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A Failure To Communicate -Haiku

Connection failure
Communication breakdown
QUIT TALKING AT ME



 
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Posted by on November 23, 2021 in haiku

 

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Dark Messaging

Some of what passes 
as poetry or art 
is as incomprehensible as speaking in tongues. 

A tattoo artist
doesn't employ the same wastefulness. After all,
putting a Jackson Pollock on a customer's
bicep probably wouldn't give a special
message. Nor are they likely to needle
into someone's back "During ramification caracoleos
descends pressure" framed by a heart.

Today, a tattoo artist said, "It sounds like 
the revolution has started; ... ." 
There are no deep poetics here. 

 
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Posted by on November 23, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Fractal

Isn't every end the child of a beginning?
Isn't every heartbreak the trophy of your love?
Isn't every change the cloth that life is cut from?
Isn't each today a present from above?

Isn't every sight a reflection in a mirror?
Isn't every word the effort to explain?
Isn't every thought changed by your perception?
Isn't every pleasure seated opposite of pain?

Doesn't every death allow for a commencement?
Doesn't every dream prove to be the dreamer's worth?
Isn't everything the dream of a creator?
Isn't everything a gift on planet earth?

 
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Posted by on November 23, 2021 in Poetry

 

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What It All Boils Down To -Haiku

               Communication
          is the foundation of life
               the key to it all



 
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Posted by on November 22, 2021 in haiku, Poetry

 

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Pure

a pretty lady sprawls naked on the bed sheets
  she is an unwritable verse on my pillow
   by my side is a demolition derby, a risky challenge--
      breathing rhythmically with tranquil eyes--
	words of an angel - she's the highest peak
	  my half-century would ever savor.
	   I watch, hours slip by--        
	     Still, I want
 
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Posted by on November 22, 2021 in Poetry

 

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With Pine Needles in Their Hair

 Who knows when desire germinates?
It stealthy enters through all the pores 
to reach a receptive heart. 

Mutual feelings forge an electric connection,
uniting both to respond in wordless agreement.

Home is not without, but 
rediscovering the evergreen moment; 
deliciously resting, turned on together
in the heady fragrance of a partaken now.

Feeling as if 
no Christmases, Thanksgivings, or Halloweens
existed
before theirs - with everything filtered through
the prismatic lens of their unfolding bliss... 

Playing, dancing, teasing, and necking 
mistletoe overhead
then, lying side by side
beneath the lit tree - breathless from 
the innocent laughter 
of lovemaking.


 
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Posted by on November 21, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Where Is the Counterculture?

On the cusp of the 60s and 70s, 
68 went down as the year 
of cultural revolution. 
Psychedelic shirts
with LSD phosphorescent eyes. 
I know. 
Saw the living colors myself 

Walls inhaled and exhaled 
scents of patchouli 
and cheap strawberry incense from India. 

Saw those grimacing faces above the long-haired crowd 
twisting hideous. 
I was the youth then. 

"Down with the establishment" was the chant.
Government? What a downer. What a bummer. 
"drags" were for "squares." 

The institutional church reeked
as did the communist cult 
not into being reduced  to
a number for a 
system of power claiming 
my own good
 
more into getting naked 
rather than getting put in a straight jacket

Politics proved to be only good 
for starting wars. 

I met Pisces Tom
partying in Coyote Canyon
near Joshua Tree. 
a genuine Haight-Ashbury hippy
who went off the grid 
to live 
in a bamboo forest smack dab
in the middle of the Mojave desert. 

Tom raised a hog
painted eerie space mandalas
and made LSD from soaking marigold seeds. 
When he was tripping
thought he could pan gold
from the desert sands
of ancient seas. 

Some of Tom rubbed off on me. 
How different today

dancing to the establishment's dirge 
while pretending not to be.   

 
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Posted by on November 21, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Ere

Before
a pair of eyes 
a cornstalk
a dry ear, 
a nose of stone
a rotten stump swarmed with ants.

Preceding a yes, no, or maybe
there is 
a grain 
bursting out a sprout,
a root, 
a stem reaching to 
a sun that winks
days, nights, seasons, 

a tree
ringing in the centuries until
a storm, 
a flash seared into
a core withered down, which
a termite ate and dropped

a fertilizer for 
a mossy cushion enjoyed by 
an observant anthropoid to recline on.
Before my eyes, 

yes? 
a busy creator (underrated)
created, destroyed, recreated
over and over
before my eyes.




 
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Posted by on November 20, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Life Is a Highway

Masses hasten for the likely road,
the sign reading, “--Your Own Way--”
lettered black on blue
leading direct into quicksand.
Some notice the bridging crossroad,
--a 180 from the sinkhole
The highway less traveled
over a descending dead-end 
--the highway
once crested 
with thorns.


 
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Posted by on November 19, 2021 in Poetry

 

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Enjoying a Bowl of Pinto Beans on Walnut Trail

Emily often pondered what was beyond 
death & taught me with a bumbling fly. 

More than a century ago, 
Walt wrote 
Leaves still able to strip 
culture-blindness from today's eyes.

Allen let it all dangle out, jazzing it up 
with his radical staccato beat. 

Carl's blast of "The People, Yes." 
imparts a feeling of significance. 

The "crooked hands" of Alfred's bird 
show the vigor to grab a word. 

The foaming creek of Kenneth's Har 
cites both academic with industrial. 

Wallace's "compass of that sea" 
--much like the one I'll use for me. 

Both parliaments and parties
are mere baubles before these. 
The razor blade of the pen
will crop them to their knees. 
Like Percy's "shattered visage," then
in heaps of crumbled seas.
 
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Posted by on November 18, 2021 in Poetry