Harmonic Resonance

by Thomas Piekarski

Harmonic Resonance 
Space comprised in time                             
shivers from impulsive bursts                     
that destroy as well as create.

Consequent systemic vibrations
smack existing quanta that then
are upended and mutated.

These denizens of change
constantly impacting structures
subject to laws of their fates.

While anticipation flees 
morphic intellect is exuded, 
its waves increasing in girth.

Instantly those waves
direct schools of birds
how and where to wend.

Dalí’s Ghost

When I worked at a gift shop on Monterey wharf
selling seaside souvenirs to unwary tourists
on my way I’d often walk
through trendy Custom House Plaza
and pause at the Salvador Dalí museum.

Having limited hours, it was typically closed
so I’d be locked out from his eternal works,
though at times a faint ghost of him visible
shimmering in crisp coastal fog.

Call it doppelganger, loyal muse,
raw spirit spiraled from the abyss,
daimon nonpareil, dallying soul,
such words as I’d ascribe quite useless.

Valley of the Moon

Sonoma's mission Solano is the northernmost in California, 
only one built under Mexican rule, that newly won nation
having thrown off the yoke of Spanish tyranny, inspired by
the invincible Simon Bolivar, victorious in South America,  
whose stout patriot warriors brought down the king's army.
I'm touring a popular square in Sonoma, the original plaza  
set in the Valley of the Moon's breast where it once proved 
in the wake of New World peoples that had gained liberty
ground zero for a rebellion, and California's independence.

Colonel John C. Fremont, audacious as he was impetuous,
organized a bloodless coup in Sonoma. Thirty Americans  
appeared at Mexican governor Vallejo's home, demanded
he sign a document ceding them all of California. Vallejo,
aware that his forces were so poor he could put up little if
any resistance, complied. This is how California like Texas
became unilaterally independent. Fremont seized control
and a bear flag raised at the plaza, that flag later officially   
adopted by the state, its star and grizzly icons of freedom.


Slipping down a glacial moraine
                       with wings on its back afire,
its heart exuding rivers of desire 

slinks across the green savannas
                       of yesteryear, then exhales 
sentient vibrations that will pierce

a golden silence. Whether a lion or
                       wicked dragon will appear
may go unrecognized, since this is

a unique specie not yet inculcated
                       within man's mass psyche,
although overly maniacal religions

might mistake it as some spoiler
                       that likes to proselytize and
spread faux alchemy in its wake.

Exposure to radioactive propaganda
                       doesn't concern it, since only
the dawn can alter its consciousness.

With shifty eyes and magical senses
                       it repels despotic tomfoolery
in lieu of that which can be imagined.

Its mutating anatomy will latch onto
                       microscopic genomes, then
zoom on into unexplored microcosms.

It's unclassifiable, and the art it spews
                       isn't contrived nor subversive,
created as much from form as substance. 

Its only constant is change. Invariably
                       knowing what is in store for it 
overlooked by studious eye witnesses.

Worshippers of this shapeshifter are 
                       apropos only if their theisms 
contain the most moral of majorities.


When the order comes down to surrender weapons
and give inner peace the opportunity to flourish
the angry anarchist will ignore such doctrines
that make him compromise his deep enmity.

When empty space seems seamless as midnight
loose ends get tied while light seeps through 
and precepts we thought suppressed shall
bubble to the surface of mystic worlds.

While inside the Earth resounding thunder builds
we remain unaware of all the power it carries 
and people's world views become distorted
even though they don't see anything new.

When solutions come and go and then around again
they become concrete in our aggregate mind that
will be studied by future scholars digging deep 
to ascertain why certain events transpired.

When thieves are free to rob and batter innocents
the effect is to deplete hapless folk of all hope
and dupe them into surrendering freedoms
they have long felt essential for survival. 

Should the magnetic pole shift suddenly no doubt 
the masses will be frozen in a state of confusion
as to what this marathon called life is worth
regardless of any former conceptions.

If woeful politicians continue devising schemes
to benefit those corrupt empowered autocrats
who control mass media some day we may 
be begging for a merciful square deal.

In these turbulent times may we encourage rhyme
to sing on blithely despite desperate conditions 
so that steadfast patriots rise to the surface
defending what is theirs by rite of birth.

Thomas Piekarski is a former editor of the California State Poetry Quarterly. His poetry has appeared in such publications as Poetry Quarterly, Literature Today, Poetry Salzburg, South African Literary Journal, Modern Literature, and others. His books of poetry are Ballad of Billy the Kid, Monterey Bay Adventures, Mercurial World, and Aurora California.