Botanical blasphemy

Perhaps someone knowledgeable could assist me
as to the origins of some common names in Botany?

Some terms now seem offensive-
so I shall tread rather pensive.

Did miner's really desire a salad to eat
on the golden trail, seeking mini lettuce under feet?

What about the poor mother in law
who gifts sharp tongues out of her barrel cactus maw?

Did anyone talk to the Jew who was wandering-
who was maybe not lost, just walking and pondering?

I'd like to think the Indians could not live without Art,
and chose paintbrushes of flowers, or anything with a pretty part.

Or that the Japanese would build little boxes-
from the stalk of little shrubs, even using bonsai axes.

Perhaps Pliny picked a pepper,
his ghost seed carried a la zephyr.

There are some names I'm sure my family just made up
banana succulent, kangaroo paw, elephants foot, the Scarlet cup

I like those names that are easy to say
as opposed to the other twisted Latin way

which are often coded insults to lower species
all of which happen to thrive in feces

In my observation, the plants I've given a common name
have a special glow not like their anonymous or Latin same

Have you tried this too?
I was just wondering if you knew...



Image of Miners Lettuce By glmory (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The possibilities of a fractal

The way I see it-

art contains real magic.

Like blinking, or like an automaton,-always on.

Projecting its wizardry when no one’s there to see it.

A child is a miracle-

of busy blurred lines.

Making it difficult for others to focus on them directly,

blinded by their angelic buzz of innate electricity.

Art is the grandchild of God-

or whatever grand-father you Believe in.

It’s immaculate conception and delivery are born proof,

of a source, the straw that was pulled, the ignition point.

We are the ghosts of our grandchildren.

Now.

We have to pave the way, clearing our Karmic path

to Here.

Art arrests shape-

holds it captive-

to represent-

likeness-ness.

Our family tree,

rooted in our orchards of History,

bears ripe fruit of juicy inspiration,

tastes like sweet familiar childhood in the shape of a fractal.

Image By Randomness (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Fractal face of Beauty, 2008'.

River rocks

The strangest thing about change

is You

who won't move.

Rivers start from a spring-

a need to move

Onward.

Convinced in mossy stoicism,

the rocks jump in

to gather ground.

Bubbling in the hustle,

eddying around,

resisting the rush-

You are the smooth stone.

Let it go.

Image By Rhodington (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Throwing Moth Balls and Catching Fly's

Why it was just the other day, I was staring at the ground, my mind astray,

and along comes a troop of Armadillidillidae.

Now I know this may sound silly-nilly,

But Nay!'Tis 'bout those Roly Polies and Bug Boy Billy.

Who doesn't love pill bugs when young-

'Cept did you know they eat dung?

Shoot 'em like marbles, baby bug balls-

Shoot-more fun than playing with dolls!

'Cuz things that are wild and that wiggle,

Always make children wonder and giggle.

So back to Bug Boy Billy, who likes his bikes;

had a Make Believe Shop where he'd fix trikes,

(Since even the most handiest of boys,

 use special tools that are really just toys)

And just the other day, as I already said,

A line appeared on the ground, a gray thread-

But it 'twas those same very Armadillidillidae,

crawling and millipeding in their buggy way,

Itching to make a pit stop

at Billy's infamous Trike Shop.

Billy told me they were in great despair-

For they had no bikes or trikes for repair.

This was precisely their pill bug problem,

they pleaded with him to make some-quite solemn...

Lo' they had no candy or gum they could pay -

but promised some privy perks anyway.

So Billy happily went right to work-

and he did so with a slight smirk.

When asked what he was doing-he shrugged and said, "Oh you know-

I'm just lettin' these roly polies help git my imagination back rollin’."

