Poetry Athiest

Through This
I have met wonderful words
Via verse
I have become Estranged
By thinking
This way
I have situated
and I have
sat while yours waited
Saturated myself in vocabulary
languished and lingered
here,
seeking how to mean
more,
but saying it wrong
and left you hanging
bifurcating and circumventing
all crystal-clear communication.

Through This
I have seen wonderous worlds
Making
I have molded and manipulated
matter, made grey,
so I could see both
Art and Science
poetically-particulately
condensed
essentially
and failed
to Make sense
This-
Density, I have done
I reason
and found None.




Image credit-By 'Not given' [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1920.

Nom de plume

My pen tells me All
I need to know about Me
More than thought could say












By George Shuklin (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

In the company of strangers

I thought...
Perhaps she wasn't as lonely
as she thought she was...

Perhaps she wasn't able to see
the difference between wanting
to be thought about
and thinking she was wanted...

She was perhaps mistaking
that forgotten feeling
for need...

I thought
being alone
this long, intentionally
she would see, she shows me
her life had been precisely the way
she wanted
it to be, in gratitude for solitude...

I thought wrong
she said she wanted a man
more than she could stand
since she had not planned
for the golden years
or for the gold she knew
she was due...

She was sure
after all those silver lined years
she still had insecure fears
and had forgotten all about
how much
she thinks of herself,
and what she wants.
She is all she will ever need...

A lone she
in a crowd of couples.


Image by Jurij Šubic [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Synthesis

Two saplings sprang up
simultaneously
on the top of the Eagles Eye ridge line

Each grew taller from the others gentle support
alee with privacy shade,
goading each other on
lush in envy green

It did not take long before you could see
distinct personalities budding
from these two trees
with respect for the space they shared
not thier roots, but in between
branches as arms with finger
leaves and sparsely
touching

By now, from far away some say
even today-you can see how they've grown
apart
reaching for different light.


Image by Asher Brown Durand, Nature Study Trees Newburgh, New York, 1849 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Symbolic-key

Important
This is key
not a
not an
but the
the other side
you are locked in from
I knocked-no answer.

Need
the key
a skeleton-not in the closet
to get in the closet, to get the
bag of bones,
a master
key
would work
to open
doors of Possibility or
let Schrodinger's cat out of the
locked box.

The lion awaits
the witch listens
the wardrobe wants
the naked
truth
and rings the bell.

Only truth
will tell
the password
is key.


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

Electric Zen

Felt the body electric

and wasn't even charged up-

Of course I am not a Whit

of a Man

but I get static

and get static-back-

it still shocks me.

The hair stands at attention

tiny pump drum jumps up

you know the nose picks up

forged steel

and I taste my blood.

Bio-electro-dynamics-

is that instability or raw

electricity, spliced all nice

and tautly twisted

for grounding extensions

such as these appendages.

and THIS serves us,

and reminded us,

we cannot unplug.

Image of painting by Benjamin West [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Finding a fulcrum of neutrons

Moderation
as in
All Things
is the wrong way to say (it).

-Balance-
is better.

Resistance & Effervescence
finding some concordant way...

This eliminates Fate
in the individual
(in)divisible
fields of knowledge like poppies
heads-
against an aqua sky.

The pendulum works this way
and that
we know we are going
away
even pinned in place.

In semi-sleep-statis
there is a cosmic atomic trace
of needlessness (n.)
Yes.
This is the best way
for All Things
moderately
imbalanced.




Photo By Daderot, Foucault pendulum (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

radio waves

Songs are planets
spherical orbs molded
by collective atomic
minds and sub-pieces
bonded serendipitously
as sound.
Each element
each instrument
tuned to its own
bio-chemical
reaction and re-action
of push and pull
bound by electro-
magnetic hypnotism,
like rhythm
the body moves
and spins.



Image by Dana Berry [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.  

Minced words atop static

Static carried on air
clings to its own non-being
i'm-potential
like white
white of poltergeists
or the white whir
i'm-between
towers

Interference splits
with pixel holders
i'm place
Spliced volumes
inaudible water
falls

These were always empty buckets

As a book is a chalice fore-
thought
Media makes masks
with hollow eyes
re
perceptive
think for me-tell me-show me
Empty
w/out your feedback
reciprocating back feed
in mixed media-the medium
is largely the message
fully charged.




