Thursday, November 26, 2015

Stuffed Turkeys


Our tradition, silly, yummy and lame-
we perform annually just the same.
Our ears and bellies full,
our cups all overflowing,
spilling out as it were,
endless, lest we forget-
we will eat again.
Forgive us for our acceptance 
of more, when we need less.
We will answer the temptations
with cranberry jubilee, 
high on sparkly, 
giddy in our gluttony.
For ours is a land of adopted fables
and on this one we fill our dining tables. 

With dopey peopled sated smiles,
a quiet table with mouths stuffed,
 corked and gorging, all thankfully mute
knowing nothing more need be said
except perhaps, Please pass the bread.



Image By Steffano Francis Webb [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, circa 1915.

What Nots and What Have Yous


A-lone
which is not by It-self
we are not
hungry for hollow bread
Satisfied
we are not
as they are.

Ex-posed
to the elements,
sheltered from the cold-
blooded nature of time,
we are not
afraid to gather together.

No-body
taking a place
at an empty table
we are not
waiting any-more
for second(s),
when years will only do.

Rich with excess
Starved to impress
reminiscing to regress
we are not
In-stead of wishing and wanting
we are blessing and yawning
making new batches of Progress
and wiping up spilt regrets.

With indebtedness to our grand Hostess
Here, we take the left-overs
for tomorrows
grand children.
Today
we whet
our appetites
craving nothing more
than what we are not
indulging all the more.



Image of painting by Cornelis Bisschop, circa 1664 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A soul on a stroll


Along the Path
we must go alone.
Yet things catch our eye,
glisten just so in the sun.
Sometimes we stop to linger
a little, thinking about beauty...
But we move on
when the light changes.

Along the path,
we must go alone.
We meet many others, new faces
walking and join company
for some paces, for a time-
until their path goes another way,
to a place that is not our own
destination.

Along the path
we must go alone.
Milestones remind us to push
ahead, rest before it gets steep,
and don't chance a glance back.
Footprints fall behind,
markers of the past,
so we don't go in circles
if we are aware
of our surroundings.

Along the path,
monsters lurk in the dark shoulders,
watching the moon guide your steps,
unable to penetrate your light.
You may have to change direction,
many times, but you will know
where you are,
you have seen-This before.
When you arrive There
remember, you will know
Why, Then
we must go alone.




Image by Allen Butler Talcott [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Path through the woods.

Sunday, November 22, 2015

4:14 (am James)


The darkness amplifies
any tiny tears in the thick screen
It is only i
that stirs the silence,
shuffle and peck.

A chime moves to hear itself,
setting a key
for Saint Ana to use today.

Behind the black, wind which is not,
the freeway tunnel blows and gasps,
cats eyes and downshifts, wind it is not
drops in the back, picks up strings.

The cats purr follows the rhythm
of his breath, reviving vigor on exhale.

The fountain trickles for effect
gurgling fools gold in the desert garden.

The birds all still abed in boughs,
have yet to set the tone.

The stars sparkle and wink wearily
in bursts that were sent
long away and far ago,

For this day-
whose silence
sounds
promising.


“Yet you do not know what your life will be like tomorrow. You are just a vapor that appears for a little while then vanishes away.” -James 4:14




1st Image of painting By Wilmer Dewing, Before Sunrise c. 1895 (http://elle-belle10.livejournal.com/1795371.html) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Cat Sunrise Image By edited by Mary Mapes Dodge [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1884.

Saturday, November 21, 2015

Strum Duck (Haiku)


Are you not afraid
that the more you learn, the less
you'll have to say? Yes.












Friday, November 20, 2015

Blunting the News



(November 13th, 2015) Paris, France, along with the entire world watching, was violently terrorized by radicals. After recently reading an essay by George Orwell titled, "Politics and the English Language", originally published in 1946, I noticed Orwell was on to something. The author notes in his essay the abundance of cliched, trite, jargon and excessive emotive vocabulary particularly found in political writings, news pieces infiltrating the mainstream media's messages. Linked here in its entirety, it is a thought-provoking read 70 years later. Powerful, meaningful language does not lose potency (poignancy) with time.
The following poem was composed by using the text of a CNN article and omitting all excessive, (what could be construed as) vague, or frivolous, emotive words. Those eliminated, discarded words (sometimes strings) are presented in order here, in the form of a poem.


