chutzpah,
retrieves in the washing,
the lucrative mantle; that which
when starched about the neck,
reflects in airs of Rasbora,
the gliding through waters of Lethe,
to reach the apex of propriety.

To love, the river Alpheus yet flows,
as the fountain offers transience,
Psyche failed, eternally quizzing,
while Compaspe brought abeyance.
Thereby,
the fields of cotton through gin sifters,
clothe what is naturally innocent,
covers the stain,
which produces, in sans menstrual manner,
souls to the ages for culling.
The strident precepts of Spartan cause,
lauds amuck while weeping sets,
and the imbecile still laughs.

Parched lips consorted with the Graal,
from which eternity spawns anew,
satirical plaudits of moribund silt,
sifts into the credits like glue.
And yet,
the bathing in fouled rivers and streams,
though terminal to some still remains,
the soul source of hope,
and for many, in draughts which
bless the necessities of living,
to second guess is to surrender it all.
Odd how through the prescient vesper,
the imbecile laughs again.

Caesar

by

Tony Spicuglia

Caesar, My Friend,

Let all know I understand,

and have wept at your passing.
Caesar, did they but know,

how your heartache surpassed the agony,
of the piercing stilettos of death,

as you saw your Beloved,

Brutus, come as and angel of death.
Then die Caesar,

for death retains the dignity,

deceit and betrayal rescinds.
The words of comfort and love,

now weapons of the soul's destruction,
then die lover who dared.

Dignity demands that you die.

The Times When Remembrance, Regal Conveys

by

Tony Spicuglia

The times when remembrance, regal conveys,
to what has transpired while transiting life,
overcomes the mind allowing emotions to play,
and those emotions are begged to stay,
and implored to go away.

What may trigger memory’s recall,
a scent or breeze, or complexity,
the time when you turn to share it all,
or reach to dial whom you would call,
at that instant you feel the pall.

More often than not a smile appears,
as joys flash by and reminiscing plies,
yet beyond the smile and waning years,
prowls the most current cause of tears,
of past love in perpetual arrears.

To cling to moments invariably ceased,
or dwell for long on what should have been,
is to treat recollection as if deceased,
imprisoning yourself to be unreleased,
ceding the future to memories leased.

You Can Never

by

Tony Spicuglia

You can never force someone to care
who will never care for you.
You can never make someone love you
who will never love you.
You can never draw someone
into the beauty of your heart
who is content to live without you.
And if you die,
and they come to see you,
Even if they weep,
what has been lost is gone forever.
Their tears no longer matter.
Peering through windows
to their gardens outside,
The flowers have all decayed.

Promenade

by

Tony Spicuglia

Minstrel try to snatch the night
Of darkness earned
In jewels abright
Court for me elusive time
That I may tether light.

Search the seams of paradox
There my soul resides
Captured in a music box
Do not weep if you find me there,
Simply rewind the clocks.

Seafarer on Leaving the Sea

by

Tony Spicuglia

To disembark and not return,

Thereby cede the sea my hallow’d soul,

As songs unsung within me burn

Whose passionate seaward songs extol,

Vet desire’s cravenness, cosset and console!

I cannot say where courage plumbs,

Such promise sets beyond my sight;

Towards mountains deaf my soul succumbs,

Where future dreams meet sea-less blight,

From scaled peak or valley, naught remains aright!

Woe the soul whose temporal guise,

Compiles pages of consequence-

Charting reticent life’s reprise;

To he who sails, it makes no sense;

Traversing ‘cross the earth, void of relevance!

Although the ship no longer sails,

Devotee to the ocean’s lure

Dreams of dolphins, waves and whales

Till night alone grants cure; Until,

daylight culls the soul; for living more obscure.

In the style of Lord Byron 1788-1824