Saturn in Retrograde

Wait!
Hold off!
Hold on-
What is going on?
This doesn't feel right...
Why are those stars so bright?
It must be a neon sign the way they align,
Vacancy 
I'm jumpy,
on edge.
If your friends jumped off a cliff
would you too
act-re-act?
But what is this cause
effectively, a cause for pause
of thought,
or not.
I lie
in wait,
sorting numerical fate.
I don't know why, I never lie
down
looking up, brightly
filtering lightly
through Truth's sieve
I believe
what falls between
may be indecision,
or just pieces of pessimism...
Seeing the signs, reading the route,
maps of the sky don't try
to make sense
of something so immense.
I'm going to need that sky crane
to see the hole
light at the end
of tunnel vision
that predicts,
narrowly,
Saturn's negative position,
set on a backwards mission
revolving by karmic volition.

Theta + Haiku

Spontaneous

chaos is simplicity’s Truth

change is not complex

The balancing act

of super-symmetry

through two-way mirrors

As the cradle rocks

lullabies of gravity

carrying a moon

Fusion of Forces

electromagnetism

binded by tension

A microcosm

of you, a macrocosm

of We, divided

Image By Zdnrp (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Headspun

“If someone says that he can think about quantum physics without becoming dizzy, that shows only that he(she) has not understood anything whatever about it.”-Niels Bohr

Make your point

Cradled in the smooth groove
stretchy slope, perched between
your pointer
and omniscient thumb
the hexagonal pole poised in position
and lightly pinch
its slender girth
slide midway down its length
or further,
depending on your comfort level
or prowess,
practice with pointed objects

It's metal headband
watches from behind, coaching
looking for mistakes.
Taking aim with the tip
the bulls eye opening is your mark
the electric desktop bladed machine,
a miniature tree shredder of sorts.

It will resist and rock, grind
and gnash,
vibrating and stimulating
to the touch
Five seconds will do,
enough to make your point
sharp and new
although you've lost some length likely
you've left some carbon footprints where
it whittled itself away
right before erasure led to its faded decay
ashes to coal, black dust in the wind
archaically, today the pencil is passe.

I still use one today
and I could continue on rhyming this way,
until my coal dark pencil turns light grey.
Then again-
I think I'll grab a pen.



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

Clouded

“It is better to have your head in the clouds, and know where you are... than to breathe the clearer atmosphere below them, and think that you are in paradise.” 

–Henry David Thoreau

Wise eyes

Blink the drapes

promise me just a peek

into the whole you

Some light filters through

nocturnal pupils wink

in growing view

The horizon waits

posing at a distance

closer than infinity

Muted dimensions bleed over

open endlessly, unraveling 

before me, after you

Swallowing the hole

lingering note, an after taste

foreshadowing hues cast

between you and I

a line is strung

will you

touch it

with your

wise eyes?

Composed 6/20/15.

Image of painting by Paul Émile Chabas [Public domain], Nymph, (1869-1937) via Wikimedia Commons.

I should just calm down

Like you,
(I suppose)
I cringe at my poems
often
they seem sour
or too tart.
They have been called
fierce
But I'm too tame to tell
what that may mean...
I don't mean to complain and lament
vent-
No, yes, I do.
Poetry is my only place to put
pesky perplexing intellectual problems
(that make me insane)
and confusing confudling conundrums
(that cause me brain pain)
about what-nots and that's and i's
about love, and existence and
perishing...I wince too.
I'm not like my poems,
they are my comfy clothes
(without make-up)
And somehow this non-me
hiding in my poetry
is beginning to resemble
someone new
I'm not needing an answer right now
but I think you sense it too...
I smell a rat-but I have a cat,
I can be fierce like that.

