Divisible

Blessed are thee

memories

chosen to be forgotten

dissolved into distant haze.

Cherished are those

brilliant first rays

alighting the new path

of unknowns.

In the sky

and in the sea,

the clouds and waves

do not recall those passed.

Likewise, made of the same,

and never the same

You and I

remember-

Painting by Henry Scott Tuke, 'Looking out to sea' c. 1885 in Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.

Lucid lyrics

This one body

of water

This one me,

one drop in a sea-

where matter makes

greater than one

me and

to see a body-

Like mine

drenched in spirit

like the One 

This is some thing

only I can feel

this one reality

of a Being

that changes

less or more

and more or less

by blood and water

when every thing is 

Exposed

Nothing is just 

itself.

Image by Dietmar Rabich / in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons / “Wassertropfen -- 2021 -- 8024” / CC BY-SA 4.0.

Mirroring matter

Mirrors may make us
uncomfortable
because they are not-
omni-perspective-or
All
of view.

Things like this,
that seem to be
merely a reflective signal
may not be observed actively
holding and casting light.

Some of us,
completely visible to some others,
may be seen through and seem
somewhat scared of such spontaneous
reflections
that move like we do when we
go about
Being.

We need to be shown
how to hold ourselves
together in order
to be taken in
without seeming to fall apart
or over refract-and distort

such as you noticing yourself
between all things and still
yet unable to divide photons
by four dimensions
or separate yourself
from what is behind you.


Painting by Pierre Bonard, 'Mirror on the wash stand' c. 1908, in Public Domain via Wikimedia Commons.

Nonsensical

As we explore the depths of the oceans, 

seeking the ends of eternity as

conceived by space, 

mapping the matrix of the mind,

We hope 

we are making sense.

Some more sense of what may be 

behind the Divine and beyond evil.

Veiled by our vanity,

we can only hope to master

some special skills.

We are instructed, 

we are given-with grace,

five senses to use, freely.

We all know better.

Untapped potential, 

the vein, the mother lode,

these things that we seek

are lying here

not waiting 

for us to see,

not weighting

to matter.

Now, tell me about touch…

Can you feel me looking at you from

where I stand?

Can I make you cry with words, 

or laugh with only

black and white?

How do you know something has been moved?

Do not step there! Slow Down! Watch out! 

Has this voice

ever saved you before?

And pray, tell me, mind over matters

like these explosions of energies that spin wildly,

may we tame bursts by will, tempt with them with time,

temper these with new neurons

and cast off-the surplus?

Is it all too much?

A little release travels faster than light

yet always

dissipates all ways 

with so much space and water

between bodies

empyrean expanses, abysmal astrodynamics and such.

It was current

thought, 

that the thought wave and the wave of gravity,

ate projected invisibly, the unseen senselessly

Ignored-

As if maybe,

it didn't make sense, as if

'may be' meant there were more ways to feel

than five, or how do we know anything is alive? 

None believed in what they could not see.

With no matter to feel, to put a name on,

with nothing to touch us with shape or edge,

with so much space, with all the emptiness

making up all the meaning 

It is all the more touching

that we find our way by feel,

getting somewhere, 

After All.

“Hast thou entered into the springs of the sea?

Or hast thou walked in the search of the depths?

Have the gates of death ben open unto thee? 

Or hast thou seen the doors of

the shadow of death?

Hast thou perceived the breadth of the earth?

Declare if thou knowest it all.

Where is the way light dwelleth?”

(38:16-19, The book of Job via Primo Levi) 

Painting by Martin Johnson Heade [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Atmosphere (with a teenager)

The light from her eyes had grown in darkness.

Her pupils emulating black holes...

I wanted to lighten her

dark mood,

so I showed her a picture from far away,

the moon-detailed.

Why is it so dark out there? She sees Nothing.

Why is space so dark? She gazed at the photo

a moment more.

Reflecting a moment-

Dark Matter, I retorted.

As opposed to Light Matter?

Yes, but not light enough

to see the difference,

I replied.

But this space in here is light.

You're right. Energy.

Energy? All of it, I nodded, Electricity.

She then sighed laboriously,

I heard the dark part is expanding?

Likely. Nobody hears it

happen. No body looks.

I can feel it, I think.

It can come in waves-

like gravity. That's heavy, she snorted sarcastically.

Actually, it is weak,

I added for weight.

Mind over matter,

she quipped back.

If you don't mind-

it doesn't matter,

I dismissed.

