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Monthly Archives: June 2021

Enthusiasm

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.


 
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Posted by on June 30, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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.



 
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Posted by on June 29, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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.


 
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Posted by on June 28, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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



 
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Posted by on June 27, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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..........


 
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Posted by on June 25, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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.

 
 

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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.


 
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Posted by on June 23, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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.



 
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Posted by on June 20, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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...



 
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Posted by on June 19, 2021 in Poetry

 

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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. 


 
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Posted by on June 19, 2021 in Memoir, Poetry

 

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