Blunting the News


The prevailing emotion is now fear.
Fear that anywhere and anyone could be a target.
A sudden noise, the air is thick with sirens.
Controlled suspect terror
took the lives.
The French capital is in a somber mood.
Dozens, tripling France’s ability to bomb,
sweeping powers were
rallied with massive demonstrations.
A celebration of diversity,
a coming together of faiths and ethnicities,
most cultural, but fractious.

A dozen leapt.
The landscape has changed.
Tens of thousands
of would be abandoned,
blighted by conflict, trekked.
Vast and also shown ever greater
ambitions beyond.
Now sounds much more menacing,
Erosion of trust.
Quiet, some in tears, queued
A subdued, eloquent, leading, loose, inflicted, sophisticated
and presumably financed and infiltrated.
Shocking display, young, wage, more disturbing still
at least four plots this year alone.
Candid about the security situation,
clear, have chastened.
Palpable episodes will follow
promised after months later.
Anxiety has been heightened the by comments,
according to United States officials, equipped concern,
exploiting products, reforms of intelligence, bear fruit.
The threat is immediate.
External borders, deflecting blame,
criticizing the border controls of others,
senses an opportunity, will bring terrorism.
Hoping to benefit mentality regional
sense of siege, perhaps best demonstrated by the declaration
passed almost unanimously, gives, allows,
invariably in the blighted banlieues that ring many towns.
Especially the young, divorced and disowned by society,
inhabit a world, become radicalized, shabby
neighborhood, placed whole, an hour’s drive away
looks down on the world’s media.
Holds surrounded, representing liberty, equality and fraternity.
The second time this year flowers are being laid-
perhaps ideals.




“…modern writing at its worst does not consist in picking out words for the sake of their meaning and inventing images in order to make the meaning clearer. It consists in gumming together long strips of words which have already been set in order by someone else, and making the results presentable by sheer humbug.” 
-George Orwell

Image of painting by Édouard Manet [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, At the Cafe, circa 1879. 

Dependent Upon (Self-Reliance) Emerson



*This poem is an assemblage and reconstruction of various fragments of text from “Self-Reliance” (Essay) written by Ralph Waldo Emerson, 1841. (See photo credit below)

Dependent Upon (Self-Reliance) Emerson

All philosophy is at fault
Plastic and permeable principles
Perception is not whimsical, it is fatal
Our reading is medicant and sycophantic
What is called life and what is called death
We know not how in the soul, is not diverse is explained
Life has no memory, is only for itself
What petty oracles
Wicked dollar alms: sots
Life not only avails, not the having lived

Cannot spend the day in explanation
A great man is coming to eat at my house
To be great is to be misunderstood
Rich men poets are not
Greatness appeals to the future

Nothing is at last sacred but the integrity of your own mind
We lie in the lap of immense intelligence
Let us stun and astonish the intruding rabble of men and books and institutions

My giant goes with me wherever I go
I must be myself
Do not seek outside yourself
Trust thyself
Do that which is assigned to you and you cannot hope too much or dare too much
Besides, all persons have their moments of reason
We are afraid of truth, afraid of fortune, afraid of death and afraid of each other
We are parlour soldiers
By now we are a mob
Society is a wave
History resolves itself
The great genius returns to essential man

As if everything were titular and ephemeral but he
That man is the word made flesh
He who in the midst of the crowd keeps with perfect sweetness the independence of solitude
Grief too will make us idealists
Foolish face of praise
The intellect is vagabond and out system of education fosters restlessness and indebtedness
So that the walls of the system blend to their eye
It is curious to see the periodical disuse and perishing of means and machinery

The magnetism which all original action exerts
The genesis and maturation of a planet, its poise and orbit, the bended tree
From things, from space, from light, from time
The sum total of both is the same
Time and space are but physiological colors which the eye makes but the soul is light.
In the remote horizon with the walls of the universe
Advancing on chaos and dark

A Greenwich nautical almanac he has
No other data for computing our orbit
Requires infinite spaces and numbers and time fully to accomplish his design
All the sallies of his will are rounded in by the law of his being
Insignificant to the curve of the sphere
The soul raised over passion beholds identity and eternal causation
Scatters your force, loses your time, blurs the impression
All philosophy is at fault
Do not believe it
A man who stands on his feet is stronger than a man who stands on his head





Image of Son of Ralph Waldo Emerson via Houghton Library @ Harvard University. By Photographer unidentified [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. ( Please include this citation: "bMS Am 1280.235 (706.17), Houghton Library, Harvard University" as its source. In the event that any of the media files infringes your rights or the rights of any third parties, or file is not properly identified or acknowledged, we would like to hear from you so we may make any necessary alterations. In this event, please contact: Houghton_Library@harvard.edu)

