Selected Works, Volume One On Sale
Jerry Prager, author of Legends of the Morgeti vol 1 &2 has published selections of poetry and prose from three of his previously published books, his blog The Well Versed Heart and unpublished works. On Sale at Macondo Books, the Bookshelf, in Guelph and the Eden Mills Writers Fest.
D'Etre Raisins

No sour grapes these,

rather the withered sweetness
of seasons lengthened
to aged fruition
chewed introspectively.

Wednesday, January 7, 2015

The Last 7 Months of My 5th Decade

I have no sense of age, though I have memories of events now history,
I have no lack of youth, no lack of spontaneous passion, desire, attachment, folly.
I am kinder, wiser, gentler, but sometimes just as cruel and unthinking as ever I was.
I can see the different levels of maturity within myself and others, and yet
they do not correspond to calendar years, but to upbringing, hardship,
apology and forgiveness: I still blunder about the world, as weak as ever I was,
I still rage about the world, as torn by tyranny and suffering
as when I fought for student rights in the shadows of the 60s,
when the apathy of the 70s could still be stirred
with reminders of what had nearly been accomplished, what was still possible.
I am no less sensual or sexual or political or emotional, but no more rational, though
I am more spiritual. I still believe there is a well of hope so deep in me
that if I ever found a way to unleash its waters the thirsting world
would know hope forever. My despair I only once discovered was an aquifer
running beneath humanity and into which I would vanish like a drop
if I ever fell in. I want revolution, revelation and the evolution of the species.
Long ago, I chose love instead of wisdom, chose my heart at the expense
of my mind, and left a wake of ruin as I staggered from care to care, passion to passion,
lust to lust, shared suffering to shared suffering, a holy fool of yearning,
in the wilderness of redemption songs, on the outskirts of a justly shattered religion,
dancing before the covenant arc of my life, drunk or sober, stoned or straight,
burning my life in the refining fire of human limitation, an argent dream
consuming the river of human suffering beneath our corrupt societies,
always seeking the distillation of myself into something useful,
a javelin to be flung into the heart of the beast
that ravages humanity,
when all the love and life and yearning is said and done.

Tuesday, January 6, 2015

The Shifting Sky

The light plays the first tones of dusk on the rooves of the village:
redbrick tints Victorian snow lines between shingle planes of differing stories,
the wordsong prose of sunfall graces the winter hues through spruce boughs,
the pale blue above and beyond is awash with pastel pink haze from streaming heat loss;
and then colour drains from the shingle palette
as the stray clouds collect the last of the ray-wash on the edge of evening;
the boles of maple limbs between houses darkening in the cold.
The life of earlier in the day settles inside, tracing
 longings and wonderments, sketching outlines of memory

into the vagaries of another Epiphany.