Image By Lewis Hine, 1874-1940, photographer. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Inventing opportunity

One day I'll make it.
I don't know what-but it will be good!
And
It will work-
                      all-It-self-out.
Making music together…
Hanging little notes on harmony…
It will sound like Peace.
And it will be the perfect
Temperate, the good-kind-
                       all-ways, Eden…
Forgive me, I was distracted There
Where was I?
You are Here needing a new map-
or the cartographers tools-precise
positively exacting.
Anyway-
It will have wide double swinging,
doors of Opportunity-
permitting construction, 
                         as I grow.
Blowing the tops off,
ripping off the roof to show how,
echoes only repeat mistakes
                          little people inside steeples.
Been there.
Without time for interior decorating or renovating-
                          just focus on the façade.
Inside is where it is, where is dwells-
                           I can move it-if I only knew
what it used to look like…
It is not finished-yet.
You see, I may never Be.
I'm missing a piece-
                          or more.
And
I forgot which door I was looking for.
Locked up next to Remember and Remorse,
one is painted Amber and the other Aquamarine.
And
after knocking all around I found-
Today was the day,
I was forgetful enough
to Fail.

Composed 4/23/15.

Image of Frederick Collins, Inventor, pictured with a "wireless telephony device" circa 1904. 



             

Medieval Party of Three

In medieval times it was believed that We
humans, that is, can be summed up by parts of three
not referring to the almighty trinity
they are the Rational, Sensitive, and Vegetative versions
of We, but you already knew
of this rational ability used as a harness
or you'd reasonably choose not to read this
a veritable, factual, brain food buffet
digesting and investing

The next part of us is perhaps a bit
of a stranger that cannot be trusted
just yet-leary of the sensitive side,
with shades of red, oft suppressed, sub-hued
for all its, weepy, sappy splendor, spontaneous
combustions of joy and rage,
kindled faith and love
sparks fly-implode
adoring and abhorring

Completing the homo erectus trifecta
the vegetative, it grows on you
strangling with seeds of sustenance
adding flavor, dashing zest and verve
sugar and spice, these are signs of life
wishing to be savored, simmered
leaves drink the energetic sun
emitting aromatic gasps and pants
devoured whole, after taste

Gathered together in trinity
the Rational, Sensitive, Vegetative me
are branches of our thinking tree
where experience is planted, knowledge nourishes
and ideas grow like weeds
the synergistic nature of threes
unbalanced teetering imagery
ideally revealed in poetry.


Image of painting by By Leopold Kupelwieser (1796-1862) (Diocese de Rouen) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Journey of Three Kings', c. 1825.

Throw me a line

Trying to define a line-

A line of poetry starts as a blurry outline with some noise. The space and shapes the line occupies against a wall, a canvas, a page, a screen, build a visual architecture which occurs in poetry as immediate as being aware of your surroundings...almost unconsciously, our peripheral vision or, “line of sight” makes a determination for us-are we safe to proceed, is it aesthetically intriguing enough to want to look deeper? Is it intimidating or inviting?

The line of sight is most obvious and easily interpreted in the paintings of a single dimension such as is utilized in compound poetry. 

A line is a march. A single file of footsteps to follow, a direction to take. This why the end of a line in poetry is called a foot.

A line is a direction. A line in a script, a cue we take to assume the role of the Poet, we get into character when we read a poem, adjusting our costume, vernacular, inflection, tone and put on their shoes.

A line of poetry is a family of words, stuck together whether they like it or not.   

Throw me a line

You are an English teacher out with friends

It is after hours, late at night

And you are not in dress code attire

Your hair is down, your skin smells

of warm peach nectar and musk instead of

gum and lead

and you fear you may get a detention

Yourself

Live & Learn

Truth or Dare

Not tardy to the scheduled seedy establishment,

the Lowered Bar

thankfully dark inside, unable to see

past your drink, as stiff as

the dank ambiance provides

You decide to only have two…or three-we’ll see…

In saunters a disheveled man with a clear plan

You are in his eyes, throwing you a line he tries

“If I could rearrange the alphabet I’d put ‘U’ and ‘I’ together,”

Rebelliously you respond-

“I’d give you an A for effort but your words are like a broken pencil-pointless.”

Image of painting by Ivan Grohar (1867-1911) Slovenia [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

snoitcelfeR:Reflections

We call them reflections

because they work like mirrors,

you see,

they can only be understood backward.

*ECNALUBMA*

For your safety these images too-

are closer than they appear.

