An Excerpt from "Sequences"


Sleeping echoes awoke
the voice within me
a place of confinement
the door was opened
lips moved inaudibly
internal but untamable
vegetative faces
of generations far remote
.intellectual musings
summoned by visions
describing shadows
wrapped on a nameless garment
which fell through two windows
and with a trail of affliction
ascended the staircase




A ghost of indistinguishable consciousness
a hoard of old rags
a man vexed
with contortions
of face and body
consuming the perversity
of this generation
every morning and evening
his figure appeared
a strange echo
through a veil of tangled foliage




Shattered to fragments
as such
in a minor key
I observed
the throng
as an unintelligible thought
lost in deep alcoves
of oblivious sophistries
silent but for the unrequited
roots of the dying’s’
etherealized spirit
enduring through centuries




The sea’s shadow
at a window
not the gaze
of earthly immortality
nor without value
the dead rose
still fragrant
upon the floor
in the next alcove
a transitory diurnal multitude
ostensibly having existed
hitherto in vain
not without value
for better or worse
a drama
of which…
I cannot conceive




Finding ourselves
again near the door
through which a darkened veil
a sepulchral urn
a broken hourglass
a thousand year’s
essential to a matter’s
mortal undoing
and to approach
with deep reverence
the innumerable ages of futurity
the fragrance of flowers
the root of human nature




The same dark power
passed out of the door
forgotten in death
decay and ruin
they could see nothing
yet a countenance lingers
in a lighted window
wall deformities
in a fire-lighted room
such varied aspects of mortal affairs
somewhat shattered
passed through…
outside of this space
this narrow archway
this little nook
in which to hide




As they vanished
from the door
to steal another’s
intimate effigy
intervals when sorrow vanishes
I pass lightly
to catch a glimpse of it
they seemed so near
a close embrace
a pathos interfused
a decayed past
all fallen into oblivion




Strange fragment of morning
pervading the intellect’s vacant room
none will be inclined to lament
as a violin plays
strange contrasting themes
maybe a music
from disembodied times
a mere shadow
a specter perhaps
was it an illusion
to dismember




The tide is at its height
cynosures of waves
beating at the firmament
as a narrow stream diverged
from the main branch
you hear of illumination
as if borne on wings
above the ground
though nothing remarkable
of distinguished
only a speculative terra-firma
and near the door
a spirit of what
could exist nowhere
possessed itself
in a kind of wounded allegorical aspect




In philosophies of time
when some degree of silence
and revealed itself
in the utter solitude
of destination
of termination
in an old woman
who bore a bloodstain in her heart
at the dead man
a pale ethereal creature
a ghost
who had lived
the consciousness of misery
in an actual world
threads in the web
of human life



Ric Carfagna

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. 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.


Edited for Unlikely by Jonathan Penton, Editor-in-Chief
Last revised on Thursday, March 17, 2022 - 22:04