Entering the blue-skied vacation No foreboding overcast cloud can sully. To determine is today's prerogative. Have you, yet, peered directly into the sun? Up to this moment, it has arrived. Sunsets are equal to sunrises -- In the tangled scheme of star travel, As Venus reclines on an aged horizon, Sensuous, stirring the senses - for Mass and matter aren't here to stay.
Monthly Archives: June 2021
Enthusiasm
The Root of the Matter
It is what it is - I'm affirming right now I am who I am - none can disallow. The audience is fickle - I don't seek their praise. It's not worth a nickel. I'll live my own days. It is what it is - though never the same, I am who I am - I make my own game. Moments are changing, perpetually new. Thoughts rearranging - artistically view. I am who I am - according to me. It is what it is - so I'll let it be. Alone, I determine whatever I see. It is what it is. Whatever--, I'm free. I choose my identity - Don't you agree? My world is determined, but only by me-- It is what it is & I am who I am, the root & the branch, and also the stem.
Meet Cute
Our meet-cute was just poetry you followed mine - and I, yours we swapped numbers on MySpace you texted me with an attachment, a video of you in a black dress creating to Dido's "White Flag," your winsome playfulness captivated mine. Though you left this shuttle in 2016 but I am forever encountering you.
Content
we should not allow, or so *they* say because an infernal law prevents difference and yet to rebel with a screeching yell is just the same it's not a recent game do we peculiarly fit(?) the used mold awaits unquestioning agreement but what if we refuse to falsely say the same rhyme that *they* recite in line? reject us they must because the format is foreign our feather unclassified causes repulsion type and kind we quickly find, without investigating without patient adjudicating but this old earth is full of extraordinary variety and shift without which we cannot lift to our appointed form the demand to belong to another's plan reduced me once to a minus-man but wisely, let me please God, I beg be content to be a misshapen peg
The Sound of a Beheading on AM Radio
A poem of draining life was Dickinson's delight. She once wrote, A poem is a poem if hearing it makes all strength to leave; & puts our nature in a freeze, like removing the cranial cap with an emotional thunderclap. One day I heard such a poem, like nothing heard before, chilling my blood and bone. Sliced to the very core. Silenced to a statue, I had to pull off the road, it suggested Emily's test how she loved death's ode the best. No contrivance at our last just a grim theme-- a gurgling scream..........
Explore
Treasure solitude in the profound dales of the heart Be jealous of such times - no genuine need to regret There indeed discover a deep well of a creative outlet. Pay attention & faithfully report. In the continuous rounds of routine daily task, there is a sacred place within to persistently ask. The sparkling river of life - invigorating flow sounding above everything below.
Pennywise
Until the jack-in-the-box thunder-clap ever pops at the inappropriate time. Unfair, the searing pain, the shrill scream of abject terror, dreams disintegrate in a relentless rain of tinkling glass. Each shard becomes a razor-edged missile, surgical in the violent hands of butchering circumstances. There are no familiar words for this overwhelming fear. Gulping for air as the official countdown begins, Brutally crushed by the tyranny of urgent need. Impossible solutions are desperate, all needed yesterday. And finally, when the excessive bleeding staunches, the clap sounds again louder & more demanding; and for those who neglect to pray, terror is their terrible food. Yet, for those who do, and cry out, a dread reminder that we always imagine that we're equipped. Falsely, we suppose --guess, --think, --we feel --presume, until ------- the clown pops.
Poetic Arse
We are all tired of the same clap-trap therefore, believe clouds are the cheeks of cherubs bending over a moon, And want to see between the verbs. or just another fishnetted legs tied round-the-ears crock, and I'll hawk synonyms into the cheesy stretched-out whole of that presumptuous verse. Such "poetry" is electrodes jabbed under a Vader cap; a rigor-mortis jump then limp crash. A composition should not be full of tedious, trite, tired, modifiers, but a wrecking-crew of lateral cruelty. And remember: Bull-patty adjectives are all liars. "A poem should not mean," but be the quantum space between two bent clouds igniting all substance crazed.
Crone
She is a crone, a flowing vapor, an invisible river-- Too fast? Too slow? What she is? I don't know. ...but I'm caught in her tow and must go with the change perpetually to grow in age sands through a glass either gold dust or waste A tree of possibility her leaves transform seasonally to fertilize the hope of summer dreams A personal providence? Or a bad joke of chance? Directed? or drifting? Does she emanate from living? Or life from her? She calls me to decide if I will ride or hide ...One thing is for sure, Her...
Royalty
My ass is getting dirty with the black soil I'm now seated on, and I don't care because I found the portal to the path that I discovered last night. I had to see if it would have the identical enchantment in the morning as it did when I danced under the moonbeams and became one with the evening shadows-- About 9:30AM, I set out and readily found the path – it's an old Amish buggy path, a series of shortcuts, so the Amish do not have to take the main roads all the time. The funny thing is that they seem to prefer the main roads, and the path is almost unused. As I entered the path's first stretch, I was again struck by a sense of being totally alone. This was delicious, and my pace quickened with excitement, though my bones ached a bit from the night before – Growing things look so different outside of the cement enclosures of human contrivance. Wild Queen-Anne's-Lace, Buttercups, Sumac, Daisies, & Thistles were in abundance. I'm sad to say that I can't classify a wide variety of beautiful ornaments – what a magnificent study I have ahead. My aching joints loosened up, and my eyes began to focus on my surroundings - And it wasn't, at first, quite as impressive as my first discovery last night, but maybe more so - just differently and uniquely: no stream we cross is ever the same the next time. One similar thing, though, was my sense of being free and alone-- I tried to distinguish the things I had seen the night before and saw the wall of trees that had reminded me of an ancient castle in the moonlight. A path branched off and led into the trees and I decided to explore it. As I entered the densely wooded area, I crossed a small ravine jumping across a few smooth stones that surfaced like turtle shells. I noticed that many of the trees were conjoined at their bases like Siamese twins - I tried to sit in the fork of two big trunks but my ass was a bit too big from sitting at a computer too long. Then I scouted and found that I was on the edge of a large cornfield, so, like one of the disciples of Jesus on the Sabbath day, I plucked an ear of corn for my breakfast. The sweetness of my stolen feast is hard to describe - it wasn't so much the taste but the action of a free person that gave it a heady flavor. I remembered growing up on 8 acres of forested land, and when I would hike with my dad, we would always make a walking staff from fallen trees. So I found a nice big stick which I mean to keep as a souvenir - I want to shellac it and make it a token of the magic I feel in this forest. Now, as I write this on my old palm keyboard, I am sitting on a black mud hill in the shade just off the side of the path - mosquitoes are eating me, but I don't care - a buggy passed by and didn't see me – I feel mischievous in my anonymity-- Hiding here awakens the old feeling of an untamed youth - basic humanity that I'm glad to experience again- On the way back, I noticed litter on the side of the path – McDonald's wrappers and cups was being thrown out of the buggies. The garbage was a sign of intruders to me. So I will take a plastic bag and clean it up on one of my forays. Walking back was hot as the relentless sun beat on me, but, all of a sudden, I was met by a fluttering Monarch butterfly. It followed me for a while, and we greeted each other with the respect that royalty should be afforded. Three thistles are now hung on my bulletin board, and an ugly walking stick stands on the side of my door, calling me to new adventures.
Crack On 