We also call reflections memories,

because we are re-minded again

of something old we want new again.

The intoxication from nostalgia

so comforting-like an addiction

forgetting-

the last time…

Memory is reflective,

returning its light to insight,

when one remembers to stop and think-

if this has happened before,

mirroring another time, you saw, you see

reflecting upon,

the memory of the old you.

Composed 4/21/15.
Image of painting by Frank Markham Skipworth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1911 'The Mirror'.

The Truth About Poetry

To communicate, adept ones opt for speech or song;
spoken or written we agree that words can be wrong
but do their best at getting something off one's chest

and to fulfill this need for sharing, suppose poetry does it best
a lost language, an ancient art, as broken as it often seems
those potent fragments are more real than our dreams

Poetry is a proper form for composing Truth
and admittedly can be too long in the tooth
some of which is vague, blurry or abstract

But intend to recreate not fabricate fact
with daring ultra-sensory potentiality
limited only by your own sensual reality

Getting engaged is up to the reader willingly
one must be blindfolded but curiously led
down the aisle with what this has Poet said

remembering ahead this language is not dead
and you've already come this far without
getting lost, needing a map, having a doubt

about if what this Poet says is True
some words are inadequate, unable to translate,
or are simply made anew, and now able to state

Truth in words the carry their own weight
without making a sound when found and state
in a respectful dialect that may resound and resonate

in some way, a tingle or lingering thought when done
with a poem, a song lyric, jingle or rhyme,
it has spoken-not wasted your precious Time

a new language in you awoken
at least I hope you will see, and Trust in me,
to discover how pure Poetry Truly can be.





Image By Jusepe de Ribera (Spain, Valencia, Játiva, active Italy, Naples, 1591-1652) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, from LACMA, 'The Poet' 1620-1621-etching. 

Stone Cold Sky

There's so much pressure on the

                                          baby's breathe blue sky.

To have all the answers-Everybody always looking up

                                           asking you Why?

How should You know, as if a cloud should care-

                                            wisps a front your steely blue glare.

Expecting a sign to calm our moody blues.

There are no strings attached, no installed lines,

                                              cables, or speaker phone...

Do we even know anyone is Home?

Hope floats, and bubbles burst like wish filled balloons;

In your hospitality, you incinerate for fun.

This weightless reasoning; a burden undone

Looking up sounds good-one cannot deny,

                                              and if I were to take a shot, I'd try.

How you'd answer I can fathom not-yet this one immense thing

                                              burning aglow inside-I'd like to know

if you could just throw me a line or show-

how long do I keep holding on

                                              to your alabaster air?

Image of painting by John Martin [Public domain], "Eve of the Deluge", 1840 via Wikimedia Commons.

Beyond Reason

Tell me please,

if you have seen,

what lies between the magnet

and the object of its pursuit?

It's a pull, yes. Explainable;

quite easily, right-?

But can you touch the chord;

pull it like a string, strum it, interrupt it?

Of course.

But where is it from-

beyond attraction...

So, gravity has the same modus operandi.

As nondiscriminatory, as flexible, per se, so one says.

It's a Law of Physics too-one can be sure.

While we break it every day, obsessed by

Air Anarchy, in our endless tries to defy

flights of fancy, let’s do levitation, zero gee.

Not explaining the monkey on our shoulders,

elephants squatting on chests, legs like lead,

and arms that mysteriously float

after being constrained, contained, compressed-

beyond extraction…

Okay, now what is that smell, and why, or how does it work?

The innate swoon of a baby’s head,

making a maternal perfume; loves incense;

coconut oil melting in the sun, beads rest on sandy shards,

smoky wood in campfire rings, popping on a summer's night,

warm cinnamon...

The crook of your neck, just behind your left ear lobe

crackly new books,

squeaky clean skin-

beyond satisfaction…

I won't bother asking, from where or what,

is this thing, so refuted by scholars, called intuition-

since it is beyond my simple human erudition-

but is scientifically, senselessly, purely poetic,

beyond literal abstraction…

Image of painting (oil) by Jacob Philipp Hackert, 'Fisher Family at nighttime campfire with turbulent sea', 1778. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Garden Warden

Just as we are the Writers

of our Life story,

Puppeteers of Plot,

we play God

in our Gardens.

