You found out that things can’t always be
just neat and clean and bright.
You found out that sometimes right ain’t strong
and wrong is right.
You found out a lot that Ma and Pa’d
never want you to know.
You’re found out in the streets in the snow
with nowhere to go.
Ain’t it a bitch, what you’ve found out.
Ain’t you a bitch when you’re found out.
You ain’t so sweet and true anymore
The world ain’t pink and blue anymore
And you’re living in a world that
wasn’t just made for you.
Resonant phrase aligns.
Mystic fire sprites manifest,
call to neural chambers: “Come to play!”
Sparkling children fashion effervescent flares.
Innocence against random nightscape
Humbles savants with unknown unknowns.
Nascent moment flown, eyes carry amazement,
enticed by fun, perhaps an epiphany or two.
merrily engage, swept up in daring code.
Intimacy, kindling as heady lyric,
Muse lit lanterns take wing,
Disappointed and Disillusioned, Courageously Facing a Seemingly Empty Life
Dressed in sadness.
Depressed to madness.
Mad to believe in passion,
which never lasts beyond the hour.
Brays to bequeath the
power to stand, to breathe.
Moira appears, macabre hag
preens her wares.
“See how it was, how it could be.
Drag and drop your face, your failures
onto a printed page. Can you see
new meaning? New lamps for old.”
She cackles, like
New maps for a new age.
That charming village erstwhile
known as Hell
metamorphed into Helvetica.
All that acrid sorrow
What is more useless than a poet, and why?
Cloistered in my artist’s garret, threadbare garments more holes than whole,
paint spattered, unruly and unkempt,
barely aware of the need for sustenance or even air,
entranced by the necessity of exploring, exposing my vision
I am the essence of romance.
Typing, writing clever syllables, I am merely effete,
despite my black attire and permanent scowl.
Even if they are good words, finely wrought, express deeply true emotion,
they are almost literally a dime a dozen.
To expose my wound is inelegance, to explore my essence a narcissistic malaise.
I am the real deal — the poet-philosopher, the idealist dreamer, the journey’s fool.
Surely I should be surrounded by acolyte worship, at my feet, honored to breathe the sacred
incense of my magnificence.
Yet here I stand with bills unpaid in the squalor of a rented room,
unadorned by idolatry.
We are a well at the center of the Universe
suspended like a spider spun out from
webbed space evolving.
All that ever is, like sea rain
catalyzed by light, is processing
into effervescent poetry.
It is a poem because evocative nature
seeks language, because will intends to speak
more than prosaic words.
Massage to revitalize imagination.
Lines break, imply stage direction phrasing.
Histories, mystic pleas, lovers’ epiphanies
both oral and visual, as well as
genre melding and overturning.
Look/listen for what speaks to you.
Voices in my head speak
in poetry, prose, creative nonfiction
stories of courage, adventures in change
Tales, whispered spells, hypnotize,
wrench veils between epiphany and sleep.
Deeply darkened mists of memory
prismed in poetry
arouse such imagery.
Be at peace.
Breathe in glacial wind
to warm in secret private seasons.
a better world.
Perhaps we constrain ourselves by our definitions
of “poetry” whatever they may be for each of us, or collectively.
Perhaps we would better serve the honoring of our
deeper, more carefully observed,
more cherished, more reflective,
more hormone evoked or thoughtfully
worded communications by freeing
our critique from “poetry”?
When we call “poem”
expectations climb aboard.
Is this one of those silly word games
or a test of my ability to please authority?
Rhymes herding phrases out
over-ardent attempts at sincerity?
What if I just want to explain
beyond the scope of everyday chatter?
What if I want to say how
and why abstractions matter
or work out ways to scatter
bits of emoting on a page?
Words with the precision and ambiguity
to save visions, ahas! glimpses.
Capture gaze at nature’s seas
and stars. Bring immediacy
of horror or wonder, or aid grappling
to decipher commonalities
that could increase
You expound tale of private familiarity simple, trivial, self-contained.
Profound sincerity, eternal poetry
Poetry is about meaning and wonder
Poetry can say: “Yes, we feel the same”
and “Yes, we can go further, together.”
It’s not the rhyme or word or name
that creates this form we ponder
to say what we’ve seen, how we came
to be who we are, how another’s
ways of making sense have made us
nibble nimble syllables
feed on grainy meaning
scamper renewed, enlarged
Binary stars blink celestial code.
Music of spheres, of oblongs, of ellipses
twinkle far beyond the constant light.
Cycles within cycles within rhythms within
the magic of rhyme, within eternity’s tricks
of repetition and mutation.
Crystallized, brought to sublime fruition.
Poets taste, express cosmic recipes,
tongue to tongue.
Poker as a Metaphor for Poetry:
Play the cards you are dealt,
inflated for the gaze of your opponents.
Don’t squander emotion reactively.
Enjoy the thrill of being in the game.
Warrior fire ablaze.
Crackling blade upraised.
Roar of vital battle, gains,
ascends o’er night
in song and story.
Forward soar in glory.
(Look at you!
You know we do,
‘cause you so fine.)
Beam sunshine, outpace clouds.
Thrill kowtowing crowds.
Keep rambunctious sheep
transfixed with hot, arching flame.