Walking the waterline

A single trail
                    of footsteps in the sand
or snow
                                                         mark where you have been
                                                                                                       not where you are needing to go
the right way
                         left you all alone
                                                  to make your own impression
                                                                                                       stamping your day
while it lasts
                         before erosion, corrosion
                                                                  degeneration, erasure, noting you were never there

walking backward, the footsteps don't fit
   
                                                               the gait was moved, the way worn smooth
we rely on these directions
                                            safety in nonzero numbers

                                                                                       go figure, follow the instructions,
tearing along the dotted line,
                                             racing by
                                                             fixed on the finish
 
                                                                                          waiting in line
standing in someone else's shoes
                                                             you lose
                                                                               your stride, taken by the tide.



Image By Probably P.S. Krøyer, 1893 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sol Ascent

Learning is a peak, 

an ascending effort to change the view

expansive and panoramic, uncontained

by what is beyond being seen

from where you stand.

Discovery starts as a reaching sapling 

rewarded for breaking through the mire

by having its roots wrenched with envy,

a weed nestled in the woods

for resting, not reminding. 

Education is an island destination,

whose currents carved defenses

guarded by volcanic concepts,

corralling massive schools

in warm biodiverse cesspools.

Knowing is weather, temporal conditions

the subject of changing you, today

being prepared for the unpredictable;

knowledge wields power like a lever,

breaking in or out, the damage is done.

All the while we keep seeking

views we would rather lose,

the forest for its functionality,

learning the leaves, one believes

knowledge is a plucked flower.

All in reliance upon the Sun

whose punctured question 

marks the sky, answering all 

wisdom reaps its reward 

in the warm gift of a lonely smile. 

Image By Hillebrand Steve, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

 

Where are we going today?

Summer blues come in many hues,
               but a simple walk around the block,
can do more than just change your attitude,
                it tends to bloom happy rays of gratitude.

So, today I'll help make you beautiful,
            we will start outside
and work our way in.

This perfect summer's day,
             in that lackadaisical sauntering way,
we'll explore something new,
             at least it will be to you.

A simple stroll,
             exercise for the soul,
meandering our mind,
             as we wind through worded streams,
along wild city paths,
             overgrown with order.
You kindly asked what else was new-
            I promised to show you-

It had always been there-
            whether we were walking and talking-
or not even watching, while it waited-
            patiently for us to notice anyway
it still grew out of nowhere,
always on display, for days like today.

On a well worn path,
            footsteps all blended in one heel,
vaguely stamping all,
           or nothing in front of us,
around the bend,
            not knowing what lies,
right in front of us
            a pleasant surprise.

Together, however,
            we find the extra parts of ordinary,
in the sharply scented forgotten moments,
my yummy morsels of motherhood,
             lingering in the sweet heat of furrowed brows,
the summer sun easing our way,
              as it is so happily today.
By walking this way,
looking at the mundane in another way,
I knew you'd say, “Look at how beautiful it is outside! 
What a pretty day!”
And on the inside
looking in, I knew
All the beauty was coming from You.



Image of painting by Émile Friant, 1906, Maternal Tenderness [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Hymn of Ewe

Faith is the wool blanket 

woven by the flock

who sheepishly sew 

contentedly knitting 

nestled in envied green knolls

bleating a single string 

in wandering white streams 

hiding in the herded folds

matted in the material of dreams

tucking in their ears

softly in numbers

Image of painting 'Strayed Sheep' 1852, by William Holman Hunt [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Virtually Equivocal

I

Chastity is a bungee chord

acting like a liberator, life saver, 

a taste of free fall, an avian jaunt

before jerking you back to guilty landings

where you are held in suspension

for as long as tethered time cares

to keep a chord on your Chastity. 

II

Temperance is a troll

tending to the liberation Garden

like a Gnome making his home in Excess

giggling for no reason, led by curiosity

he banks on your unattended fortress of Will

digesting offenses, defending ob-scenes 

leading the way to stay and linger

III

Diligence is a termite

specializing in the boring method

no task is too large or dwelling too much

weakening the foundations one grain at a time, 

until completely through, but not full, moving on

to the new, fulfilling the termites due. 

