“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Showing posts with label Earth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Earth. Show all posts
Friday, July 10, 2020
Baby rock
A daughter is the only true conversation
that never ends...
Domesticated means kept
for companionship
by necessity.
Friend-
ships sail easily in a passing breeze.
Love spins
the Earth,
holding us close
to the core
or heart
of matter
like all of these
intangible connections
that bind
our words to the spine.
Once upon a time
we were here
mattering to one another
collecting the loose fragments
that spin off
and calling them stars.
Artwork credited by NASA/JPL-Caltech / Public domain.
Tuesday, December 17, 2019
The page of gathering places
Chin
jutted level with the horizon line,
arms
clasped around thin elbows which palms
cradle
against the abdomen, the body becomes
a
sensual veil, loosens its threads, the carpet of moss
appreciates
the spaces across smooth rocks such as
She-
And
I hear her voluptuous sigh
giving
weight to attraction,
attention
and focus upon
the
tiniest moon
as
though the stars were an entourage
of
criticism-
She
begins again, stainless in the mud,
I
inquire as to what is bothering her,
what
matters more than
rocks
and trees-
She
beheld a single sheet of white paper
which
explained her glow,
scratch
that she noted and tore
it
into thin strips
but
would not say another word edgewise.
I
knew I would piece it all back together
when
she smiled, opened her shoulders,
spread
her wings and sang
like
a mocking-bird.
There
were too many notes, index cards
and pages coming
back,
returned to sender and un-
deliverable-
Yet
we agreed
on something so stark
standing on different patches
of land and future, undoubtedly
paper
was better than plastic.
Painting by Poul Friis Nybo (1869-1929), 'Reading Woman' c. 1929 in Public Domain.
Tuesday, October 29, 2019
Solid ground
The earth is severely sere here.
The mud has alligatored,
the clay refuses to mix.
October, at the end of Fall,
the ground is cracking open
as if fault lies everywhere,
lies, blaming saints, spirits
and the howling or screaming
of wind through narrow channels
gives way to funneled expression,
dust devils and whistling
which
severs connections
and strains the crust, curling up
at the corners
The baselessness of these terra firma's
now below sea level
seem deprived of all
but the wound salt.
And while we stretch out
in our gravel beds
the ocean spreads
its legs, the rivers open slender arms and
canyons yawn, too tired to carry more
and have already
spent all
the time
in the world.
In need of nutrients and lubricants,
and seconds,
we wait for the weather to change
it's mind and stay the way it was
predicted to be by date.
Terrestrial we talk of air and water
as if we did al-
right
with fire.
We have no choice but to dig our ruts
and pace ourselves
to death.
Painting by Arthur Streeton (1867-1943), date unknown, in [Public domain].
Saturday, May 18, 2019
Settle in
Gathered all
I
could manage
to
ex-press-
an
in-audible
scream
that left the bereft-
ness
expended
under foot.
under foot.
See
me
as
I never was.
I
am only
Now
as
can be
good
enough
to reach.
to reach.
Not
a word would match
the
fiery-ness,
not
a wet thought lying
around
to ignite
the
waxed wick
convinced in ambiance.
convinced in ambiance.
Shivered
at the losses
when
the blood concentrates
on
the speed it needs
to lose groud, to blur
the lines.
to lose groud, to blur
the lines.
It
was always time
and
matter to dwindle the days
back into a neat stack.
back into a neat stack.
Meanwhile,
my
toes curl
atop
a thin sole
inside
the shoes I have outgrown
I am misshapen.
I am misshapen.
One
day
I
will feel
the
temperature of the earth
and
find it
just
right
where I happen to Be.
where I happen to Be.
Friday, April 20, 2018
In other wor(l)ds
A new day called my name in the mouth of the mockingbird.
In the bullseye of the black widows web,
light is caught in crystal sections
as it tends to happen-sometimes
we don’t hear these things or fail to notice
where chimes and footsteps flail in midair
we were suspended there.
I proceed to contemplate the unwinding of
allotted time, in all its shrinkage and compression
I stuff what I can in my pockets
and balance my left foot precariously
upon the nearest dark cloud that appears
solid enough to leverage my being upon
while I levitate upon
accumulation.
At least, in this way,
the sacrifices won't seem so removed and far
fetched, as stars for life cluster with emission,
timing is everything
and nothing.
The silence can become crippling with
such volume of errant data,
unsynchronised heart beatings
in unison making static lines blur.
Meanwhile, the earth rolls inside of its shell
as if there were nothing to see here
in Turtle Town.
No lingering, loitering, savoring, reminiscing,
embellishing-
making no more mention of
names of things.
The best of it is yet to be made our own.
I take in the wind, I take notes
as I go
this way-paraphrased-what is said sounds familiar
as if we have heard it all before this way
our re-membership lapsed into disparate sounds
it sounded like a name.
Photo By Claudio Giovenzana (Claudio Giovenzana www.longwalk.it) [CC BY-SA 3.0 or GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.
