It is what it is with me 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 it's never the same, I am who I am - I make my own game. The moments are changing, perpetually new. Thoughts rearranging - artistically view. I am who I am - all according to me. It is what it is - so I'll let it breathe Alone, I determine whatever I see. It is what it is. Whatever--, I'm free. I choose my identity - Don't you agree? The world is determined, but only by me-- It is what it is and I am who I am, The root & the branch, and also the stem. iambic pentameter, couplets © 2 minutes ago, Brian Peter Hodgkinson rhyme
Monthly Archives: June 2021
Root
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..........
1.4
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.
The Art of the Poem
I poem, therefore, I am. I believe in magical thinking because I am a poetic vibration. All I perceive and all I am were spoken a part of the poetry of the One Creation is the poem of the Creator-- whose workmanship we call math or science. Still, everything is poetry - in symmetry or asymmetry, and it doesn't matter to poetic matter. I am-- because the One is the I AM. --now, the One-Presence is- we are crafted into the One NOW. (you are reading this presently), and it's immediately yours, mine, ours with Creator: the deep spell of the One-- who spoke its flow into lions, tigers, and bears people, plants, and planets galaxies dancing their milky time with Pegasus - Orion said to himself, 'Draw my sword.' in meter with the One, the speaking Person: the Poem.
1.7
Lost and Found
Not accepting your absence I can virtually recognize you The vision builds, peaks, signs a complete revolution awake awake we were off the vine, the home where we built together beside our mused current, a cherished place some times were better than others but I am always halfway to you pursuing after our mirrored shadows living with a revenant seeking trails of endless day these cannot destroy us but can almost realize a face if only you grasped what the lost ring did-- the rivers do flow beyond this crescendo to find more sunrise, contemplating aloud on the last person, the fountain
Wishing
Will you ever love the one behind your eye? Promote your own voice? Decide to restrain imitation? Write the drops of the day, Recall your trashed diaries. Drifting in every direction we flower, the ranges call-- permit the beach, the earth, the islands. Find the nature of sunshine, not its reverberation-- for we evaporate like the morning While dreaming the faraway road. Do you feel blighted? Tailgaters in a slow-motion hunt Wander in a fog --time-bombs Starry lamps light a lifetime or more petty people of the cheesy moon their flaw is a shelter Wishing into the sky again a necessary fact of life