 IV

Kindness is a bus driver

who notices you standing there and

even though you are strange, and have only change-

kindness gives you a lift, to get you

where you supposed to be, better later than never

waiting for the line, strangely glad to see you,  

and kind enough to pick you up.

V

Humility is a house

lacking mirrors and decor.

A crude shelter with a leaky roof

and boarded windows. A single story

with a welcome mat to wipe your feet

before moving out and up at home

on stilted loftiness.

VI

Charity is a waterfall

whose origin Springs naturally

flowing abundantly the farther it goes

picking up all, willing to be carried

in generous streams that drown

worries like eddies going nowhere

unlatching, succumbing to gravity in pools.

VII

Patience is not virtuous; nor even pious

loitering, lingering, lamenting in Limbo.

Only children have imaginary friends

and Time on their side.

Patience is a snowflake;

icy with oblivion, melting under fire,

dripping with Possibility.

Image By Jan Saenredam after Hendrik Goltzius c. 1615 (British Museum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Take a load off

Shame on the pointless ponderer

                       whose head grew too heavy

dizzy mind map wanderer

                       enticed not by common sense

busy beaver built levee

Stuck in a rut

plant your butt

Condemn the lazy chair inventor

                        who created a place of rest

a couch for his brain to grow even more

                        putting lack of experience to the test

Backseat driver

idle kaniver

So in a nation full of sitters

we've sat in vain judgement

blaming the doers as the quitters

cross-legged, pointing fingers, elbow bent

Scapegoat herder

Jaw jabber

Those planners, thinkers, fact formulators

never do, or make or creates

but instead ideate, re-sit-uate, idea incubate

proposing possibilities about probable states

Fast talking

no walking

A nation of sitters

with notions of jitters

who can't sit still

unless they take a pill

caffeine Willies

nervous Nellies

Image photo by Pierre Petit [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons of Hector Berlioz, (1803-1869).

Sunny days with Purple haze

It must be that Jimmy knows all

we rely on his revised rigging

we can clearly see through tiny glasses

which are crumbled all around

as you said that which is built

must tumble to the ground

Eventually, 

on these long dogged days

stretching Pacifically 

horizontally both ways

You start by digging ditches

building by removal

connecting the channelled groove

each speck to spec, welding by will

And for the portcullis

a molding of macrocystis

do reserve some kelp for the keep

confounding those criss-cross-walls

one strand at a time

one per postern

a grain delay

water wise

These masonry molds of ornate turrets tell

a chivalric tale, a creation of deterioration

With a gypsy white washed beechwood to etch

windows, bars, doorways-all notably notched 

deleterious dimensions

of modern medieval convention

Wet cement won't hold

unless the tide turns down

the daily grind, of rise and fall

testing the outer castle wall

The sun casts long poles

from the towers to the South

the flood plain fills spreading

its frothy water line

Evermore, 

in this phase

of sandy daze

and purple UV rays

 

Seeing the forest for the fantasy

I have watched like an arrested witness,
                                                   I have observed, from inside the bubble,
silenced from interruptions,
                                                   the echoes of my thoughts reverberating,
muffled and bouncing, hollow all around me.

A slip, a fall, down a tumultuous trail that unwinds,
                                                  sucked through a straw of destiny's tube.
If you can conceive it-
                                                  you should believe in burst bubbles,
suspended amid weightless fantasy
                                                  land, ushered by passing spires,
reality-threatening a poke
                                                 around the rocky fables.
Wishes evaporate into splashes,
                                                  hope heavy plummets,
hydrogen bound heavy,
                                                 drowning in carbonic dead wait-
Oh, if you could see the view-
                                                  if you only knew...
Up the boughed birch the searcher barks,
                                                 mocking today while dangled legs,
pins pricking shins begins,

                                                 Dreams fall as rain in bulging bursts
drop-
lets,
where mystic wishes, with thin traces leave wisps and wishes,
                                                  elements evaporating before my eyes,
rolling on and back.
                                                  Walking on wine,
Turning truths into tales,

                                                 Deep, in the fabled forests of immaculate youth.