I guess I should lighten up, let it float,

she finally smiled

and lit up the room, once again, happily

ever after and growing.

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

Under influences

Because we are

Self Aware Beings

we wonder like amnesiacs,

how we got here

and desperate for colors

we believe almost anything fantastic

as though we are all diamond fragments

of stars or angels displaced

from heaven or space.

I mean, magic is making new matter from nothing,

magic means we matter, we made this matter.

If we make-this-matter is magic made, elementary

with rock and metal.

This is simply us discovering

alchemy and fire and calling out surges, reactions,

such as desire and emulsify

concluding for every x

there is a why.

Of course, we are all-chemical beings

and we play with this, naturally

moving letters about

being creators and more concoctors,

self-prescribing physicians by our own

curious volition to flux of powers,

that make New (again).

We often curse our many selves for attempting

escape, a wait-less trip would be idyll...

on Holiday from everyday...

This must be common.

What is pressure but awareness of mortality,

destiny maybe an attempt to fly

is a stab at free will

that gets too thick and close

to the heart and mouth

for sobriety to say-

How many times must Death come knocking

before you hand him the key?

Painting by Andrei Ryabushkin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

For what it is worth

Those words mean everything to me.

And although I may chose

to never see them again,

I must put them somewhere

gently, like here.

Because they held more than my meaning

for someone one time, someplace besides

in me. I’m sure of it.

Yes,

we get attached to material things

like they really matter.

Why not ethereal things

like they don't matter…

I wish.

Moved or Be Moved,

the wind suggests.

Besides, some key

words will point the way

in arrow-point-narrowly be

led out and in sides of times

whereby those grammatical

laws have all broken English.

These poems that I carry with me

have no cash value.

None may not be heard

aloud, but my change rattles as I walk

through this word-ridden

Life and I donate sense, liberally.

I am never broke

for long

but lighter

without the words.

Artwork by Giovanni Battista Naldini [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

inner child

My body disrupts this empty room.

Thoughts are just whispers

but move matters around.

Inside voices, 

no need to interrupt

by asking

Nobody was home.

Woman at the Piano (1889, oil on wood panel, 26.0 x 13.1 cm) by Tom Roberts (1856–1931).

The painting is in the collection of the Art Gallery of South Australia.

I, Here, Rollcall

How much can a pale blue
wheelbarrow or say, heavy duty dolly
hold before the wheels collapse,
or give in, and flatten out, under the
weight of cubic yards in
troposphere?

Yeah,
we should all fear
hellfire.
The torch we carry
is a tiny match
for life.

Picture this,
the earthen crust is fourteen miles
deep,
the sky limit-about 10 miles high,
so relatively, in proximity,
we have all we need in this space
of 24...

Have you mixed your matters?

Serious as feline excrement,
one big one
is all it takes
for the cardio to come dressed
as anxiety.

All hamsters on deck,
let the race begin.

Artwork by Alphonse Mucha (1911) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Lip locked

“ Matter turns out to have no other substance than spirit itself…In a pure monism it would make no real difference whether we called the one reality God or Nature, mind or matter, water or fire or will, since in any case this substance must be the seat and source of every kind of distant existence…The great stream of “life” is said to run through matter…” -Previously Unpublished Essays of George Santayana, John and Shirley Locks (1969)

We all collide in photonic pride,

mix and co-mingle our palettes

to each his own.

Humanity.

Expressing our cannibal cravings 

in a hungry kiss

as an arc of attraction

thru and through exchange

of energies

as Desire.

Fruits of our Labors.

Mind molds matter  

more perceptibly erected

as spiritual sculpture; 

foundations for 

the body in clay.

Is symbiosis the essence of 

phenomenal bliss, sweet

soul mates in super symmetry?

Dualism fusing with monism,

electromagnetic discharge 

as feedback static

grounded on belief

in single resolution

holographic by belief?

Negative. 

I feel the friction 

in the denial of not knowing

the all that all do

under clear conviction

that nothing is known, certainly,

except what we don't know

Absolutely

nobody knows as much as he doesn't

in real time, 

or (f)actually.

Embrace the wind,

a kiss blown, a fallen star, 

a swollen heart or dry eye

moves nothing but air.

And there we stand, firm-

trying to get through

mind over matter.