Image By Darjac (Scanned by Darjac) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Chit for chat

You can keep your cloudless days
              I prefer the truth.
Don't tell me about the clear blues
              when I've been hazy grey.
Why waste our time-
why show me natural beauty-
when I am more of a metaphor...

You can take your warm sunshine
                I was already too hot.
Leave me alone in the cold
                where my heart feels homey.
Why talk to me about exotic places-
why try to fantasize about far away-
when I will always dwell in self-fulfilled...

You can give it up
                holding others happy.
Don't tell me it was yours
                when you've never had it.
Why keep saving everything for later-
why not save yourself-
when there's nothing left-now.

You can say you would
                  I will not say.
Don't think I might change my mind
                  when it's on too tight.
Why not convince
why not debate your own issues
while I'm sitting pretty writing poetry
not seeking what may be-
                                         outside of me.




Image of painting by Laurits Andersen Ring (1908) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

It fits perfect (Haiku)

Sacrifice is not
a gift
        everyone can have
-Some wear it better.




Image of painting by Frederic Leighton [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Legend of They (Hi-Q)

What if the story
was not about us and them
would we still listen?















Image of painting by Elizabeth Forbes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ego-tryst

They say scientists can measure the size
of your ego, subjectively-
no, those are psychologists.
And any ists must
be a man on a strand of islands,
native sons, volcano-goddesses,
and elders.
I landed on
a nerve when I said-
Big Head-
Foot in Mouth-
Elephantitists
carry the heaviest
chips on shoulders.
Boulders become,
snowballs.
After consulting
the geologists who insists
on layers, and pressure, and ex-
traneous circumplants, inoculants,
and evidently
seeking likeness in narcissists,

all is sorted out.
This is when florists are best.





Image of painting by Hieronymus Bosch, 1485. 

Little big things add up

You count the ants,
I will count the stars
The sheeple will graze in between.

The sun will highlight
optical illusions,
as color-wheel real.
The moon casts shadows
on our little delusions,
fear reigns supreme
in dream.

Our being
Here
while pointing to a view
too minute to see audibly
too vast for me
to grasp without the imaginary,
makes dreams with my reality.




Image credit Popular Science Monthly V. 29 (1886), thru telescope image via Wikimedia Commons.

DaVinci DeCoded

My mind froze-muscle stuck
on the sleek he-lo cruising low
along the coast-line,
just over my head
instead
of interrupting-
cutting in
with bladed arms,
it was a welcome drum-roll.

And I could clearly see in-
side, which is precisely when
you can begin
to see its very ideas-drive
thoughts and
over-all direction-
lob-(oto)-bing
(me) atop up there
as I stare at it

With every intention
of taking me a-long...
Suspended, I was,
with my head
up in the clouds,
thinking a sinking feeling-
the theory is as true
as the sky is blue-
and we are all
just weighting.



Image via Wikimedia Commons, Leonardo Da Vinci-Helicopter. 

The value of a thoughtful penny

One.
Few to none will tell me
the ultimate futility
of poetry
although
I already know
how few
understand
(me).

Many people prefer a pretty penny
over poverty, and honestly, I see
and I confess, I do too-possess
a weakness for copper-colored
tokens of superfluous luck.

Wasting her life, living away-
not even a wife-
she has nothing to say
what is writing worth-anyway?

Stark raving mad
I was with an out-of-shape-will
ill-fit to my unforgiving form,
with my soul squeezing out
the loosely knit seams-
suicidal skill without
a word threaded to-gether

And whether given a choice
when you've known
what should you do
I ask this task
of justice too...

Two.
Just know it means nothing
of value
if one values no-thing
without copper coated
currency.


Image By Daniel Schwen (Own work) [Public domain or CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Deadheads

  

   W   D            V       T     S     T     E       N    E           B    O

      I E                  A S             A   L              S  S              O O  -who-who

       D                     D                D                  D                 D

       I                       I                  I                    I                  I

       A                     A                A                   A                 A

       S                      S                 S                    S                  S

  EMILY          Baudelaire     ELIOT      (cummings)      POE

♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ ♠ 

Neruda questions

Paz professes

Rilke imagines

HD colors

Stein figured

Shelley ran

Wordsworth worked

Thoreau thought

Emerson opined

Whitman boasts

Frost argued

Longfellow leisured

Blake preached

Byron proposed

Shelley ran

______________________________________

O’Hara: Played

Cage: instrument

Ginsberg yowled ♪♪♪

______________________________________

William Williams Pictured Pictures

♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦♦

Millay maybe musing

                    Dante day dreamt

Shakespeare-Oh Deare!