A (One) Way with Words


Bang my head on the keyboard
or Edit, and it's still not there.
Stab myself with a pen-
blood doesn't flow like ink.
I'm not going deep enough.
Wrestle with words and choices,
so many I swoon, dizzy with dialect.
Research always interrupts, conniving
cuts the line midsentence.
Doubt-well, you know.
If I stop all together it's too much.
If I let go completely it's too much
evasive etymology
and not just the words that wander...
I'm led all over elsewheres, other places
by memories, imagery, crap-aphony noise
vying for my prompt attention!

And then, when I push hard enough
to leave a mark.
By means of suffocation,
I can feel the pulse intensity.
The louder the heart beats the page
blue and red
and when it's read
I know my fear shows
how I really feel
as I instead tell you
taking my final breath
choking on my ink.
Finally, dead and gone,
without ever leaving a mark.




Image of painting by Henry Wallis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1856. 

Wednesday, November 18, 2015

An Other Song on the Jukebox Baby


Today seems like a good day to burn a bridge or two.

The sky resembles a backlit canopy with holes punched in it.

In California with my toes in the sand, head in the clouds but my gravity centered,

‘Cause I’m sick of not living to stay alive.

And I’m just a student of the game they taught me-

Maybe I’m a different breed. Maybe I’m not listening.

Breathe out so I can breathe you in…

We will burn inside the fire of a thousand suns!

…but everything looks perfect from far away, Come down now,” but we’ll stay.

And what about your soul? Is it cold? Is it straight from the mold and ready to be sold?

Just a drop of water in an endless sea...

It’s something unpredictable, but in the end it’s right. I hope you had the time of your life.


Lyric song/artist credits by line:
1. Beautiful Disaster/311
2. Wish you were Here/Incubus
3. The Neighborhood/Sweater Weather
4. All I Want/Offspring
5. When they come for me/Linkin Park
6. AWOLNation/ Sail
7. Foo Fighters/Everlong
8. Requiem/Linkin Park
9. Great Heights/Postal Service
10. Jack Johnson/Gone
11. Kansas/Dust in the Wind
12. Time of your life/Green Day



Image By Highsmith, Carol M. (http://www.loc.gov/pictures/item/2011630479/) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, described as Juke box museum in Texas.

Simpatico (Syn.)


By 'association' (Miriam Websters Thesaurus)
                          -to assume-ah-to make an-
No-it says next: -to seize, to snatch (and grab)
-I presume my position-
Resume my judgement
             my angle, view, slant
Take        (it for what it is)  It=Is
standable (under-un)
incomprehensible
inconceivable
get it?
Believe you me!
You would not believe me if I told you-
what's Next?
It could happen.
What is It?
What does It mean?
By definition, used to refer
Chaos by Random, Assoc.




Image By Lewis Hine [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Boy Studying 1924.
               
         

A Skybroom or Windwisk


Where there is wind
Why not-
Fill the air with nothing
but conflicting directions?
Roar with static,
bumping jabs of hot-cold
thrust through if it must
as though it is nothing but
A natural occurrence.
A nuisance. Non-sense
of white noise, endless sighs
of discontent, lamenting
leaves fray like nerves.
Shooting blanks, synapses short
fireback with backfeed too high.
Determined to go Nowhere,
Now with haphazard intents,
mischief is made,
trepidation is mistaken as
raw with ennui.

There it all goes...
This too shall pass...
Giving the barbaric wind
a safe place to play,
with words like To and Fro
and don't forget, Let Go-
Blowing away
my uprooted mind
freed from knowing
how heavy
we should have been
bolted down.



Image of painting by John William Waterhouse [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, November 15, 2015

We Will Wake


Maybe the rain will wash away the blood...
Maybe the wind will clear the singed air...
Maybe the ice will freeze the last time...
Maybe less(ons) does not mean mor(ality)...
Maybe our voices are all different...
Maybe we are all saying the same thing...
Maybe everyone speaking leaves no one left to listen...
Maybe our fingertips don't feel the same...
Maybe our Beliefs are all temporary...
Maybe I'm wrong...
It may just be
nightmares
are as important as dreams
at reminding us daily of real possibility.



Image of painting by Raimundo de Madrazo y Garreta (1841-1920), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Coming out of Church.