Composed 6/7/15.
Image By Ida Rentoul Outhwaite (From: 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Waterfall Fairy, from 'The Enchanted Forest', 1921. 

The weight of the world

My pockets are empty, no rocks for my swim today
I am armed still with each of these quartered limbs

The rope swing resembles a gnoose, or a snake
the mongoose was always me, miss identified

Eucalyptus tendrils squeeze out mentholated breezes
calling the monarchs, two come to court, tagging up in streamers

Perched in the sappy pines a murderous row becomes a mob,
volume and black plagues grow from the chain mail gang

Humming while hovering over a well, the nectar inebriates
bird and bee still in recovery, stalling in their stupor mid-air

The drum roll of wind, corralling the dead, noting the tenor of leaves
swirling in symphonic disharmony, sloughing and buffing scales

Laser beams between tall pillars scorching the dirt, releasing the
essence, crushing the spice revives, in particulates burnt alive

The serenity of the lakeside: The tranquility of Tantalus
eternally reaching, mute preaching, still teaching all of us.



Image credit:By Extemporalist (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Going along with Grandpa

I liked it when we walked around the block,
talked shop, nothin' doin', smelling grass in the sunshine.

You told me silly rhymes, fishing for my giggles,
which grew like weeds, like me, you said, a daisy.

That song you sang about the starving old lady, now seems sad,
she had 49 kids...Instead, it made my mouth melt for gingerbread.

And I still sing that stinkin' Navy song, that is even more racially wrong
about a girl from Yokohama then along came a Joe asking 'bout Tokyo.

(I rolled my eyes, I despised it,
but I memorized it, just a bit)

Your tassle-toed loafer swagger, in your plaid pants pleated a la putting pose.
The flagstick handle for a fuschia shirt on fire, your tongue pinned to cheek.

Dewy Sunday mornings were the best you said, when people pray
I caught you looking up too. It wasn't for the ball, after all.

Sometimes I can still hear your pocket change jangling and muffled
against your copper chain bracelet, I hear the handcuffs of ghosts.

After all this time I thought you were just entertaining me,
showing me to build fractals, but you were really gardening, planting seeds
                                                                      growing the chance of epiphany.

Prismatic Proliferation (Haiku)

                                                   Perfect

                  Refraction of  Incandesence

                Shining   ∞   Multiplicty

Image credit: Dispersive Prism, By Kelvinsong (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Times are a changin'

It's high time
climate change be seen NOT
as a problem of neglected ecology,
but of maligned chronology-NO-
that's the result,
the problem is this;
We equate ice cubes melting in water,
which creates displacement, a delusion,
with polar ice caps melting in the ocean,
which destabilizes our centripetal inertia.
The top no longer spins the same.
The bottom not quite pinned in place.
Reliable gravity keeps it all nailed down,
sucked in our atmospheric skin.
Astronauts must drink with straws.
I'm no rocket scientist, but I KNOW
plastic bags are not melting the ice caps.
That's just hot air, toxic agitprop gas.
Some Scientists and Astrophysicists,
have hypothesized;
a gravitational shift of gears
to centrifugal velocity,
changing the years.
Do you know what that means?
It's heavy.
When science finally solves the riddle,
they'll find that Time has slipped away-
while the plates pushed ahead,
volcanoes plumed and spewed,
major quakes are cued,
and the floods pour in,
then the aftermath...
Adding up the data (to date), the evidence shows
a climate change, (yet evidently no one knows)
whether the change in weather
is a climactic conundrum
for environmentalists and green thumbs,
for horticulture or a culture of horology...
What we would do if today's date is no longer true?
It's now May 48th, in the year 2032.
I thought you knew, Time was never True.

Composed 6/2/15.

Image by NASA taken 4/20/2013, Saunders Island, Greenland, Baffin Bay.