Anonymous says the Truth

You & I=We Listen

Image By Julie Geiger [CC0 or CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fifty-five shades of cadet gray

It was the thick piled blanket of gray
that made the metaphor more simile today.

Cumulative as a collector of dew
indulges in a spendthrift rain of blue.

Cowering behind high pressure,
it may have been up in the air,

but it lay down on all in between,
nestled in nature.

Birds under-cover, the grass
fast asleep,

And audibly thick sound
envelopes
from gravity's position
I fathom
to scream
inside-it does not carry
you out

I doubt it was definitely only one
up there-
clapping-
cutting, stomping, sucking, sputtering,
interrupting frontal intersections

Slicing with a mallet, tendering with blades
heart beating to ear drums

a-long the gray highway
in-complete-dis-guys

two-way mirrors like
our eyes,
the other side of sound
surround

don't bother to look-
it was only one-
a passing Chinook
in the stealth of May.




Image of painting by James Ward, Sky Study [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Missed the train

Pistons pop up and pump
left-right-left-in-even-time
while in passing
they debate the state of
why and wheretofore-
Two for-what?
to four? two ate? a double-date?
Wait-it went-two-four-eight
Not too for, but eight
is enough
Past two, past four, not from
Four to eight
four
two
8
or not
via
loco-
motive
One walks
once in a while
by two, by two.



Image by unknown author, c. 1879, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Art of Being Neighbors

My neighbor from upstairs
stepped out onto his balcony
at six-fifteen on Wednesday
evening
looking
like he never got up
for Wednesday-he was
up-stairs, as I said
while I, in the garden
down bellow dirt level
watering and weeding
while he, squints
in critique at his canvas
tilting it and his head-
waved with two fingers
disheveled hair
and a puffy face
at me squatting
I may (as well) be making
mud-pies-
I told him
Happy (late) Birthday!
he shrugged it off and
stammered about-
surprises, bottles and friends,
his cheeks match my
roses.
May I see-asked I,
knowing he needed an eye.
He obliged-
and it was
*magnificent*
and so-the guilty party
was forgiven.




Image of painting By Carl Geist, 1906 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

When you said When

I thought when you said tomorrow
                          you meant today
when today you said yesterday and
                          yesterday it was tomorrow-
tomorrow will it be today
                          or yesterday-
Either way-
Yesterday's tomorrow
of course meant Today-
So, tomorrow then.
I will plan yesterday
as though it led to-
to-day-too-
late,
there's always
more tomorrow(s)
if we count
today
anyway.
Someday I will
have to say some-thing,
have some-thing
to say-
tomorrow, only
a today away.




Image of painting by Jan Matsys, At the Tax Collector (1539), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

If then (Hi-Q)

If everything were
of atoms-would re-action
make art of fingers?




Photo By Mcwesty at en.wikipedia (Transferred from en.wikipedia by Ronhjones) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Adam-Ant (species by gross weight)

Same as, We are to

the ants in the poem, yes

our weight is the Same. 

Image By Luo Ping [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

(S)he

She has not looked at her nails
in over a month
except in rude irritation
for snags.
Out of the corner
of her eye-
She is spooked
by a haggard figure
staring at her
in the mirror
on the far wall.
She can taste her own breath
and wonders briefly-
what or when was the last thing
she ate?
She scavenges frantically
for anything
quick and small
in the kitchen-
but first does the dishes
and takes the trash-
and gets the phone-
She makes promises
and hurries about.
She feels a draft-and then-
wraps her robe tight.
She makes sure-
She makes good-
She hopes she makes it-
She is needed
to make sure-
She is not wrapped
too tight-
She forgot to check
if she was still breathing,
since swaddling
now causes SIDS-
and the mirror is
opaque and dusty.



Image of painting by Joaquín Sorolla c. 1895[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

S. Cape

Up Back
C    &  m          a          a
o        see          l o n g w a y
m          a        l o n g               out
e           n          n                        h
            d e r i n g                        r      c
                                                y o      o
                                                   u & me
                                                   g
                                        any w h e r e (but).

Image of painting by Juan Gris, 'Still Life with checkered tablecloth' (1915), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

What's your number

Can a collection of identities

be identified by numbers

not by masses

or mass-

but by oneness-

or twenty-three-ness-I guess-
or like five and look alive!