Saturday, November 14, 2015

Lamp of love


My Sun: Embrace me light of day,

Your golden hallowed rays
kiss my skin with freckles
Your eternal optimism
is what we need, every day.

Steelier than others
the nights frost still stabs
You relieve the stars
from their grand spectacle.

I can feel your pulse
when I am held under you
It is reassuring, like a baby's
breath, in a mirror.

Leave me a smile
before you set
your sights
on another day

for healing a shot in the dark.



Image By Menke Dave, U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Snow geese at sunrise.

By denying me the seas-by Osip Mandelstam


By denying me the seas,
the right to run and fly

By holding my foot firm
on this constraining earth

What have you achieved?
A splendid calculation.

But you could not seize 
my muttering lips thereby.

by Osip Mandelstam
(1891-1938)






Image By English: Kida Kinjiro 日本語: 木田金次郎 (「木田金次郎画集」木田金次郎美術館、1999年) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Friday, November 13, 2015

Curiosity killed the Question Mark


Attempt to ask questions all day?
Seriously?
How am I supposed to do that?
Without sounding like I'm two?
Why is the sky blue?
I thought you knew?
Would it be prying?
Am I mocking you?
What did you just say?
Am I mocking you?
Am I not catching on?
Am I deaf?
Losing you?

What if I know the answer?
Do I keep it to myself?
What should I do if I am as lost as you?
Should I be asking you?
Who cares?
Who knows?
Where is this going?
Do you have directions?
Do you enjoy making the decisions?
Why do I ask?
I thought you knew, was I wrong?
Can't you see?

Indefinitely, (rhetorically)
this questionable method
offers no direct answers.


Image By PookieFugglestein (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia CommonsShort-eared Owl Asio flammeus on fence post, Lexington Kentucky.


Will there be cake?


Consciousness tingles, it is innuendo.
Inference must mean Independence.
Did you feel it too?
What is made is meaning,
adding weight to white.
Creativity expressed, is a calculated
release of logical liability,
lingering in anonymity.
Who knew: What it signals: Symbols
And suggestions are like trees
noticed or not
we breathe and need.

My name, like yours, I borrowed
because of its beauty
which withers when said by self.
This Time, made new for you,
an apparition, re-rapt; a peek-and-boo
solely for your special occasion.
What's inside? It is red.
Firing systematic flares in synapse, see red.
Silence is listening as loud as possible.
Aren't all words formal invitations?
-Nevermind-
We are all too busy to attend.



Image By Ministry of Information Photo Division Photographer [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Nowhere near


Sometimes I catch a glimpse
but it vaporizes before I can show
or understand
what I am seeing
And then I know, with certainty
what shall not be muttered
tastes much sweeter.

I muse on such savory moments
when I know I see
but cannot show
licking lips, in a daze

These are not secrets, No!
There for All to notice
particularly
some note just for You

Alone with these notions
all absorbed in Nothing
I present Myself
Outside
sensing atmosphere
Playing the game of
“I was Here.”







Image of painting by Arthur Wesley Dow [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, The Derelict(Lost Boat), 1916.

Sunday, November 8, 2015

One Eyed Human-I-ty


I didn't do it,
it was not me.

I only take credit when
I see opportunity.

I slept, I wept,
I don't know what came over me.

I acted as anyone would,
I reacted, in the situation, as
I should.

I got an epiphany, and then
I got sick.
I had an opportunity, but-
I had a cold.
I warmed to the idea,
I was on fire-before-
I was in denial.

I took a chance, I stole a glance,
I found truth.
I healed and I grew.

I thought
I knew-

None of these things
I really do. 





Image By J. Parker Read Jr. Productions / Associated Producers, I Am Guilty [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (1921).

Victum de forte


Shadowed by the light that blinds me,
           Purple aura glows from head to toe,
I rue this Infinity
           For my limited role.

In the whirlwinds of change
           I face the gale, often fail,
Hidden behind circumstance,
           My body bruised, I break down-

Only to moor in the cove of Covetousness.
             Sharing in the commonwealth of golden sunsets
Still, those ropes of regret, tangled and taut
              Hold fast under threat.

Now I see, reflected in tranquility
              Of calm waters-grandaughters-
Cutting this rope, intrepidly, victoriously 
               Is my only strand of Hope.


(This poem was inspired by the poem Invictus, written by William Ernest Henley (1849-1903) which was one of my grandfathers favorite poems and was included in his memorial, the original poem & audio is linked and follows below)

Invictus 
by William Ernest Henley

Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.