Now bow and jaunt. Play merry, frilly sprite.
shot-loud presence, resonance, disdain,
fawning acolytes applaud.
charge fiercely into each new
"the High Priestess challenges. She holds the authority of silence, containment, and being sovereign unto herself. Hers is the power of those things so intimate, so ancient within us, that we cannot, indeed should not, attempt to express them in words.
These powers are, ultimately, the high and holy Law that she cradles in her lap. Here is the “infinite sacred book” that Carlyle and Borges describe.
Her alignment with the Moon, and her emotional, psychic, solitary ways of worshiping the Divine have long been labeled heresy in the dominant patriarchal religions.
She is the aspect of undomesticated feminine power (belonging to both men and women) that has been feared, punished, shunned, and demonized for thousands of years, by misogynist cultures and institutions. She is not the Mother Goddess, but the self-possessed Maiden/Crone Goddess of magic, potential, secrets, and inner understanding.”
A long and twisty journey
to find me where I started
and learn I never departed at all…
Half a Page of Scribbled Lines
Stone cottage, mythical forest.
Magical fireplace flickers stories.
Giants and dwarves, quests and sorties.
Forces ancient yet virile and free.
Luminescent sprites cast nets aglow,
gently float, flit
subliminally aware of
Brain shakes with malevolent intent.
Tiny spinal fractures emit
memory, reason, the capacity to love.
I am free to wander
all the wealth of stories that
could ever be,
choose the ones
to steep in, retell myself
as sleepy morning
Psyche’s numinous doorway stands open.
Gentle blue heaven surrounds
my little house, imbues, secures.
Luscious landscape, gorgeous, bountiful.
Soft-shaded bubbles effervesce,
Initiate’s siren call
Magnificent peaks manifest,
clothed by sparkling
Aloft, alone, I gasp in awe.
Anytime you ask
I will gladly
extend pleasure with my stories.
Just outside my doorway
always eternities more.
dweller on the threshold
Mortared brick, aged,
for days that never can return.
Inspired by anger
coursing through my blood-brain barrier,
by symphonies of guilt and shame
by dismal morality tableaux
glimpsed in roving eyes,
by gagged and chained
by sacrificial warriors
who cope with more
than could be required
and the songs my silent ear demands I hear.
Collar up against bleak wind and dark.
Rising smoke creates warmth illusion.
Wrapped in sanity’s delusion,
fog’s memory of mist, imagined tide.
Seated here, salt-etched wall
alone between vast sand and
No one sings.
The notes, the voices
We who are silent
tongues clamped to grindstone,
throats clinched like forever grief
caught, pinned, suspended in lethal cloud.
We would cry out
send forth aureoles of potent speech
to assuage, to persuade to desist,
if voice permitted.
Abraded to dust, clinging to glints and shards,
bare breath escapes without
but for that shimmer, that subliminal
When the battlefield torn by mines is all the school or playground in which to grow, how can the children be taught to know, to understand a lexicon of peace? Bitter hatred permeates mother’s milk and what there is of grain, permeates the very rain, gathered in barrels since the wells ran red with poisoned blood, since the holiest of sites became blackened with pestilence and shame. Rumors expand on who is to blame; not much else to go around..
I like to walk the dark empty streets. Late at night, the city becomes its own. The smells, the silence, the stark black and white, shadows and streetlamps, without the people the city can become comforting, peaceful. But never for long.”
SciFi novelette originally envisioned as a graphic novel
If the greatest virtue we can aspire to is love
And the greatest follies in our lives are due to love
And we can’t cure our frenzied malady of love
But all sages exhort us just to love
And pure poison emanates from loss in love
And pure bliss is promised us from lovely love
And what about those horrid beings we just can’t love
And what about that horrid feeling of being unloved
So what in heaven/hell is love?
There is love that sends you dancing
into romantic lunacy
that feels so right and free
There is love that burns so hot and cold
you never know
quite where you are
There is love that holds a whisper
in a cloaked corner of your being
makes you smile in
that secret special way
makes you want to linger
in a lover’s fantasy
makes your day
There is love that hurts and hates
and kills any chance of saving
face or heart
burns the bright flame of your essence
leaves you bleeding, pleading
for any drug or thrill to kill that agony
There is love
indistinguishable from insanity
in any way your twisted mind
There is love that lets you know
you have a soul
because it’s growing
What kind of love are you offering
I offer you a human love,
not constrained to simple delineation.
Part seeking a confidante face,
to find my hoped for reflection.
Part need for nurturing solace
in uncertain days.
Part desire to be hero, adored
shining spirit in your eyes,
because you spark enduring fire
You send my boundaries
Your presence increases my
inspires wider denotation
Crawling into each other’s
place of essence,
It doesn’t matter where
when I’m with you.
now appearing on this Blogger spot for easy editing and viewing.
The last entry, which is what you see on the home page, is the first “patch” of the story. Go backwards, down through the previous posts to see the whole story, or as much as you like, or some now, some later …
“Rather than making incremental changes to existing equipment, FarmBot takes a new approach at precision agriculture, tearing down everything from the past and starting from the ground up,” says Aronson. “By simply placing the tooling equipment on a a set of tracks, rather than a free-driving tractor,” he added, “the system has the ability to be extremely precise and reposition tooling in exact locations repeatedly over time.”