It conjures an image

somewhere in time, in our mind
space in our head-

A good positive number-

a negative angle-and no this isn’t acute-

it is chronic-al-always, regardless if I count

or you count or none of us counts...

Who’s counting down while looking up?

We should pick a numerical value besides our bank.

-Personal account-and equate each other thusly,

not rank or rate but separate-and separate

so our Nows don’t collide, or near misses and almosts

are guarantees-please!

sheer masses

like tiny tomes and Moronic Oxen-

Did you just say eleven?

Most just say seven-ness is blessedness,
everyone knows this rule-

I could be wrong, that'd be
a real word problem.

An error in calculating
-mind you-

Not in reasoning.



Image credit: By Related names:  Morgan, Walls and Clements Atlantic Richfield Company Patigian, Haig [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Shaking out olde rags

Tattered paths erase steps trod to crooked gait
Frayed regality clenched its hard youth worn spite,
And yonder in gilded hours the sun burns its envy
Gathers all ye spent colours; flames out to embers
Aloft nothing matches your plundering stride
stars nor nightingales flash iridescent tails to follow-
feet planted firm,calm thy nerves -O weary traveler!
Linger here, Inns and Outs have long now closed
While history makes repast to fill the o'er sated
with seconds. Ere-the noblest pastures lie
Certain and sure of you!
             Will you not take thy eager soul strides?
              To meet my waiting expanse half-way?











Image By Rocky Mountain National Park (C.C.C. trail construction Red Mountain Trail) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

I can chillax, can you?

There is only one thing
you likely don't know about me-
And that is-
I make the most interesting
ice cubes-
Of course, others make these too-
and I know I do not do the freezing
alone-
But-you cannot deny-it is I
who puts the water right there-
where now there-is occupied in ice-
Nice-right?
I mean-
I made the molecules-merely
molded them there, made it "New"
like an Artist-Scientist-
BWAH-HA-HA-HA!
My lips must be numb...
And that facet too, micro-magic,
like Prozac-
s-s-l-o-o-o-o-w-w-i-n-n-n-g down those
neural leaps-or lips-I must be numb-or dumb?
And yet regardless, the swelling still subsides.
Cryo-linguistically speaking, I guess
I have adept-ed and tuned this chill-
And yes, I can perform this skill
upon request-particulate-ly
for any swollen or hot head guest
who may have hit their head
like me-
and like to eat their water too.



Image By CopyrightFreePhotos CopyrightFreePhotos.HQ101.com (Own work by uploader [1]) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

As far as echoes go

I suspect I write for the same reason
a whale sings a song
(more than mating call)

I wish we had sonar or echo-location.

I guess few to none understand
me either-a bit of a riddle

I sense something more
than words can trap temporarily
always around, like sound.

I comprehend not wanting to know-
ergo-filling space with empty waste.

I wonder where others
put their excess words?

I feel we all have them,
a medium waiting to be heard
largely by you
alone
without a pod
in the abyss.

All of our words salt the sea
with trace minerals
of meaning and glimmers to glean.


Photo By Rwendland (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Spring Rite (Haiku)

May gray clears away

at sunset: seasonal tones

may be come clearer.

Photo By Mike Stephan, user:Mikosch (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Poet (Haiku)

Why do you poem?

An attempt to word wisely

while I understand.

Image by James Sant [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons (Enigma).

Grape and Plum: A Raisin to Prune

Something says
Mature
about a grape
or a plum
per se
symbolically
a tinge of empyrean
or is it in the color?

Have you
perchance
tasted a sour one?

You know you cannot tell
by the purple shell-
when even the peachiest flesh
bites back, bitterly.

Grape and plum wind
up to a higher air, elevated
and astutely erudite.

Ever-enduring and life-sustaining
fruits and stones, vines and arbors
plucked and dried to dehydration
where sugar is preserved
inside the lines.

Out from the water
which now makes our skin
resemble these: raisins or prunes,
making wine or meijiu
with the aide of lemons.

A tangled path,
the wrath of a wife
whose plum mad
one of her perfect speci-
mens-
was cooly
stolen from the fridge.

Maturely,
with sticky June juice
on her chin, she wins-
she smiles at the sweet one
she got,
knowing these
are life lessons
in taste.



Image of painting by Anne Vallayer-Coster, c. 1778 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Me, me, me, me

Is it fair to wonder
when I can be the me
I see,
when I think of who
I want to be-
come from where I stand
now-
it looks far as never
and if I am ever as close
as I am now,
I wonder if I will notice
the fair resemblance
to my former self-
or will I wish
to go on
wondering who
the next me will be?