In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the Horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.

It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate:
I am the captain of my soul.


Image By Sidney Sime [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, The Ship of Yoharneth, (1911).

Saturday, November 7, 2015

Growling Bellies (Haiku)


Hunger is not crave.
In a twist of distraction-
noise begets language.

















Image of painting by Jean-Baptiste-Siméon Chardin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What's More (Haiku)


Nadir-ly nothing
lies-among the ruins
utter solitude.













Image by Charles Soulier [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, taken May, 1871: Soulier's photograph shows the charred remains of the once lavish audience hall of the Council of State in the Palais d'Orsay, a building begun by Napoleon I, completed in 1840 under King Louis-Philippe, and burned by the Communards on May 23, 1871. In the last years of the nineteenth century, these ruins were replaced by a new railway station, the Gare d'Orsay, which, in turn, was transformed in the 1980s into the Musée d'Orsay, the French national museum for art made between 1848 and 1914.

Tuesday, November 3, 2015

Skipping on the Surface


It is obvious where matter changes
its collective being lies
somewhere on top, outside of itself
so we can see it, making it matter

At face level, on even ground
I brace my stance at the waters edge
smooth wafer stone in flesh palm
before hurling it-out there

I pause to picture its path, knowing
the ripples go nowhere but below
I can see closely the other shore
this is how I touch it from here

Someone else is always over there
and they say the same thing, mirroring my
in between, where the details gurgle
over boulders blocking fish roads

Some words don't sink
linger at their own reflection
and babble along, afloat
without direction or depth

The stone wrapped in hand
remembers its destiny, making
3 giant leaps before being cast
to the Other side

visibly mattering
just beneath the surface
smoothly skipping over
in stoic silence.



Image By SAMIN (Own work) [Public domain] of Armand River, via Wikimedia Commons.


Monday, November 2, 2015

10 Things I Never Do (Today)

The 10 things I NEVER do (today) include:
                                              Clock-in-OR
                                              Clock-out-is that two?
                                              Wear nylons-
                                               Paint my lips-
                                               Say 'Yessir' or commute, anywhere, ever
around about noon
halfway through                    I stop listening, change the channel,
                                              fine tune the static ring
in the melody of midday melancholy
nothing important is this bright
no reason to wait until its safe
to come out, face it, say it, bleed out-Out with it!
Sleep tight,
at midnight
as the schedule shows
                                            I sleep lucidly dreaming.
                                            I dream the life of a poet.
                                            I live in the lucid poets dream.




*This poem was composed as a response to the poem by Ted Berrigan, 10 Things I Do Every Day.
Composed 11/12/15.
Image by William-Adolphe Bouguereau, The Earrings, 1891. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

                                       

I'll Be Frank with You


Strangers we are
and always have been
on other shores, lifetimes away
archived thankfully for someday
like this opening in my schedule.

I've done some looking in
to you, and wonder where you are
really from, I mean I get where you are
coming from, of the Hara, the place?
Or is it the Shiva or Scarlett's Hara?

I was taken in by many and none
the lineage leads to nowhere
but a sweet little eden, a valley lush
trees wearing afro dos, creeks trilling
through the dell-it clearly chose me
as you can tell.

I thought of a poem I wrote before
we had lunch yesterday, about a poet
who paints with words on white,
like still life, making space
more appealing. I forgot
to mention how much I enjoyed
Guadalajara, the pictures of Ashes Buried,
your instruction manual too, Mr. O'Hara.

Of course this was all before
page 163
of Secondary Colors
just past Orange
that banana split second-mutilated
dislocated from living just like that
taken away at 3-
on a beach! And what's more?!
It was not mine...
O the Horror!
These letters are just too much for me...

Pacifically.Stationed.
(this was long too early, I needed something like you there)

This poem was inspired by the poet Frank O'Hara and his poem specifically, Why I am not a painter.

Image by Sanford Robinson Gifford (1823-1880) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons,  painting described as Fire Island Beach, NY.

Sunday, November 1, 2015

After You, I insist


If we conclude
that the cart can pull the horse-
would we arrive
before our name?

Say we saw the shells
showing
the chicken hatched 
his plans
first

How many baskets will we need

to not shatter
the image we
reflect into existence
consciously mirroring 
before me?

Just One
holding half
of the analogy

pulling the last straw
to see
who goes
first.


Image by José Ferraz de Almeida Júnior [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tres (trace)

Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...