Tuesday, April 3, 2018
Bulbous
The earth slows down
just enough to focus on a handle
as if made for us,
made for touching and gauging
the sum of all things
with the unbearable lightness of possessing nothing
earnestly.
Time flies, hope levitates, spines flex in-
tensely repulsing gravity
just to keep up-
right
after the fact, I heard back home
the mighty oaks had toppled on perfect-
ly calm days,
the redwoods, however, stood their ground.
Meanwhile,
down here, the passiflora
already swallowed the fence
and now nibbles away at the eave.
On this evening
the colors come too quick to name.
It was
the tulips
we were expecting
to Spring,
the wait was too much to hold still.
Over centuries,
it has been discovered
our heads have become rounder.
When I look harder
it seems like
Venus' belt is shrinking.
Painting by Franz Werner Tamm [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, March 2, 2017
Trace particles
We need oxygen and yet there is
only 21% of this to share...
What else is there...
Well,
We all need water, and yet we find
one percent of this elixir, potable
on this Cagean terraqueous orb.
We need sleep, we tire and tear
with wear, we need to turn it all off,
down and out, overdone, burnt and
wasted, inward.
And consumables can be
inedible as well as hollow.
But empty calories make
friction
wiser we no longer mind
insurance and investments
but with luck we discover
miserably in need of love.
Just don't hold others breath
or lick other wounds,
this one silent assassin,
starved by selfish need
of Other.
We will share,
because we want to live
to some percent.
Pastel on paper by Stanisław Wyspiański, The Mulchs ("Planty" at night), c.1898 in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, September 3, 2016
Blue earth, Red sun
Earth will end on a Sunday.
The
sun will have had its best days behind...
The
moon, long retired, makes wax figurines.
So
we are all stars.
Nothing
disappears without direction,
even
inside itself.
Concentrate.
The
ethereal essence is growing without us.
Earth,
like a sponge, porous
we
take it all in until full
dripping
with light.
And
just like deja vu, we knew
Earth
will end on a Sunday.
Drawing (pen, ink, graphite) by William Blake [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. The great red dragon and the woman clothed with the sun.
Tuesday, August 16, 2016
Reception
The ocean rose
the sky fell
the rain beat the drums,
the fire spread,
the earth shook,
the sun set,
the moon was full,
the water ran,
the sound grew,
the people pled,
the stars said,
the cycle ends,
the wind screams,
the thunder claps
eager for more
Encore, Encore
the world wondered
if the message sent
or had been red...
Painting by JoaquÃn Clausell [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, July 16, 2016
Mars 20/20
In collaboration with private and public agencies
-contingencies aside-
a head of schedule was announced
slating the date
for merely five years a way-not (be) four
(hundred million miles)
We are ready, and some of us will be
by twenty-twenty
what will we see
that we have not conceived
on earth
since the birth of humanity?
Photo credit By NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, Mars by Mars Observer.
Sunday, April 3, 2016
The Earth in equipoise
Home,
the word hums
and soothes in smooth repose,
perpetually proves, be-
longing, to know hospitable
conditions are predictable.
We hold these truths
in suspension,
taut in timely tension,
grounded in granite,
equating gravity
with magnanimous motive.
She spins out
like a top
to a point
where sound and light
are white
in stasis
harm-ony
equate-or
aligned in orbital
epi-phany.
Home.
Image taken By NASA/Scott Kelly from ISS 7/19/2015, Moon, Venus, Jupiter, Earth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Monday, January 4, 2016
In the Zone (everything flows)
We have been put in our
place “Now”
some feel trapped “Here” -in
this dimension sandwich-
Between the roof-sphere-sky-bread
the floor-terra-granite-salt-meat.
Between the roof-sphere-sky-bread
the floor-terra-granite-salt-meat.
Chin up, wi-fi buzzes
humming high-pitched all ways
electric energy
flows
Every Where
we insist on Being.
It originates and stimulates
somewhere
too far to hear
below
the lines,
of sedimentary sheets
compressed in ambient ambivalence
resting in a peace of a kind,
we minded and kept in our place,
compressed in ambient ambivalence
resting in a peace of a kind,
we minded and kept in our place,
like calm, comfortable
creatures, calculating:
Where is “Here”
No Time like “Now”
with or without Us
life flows
with no End (in-sight).
life flows
with no End (in-sight).
Image By NASA's Goddard Space Flight Center [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Atmosphere of exoplanet taken Dec. 2013.
Sunday, February 1, 2015
Terra Firma
And the hills give up on the valleys
The palette mixed of mud and will
With wanton erosion to appease
Nothing one can keep for good
All things betrothed by buried Earth
In all trees being equal to wood
Why the emeritus mirth?
See the mounds abound the domain
And the offspring shoots rise above
No human souls whole may remain
If which no one should love
And take notice of roots strangled in fear
And the green lights trying to escape
What could grow without a drop of tear
If the soil won't stay in shape?
*Inspired by "Love's Philosophy" by Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792-1822)
Image By U.S. Forest Service ([Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Elkhorn Mountains, Oregon.
Image By U.S. Forest Service ([Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Elkhorn Mountains, Oregon.
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