Image of painting by Léon Perrault, c. 1868 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Fair share

A lone loquat leaf
            curled and crisp,
                       tap dances down
the sidewalk

An empty aluminum can
              dented in the middle
                       throws light and marches making
a din down the driveway

The loitering suburban trees
                        fluff their updos
                         while locks of leaves fall down

Two lips pucker in the sun
                          a short Spring song
                           now nearly done
wilting while the bulb goes out

A blurry old man shuffles a shopping cart
                         gripping his estate
                           for near life.
A trim mom runs in the bike lane
                          chasing rolled dollars
                             barreling down the boulevard
A police officer cruises by
                           in his city issued
                              beemer, observing the peace

A couple makes up
                         in the parking lot
as two seagulls squawk over scraps
                         out and out-mollifying
mean-
while
A raven snags the snack pack
with-
out
argument or a caw on the wind

This is how
gusts, nameless airs,
blow things
out of (pro) portion.

Does that make it more than it is?
If heard
it Is.


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

Open Corners

-So much stuff we have made more than is necessary for Now

 W(h)ide                 i                                         o            o

  e                           d                                         r             r

                           (p)e(ek)                                  n

  l                                                                       e            s

  e                                                                      r             e

  against time, where matter builds up              s             e

  v                     h                               r                             k

  e                      e                              o                             i

                          nooks & crooks       t                             n

m                                                       e                            g

O                      secure                       c          

r                        t                                t                             s

e                        u                               e                            h

         h              free                           d                             e

t        e              from                                                    se l f

harbored                                                                           t

a       e             p                                                                e

n                      i                                                                r

                        l     

a                 w edged                                                                                i              f

        (re)          stuck in a spot                                          n         o

m                                     h                                                         u

o                     u               u                                                                p            n

t                      p               t                                                lost and

e                                                                                       a

                                                                                        cubic

possibilities.                                                                 qui(e)t

Image By Kuroda Seiki (1866-1924) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A-maze-meant

There are no eyes
in Truth
But here the ears
in Tears?

The suffix us
is absent in Time
When spoken aloud
the past is drawn out...

Symbols do not say
what they stand for
they are under-stood

we are lost
in awe-some
(of us).




Image By Scanned by Aristeas (Roman Eisele). Artist of woodcut unknown. (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Vastness

Say-vast----grasp sixth sense

infinite measure by word

cosmic calm as ohm

"In the word vast, the vowel a, retains all the virtues of an enlarging vocal agent. Considered vocally, therefore, this word is no longer merely dimensional. Like some soft substance, it receives the balsamic powers of infinite calm. With it, we take infinity into our lungs, and through it, we breathe cosmically, far from human anguish."- Gaston Bachelard by John R. Stilgoe from ‘The Poetics of Space’ 

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

Momentous

There is a fleeting sense
I wish to trap it here-
or is it better to say-
bleed it out
to see it in red
so I can relive
a better way to say
write the past,
in the wrong tense
to feel the heal happen.
If I could make it warm
to softly relay innocence
it would become welcome,
doors could open...
But just then-that is when,
I knew in passing,
there's only so much
words may do.






Image of painting by Attributed to Valentin de Boulogne [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

Any last feelings

When asked, at death's gate
shall thee prefer to enter
happy,
satisfied, or content-
will you choose?
I'd like to think
when I circumnavigate my trip
I'd take a view of contentment.

Though a man I know
answered this hurriedly-
Happy! he bursted-
I doubted one would like
to die-then-
I said-As in-having sex?
He said he couldn't ask for more-
of course, he couldn't then-
satisfied
Lovers: Sex and Death (a taboo tryst)
are actually akin
to sacrifice for something
we knew
annihilated
to be-
come
a piece-full
of
you, like
All men.




Image of painting by Gustav Klimt [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Ruminating in repast

The family dines
on a round brown oak
slab
together
each night they live
together
a universe
is spread across
the Milky way

Facing each other
they nourish
each other
beneath the chandelier sun
aglow over the bounty
they need not kill to survive
anymore

they talk-the teens
they say
around the round brown oak slab
Thank you
for all
you do
dessert is served

The family got full
together
knowing home
intimately
the round world
fit into their dining room.




Image By Morgan Woodwork Organization, 1921 [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.

(in)famous people

If every success-
ful person was tortured young-
should they be great-full ?




Image of painting by Christian Krohg [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.