Sowing seeds to grow our Eden,

stitched in asphalt cracks,

heathens weight perched on hunched backs.

Fairy dust seeds and pixie weeds plume in bloom,

sprinkled and spread, they lay in bed.

Sapping up the cool cement sky,

dripping with indenture,

incensed by concentration.

Gathering the steely clouds breath

in our ewer, we pour out Life in buckets.

Trapping it in our pitchers,

bringing to light a chrysalis

of our Creation.

Digging our trenches

deep, embedding nourishment

-dam river goes where it dam well-

-renavigate –re-irrigate-

plans, tends, pre-supposes,

suspends with droughtful neglect

still waiting, doing Time.

Corn rows abundantly lined.

Out-fitted, out-witted, de-pitted,

ripening in repercussion,

footed in this fallow sphere-

the Fall plummets from labored limb.

Free to stay, there's no other way.

Room to grow into what it's meant to be,

making shade under the Kismet Tree.

Trapped in its own grave,

the dirty deed is done.

Parching in the sun, it thirsts for more

juicy fruits of forgetfulness.

Tethered, the sapling stretches,

it can see the garden Gate, choked,

wrapped in thorny barbed vines.

And beyond the green grass glimmers,

beckoning in sinful diamond dew.

The only sentence the Kismet Tree knew,

“Life without parole”,

but still pretends

there's a different End.

Image By OSU Special Collections & Archives : Commons [see page for license], via Wikimedia Commons.

Take a load off

Outside splintering in the bright noon-day sun, the Adirondack poses like a chameleon of trees.
Always ready to go, framed cool by short hollow pipes that season summer with sprinkles of sand.
Spineless attempts by bench and stool to comfort with limbless hugs-barely a leg to stand on.
Past its hay-day from Grandpa's barn, Oak is forever, it creaks keeping time with its own metronome.
Slumped and spilling white airy grains, the shapeless blob sulks in deflated utility-empty wind bag.
Portable, broken in, not too hard, or cold-the best seat in the house (says the cat), my lap in whichever chair I choose...



Image of painting by Alfred de Dreux (1810-1860)'Pug Dog in Armchair' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

An act of breathing

meditating lady

calmly cross-legged

thinking nothing

intentional unmentionable

quiet riot

creeps beneath

wily smiles

holding denials

blissful kisses

near misses

Eros arrow

strung out

flying fishes

Bitter bites

strangled air

choking up

thick ness

never was

for ever.

Image of painting by Jean-Léon Gérôme (1824-1904) 'Painting Breathes Life into Sculpture, 1st v.' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ambient light

Are we hard-wired to be afraid of the dark

to imagine ugly things in indistinct corners

lurking and watching

light-less-ness amplifying every sound

in stereo

our world spins on wires

acrobatic static

a puppet in space

Yay! We made electricity

to conquer and fill the empty void 

with our brilliant vibrant light

enhancing our sight

penetrating every nook and cranny

slaying the black matter with our gamma rays 

with the force of direct and alternating currents

knobs, buttons, censors, trackers

we've become all thumbs

coded languages, levers, tactile sight

and its own glaring response

on the fritz is something to fear

unplugged no more, we're wireless anyway

signal shields

afraid of the dark

fear and trembling is 

to know Life all depends 

on a spark

for our mechanical animal things

and as heavenly human beings

still afraid of the darkness

inside

where the light cannot hide. 

Image of painting (oil) Joseph Wright of Derby [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1769 'A Philosopher by Lamplight'.

Passport, Please?

Fellow Traveler,

I'm looking for that place 

I think you just came from There

I can smell it on your skin

just now

so close

It's that Place where Time is frozen

not cold

as in Siberia, or those Potemkin Villages

but warm 

melted in sepia

It's not the place with the Great Fountain

of Youth-I mean

I like me now, but I think I'll like me more

later, at least

when we're more than just acquaintances

There's no reason to delay the journey 

any longer

I already freed up my schedule with 

lazy white gaps

I'm ready to go

to take this Trip

finally to see with my own two eyes

I expect it will be exactly 

as I expected

when I Arrive

I'm sure you've seen pictures-

read the books-

seen the movies-

the best is due soon

It will show precisely what is there

how it looks 

at any moment in Time

that frozen moment

But I simply got Lost

I was hoping for directions to the place

with No Name

You would recognize it
by the ghosts in the wall

Where I am known and liked, 

better than myself

Can you take me there?


Image By Jebulon (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons, Forum Romanum Rome Italy.

Blades of the Trade

If Rock and Roll stars can call the guitar

an axe

I can call poetry a katana

That is a samurai sword

                             the long one

not a Haiku-

that would be a dagger,

                            or Ninja Star

Maybe you think a poem is more like a machete

you'd be right

                            if you travel to remote places-often.

It will blaze your trail

                            ignite and light

to help you see where you are headed

                            not where you are going

Poems are not maps

                            of the real world

Life is a jungle, They say

                            not Poets

A poem is a katana

Its precision cuts through anything too

not just paper cuts-surface level

but deeply-through thick, dense fibers

before they know they've been severed

beheaded but indebted

bamboo is strong and fibrous but still

just blades of grass

that only a katana can mow

It will leave a mark

                             that smarts

stings while it sings

                             lyrical with steps

that cut

to the chase

but drop seedlings of new thoughts

leaving a trail

Some poems will leave you in stitches

                             those are for practice

to soften the blow

bokens of faith

like Samurai ‘Giggles Shel Silverstein’

a mean, clean, rhyming machine

amateurs should start with these

                             and wear pads

real poems are sharp, hand-forged

of tamahagane, not a wood,

                             but steel folded

holographic hamons prism,

                             cooled liquid in ripples, the poem effect

lining the traces, tracing the tails, watching feet,

hearing our heartbeat

                             in time with the light sabers swing

there for you to read,

                             if you can see it

before it fades so fast it was never there

when you try to speak of it

you had to be there

A poem is a katana

Making contact, shattering reality

with its crystallized matrix of pearls

lined in a common goal, on the steel cold page

double edged margins, sharp side up

pre-requisite knife skills essential

but you knew what you were getting into

it was for the show, on the cutting edge

one who wields with words like using

a poem as a katana.

Image By Tokyo Metropolitan Police Department [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons,“Retained Weapins of vigilantes".

The Rainmaker's Prism

There's this thing I'd like to show you

                  -but I found

                                 I am incapable

                                                        without poetry...

Which is exactly where I first discovered this guarded secret,

                                                        symbolical sound all around

I assume the answer is Yes

                                                       -but from so far away I can only guess…

See first, we must see
Both

Science and Art so often             stand        so         far          apart.

At opposing ends of each spectrum,

without blending a hue, without refracting a filtered thought,

                                                       contrasting, considering, what may or may not be-

but knew with certainty,
both Science and Art were connected by the arms of Man.

                                  And for just a spot, a moment right here in between
agree to see congruently,

both Art and Science know

the Beauty of a rainbow.

                                  You see, Science will easily explain how tears are not

                                                                                       the same as rain,

but only Art can undoubtedly prove

                                                        a compelling hypothesis for the Sun to move

from day to night, casting various shades of light

                                                        glowing proudly in-between-

questioning, magnanimously, spreading is possible rays

                                                         for everlasting days…

Now if you just look through here-

and squint your mind’s eye without flinching or fear,

See-Science cannot make Art,

                                                         in symmetrical chaos

by simply building and implementing its material parts

                                                           of mirrors and prisms-

directing the light, the rainmakers plight, the triple refraction effect

                                                   
reflected back in the miraculous infinite true blue skies.

                                                          Aha! Now I can see it clearly in your eyes.

                                             Beauty.

A lens through crystal tears, prismatic rain,

light making rainbows,

gathering its energy scientifically

perfecting the Art of rain.

Image By Madhubala Naicker (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Rainbow over Boulder, (CO)'.