“I might sustain the theme indefinitely that you nor I nor anybody knows as much as he doesn’t know. And that isn’t all: there is nothing anybody knows, however absolutely, that isn’t more or less vitiated as a fact by what he doesn’t know.” -Robert Frost

Painting by Edvard Munch, "The Kiss" (1897) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Define Y

Why did you have me
when all you wanted was to give me away?

Why did you take me
when all you could do was give up on me?

Why did I try-so hard
to get nowhere new?

Why did i bother the universe
trying to make matter more real, make real matter more...
?

Why did you stand behind me,
only to run away?

Why did we come together
only to divide
and reduce ourselves
to the lowest
common
man?

Why did I believe in Love
after all i have seen, after what has been?

When did all of We
become only (m)e?

Why should we try
to solve
for
x
?

Painting by By Germán Gedovius (en es) [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Weightlifting words

There is not enough silence
or white in the world.

There seems to be enough water,
when you look around
the circumference of the globe-
                 have you noticed
how long
we have been wrong
about power and drainage-

As magnets naturally defy resistance
or make magic with retrograde,
nothing else matters
but shine...

                   And distraction, interruption, and
compulsion
become utilized and oxidized
to fill in the surrounding blanks
with loud, explosive air
we refer to this as
                  white noise
and we are sinking in.




Sketch by Lorenz Frølich [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Scanned by Haukur from a reprint in the illustrated 2002 Prose Edda edition by Gudrun. Originally published in Gjøgleriet i Utgard (1872).

It is Uni-verse-all

It is not enough

we must make more

it feels slipping through

air-we grasp at wildly

but remain empty handed.

It is up to us

who know

how it all goes away

shown in the sky

by the expansion of our

space-

the distance between us grows

evermore.

It is easy to ignore

something missing

never noticed before

gone.

It is more than

we can handle;

so small

we were never meant to see,

so vast

we could not ever fathom

its depths entirely.

It is when we fall

our eyes catch

the brilliant flame

and make a wish

for more.

Photo credit: By NASA; uploaded by User:Dipankan001. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 
Photo details:

English: Resembling looming rain clouds on a stormy day, dark lanes of dust crisscross the giant elliptical galaxy Centaurus A.

Hubble's panchromatic vision, stretching from ultraviolet through near-infrared wavelengths, reveals the vibrant glow of young, blue star clusters and a glimpse into regions normally obscured by the dust.

The warped shape of Centaurus A's disk of gas and dust is evidence for a past collision and merger with another galaxy. The resulting shockwaves cause hydrogen gas clouds to compress, triggering a firestorm of new star formation. These are visible in the red patches in this Hubble close-up.

At a distance of just over 11 million light-years, Centaurus A contains the closest active galactic nucleus to Earth. The center is home for a supermassive black hole that ejects jets of high-speed gas into space, but neither the supermassive black hole nor the jets are visible in this image.

This image was taken in July 2010 with Hubble's Wide Field Camera 3.

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.

Size Matters

How big is an idea?

People have said the internet was HUGE-

I haven’t seen it

with my own eyes, it could be all lies

like conspiracy and particle theories.

I know some HOPES are grander than others.

And I’ve carried some burdens bigger than a bus-

but I think that most people care less

about microscopic entities that they cannot see

or things that happen too slowly…

Have you ever stood

barefoot in the shoreline

Feet in the foam? If so, you know,

water always wins The Sands of Time.

Teamed together they make us pearls

of wisdom, bioluminescence,

a light within that begins

when one Believes

without sight

a tiny wish, a photon, a want to

that turns with light into a neutrino

that gets excited and becomes an electron

before any quarks form.

I think ideas matter,

stemming from a soft grey area...

And then there was light!

And then Atom,

and then we gain momentum,

molecule by molecule,

we are busy making molehills.

So blood is thicker than water,

and the homo sapiens denser than air-

I swear I saw a flying fear,

and my dear

it was GARGANTUAN!

Just like that GIANT ego, those

greenish, meanish miasmas

that all seem and smell the same.

So many slippery minuscule ideas,

evaporating into invisible shame,

hoping to erase your name

in the sand, 

eroding where you think 

you stand.

Image of Sea Wall at Bald Head Cliff, York, Maine 1901, [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

What's the Matter

I am an unstable lepton seeking opposition.

I had a chance to be an undiscovered pentaquark.

And, like you, I prefer symmetry in my fractals.

And am particularly attracted to magnets.

What's the matter then?

Gravity bums me out.

It’s constantly micromanaging, like Time itself-

read on the face, I've seen the circle of life,

but I prefer triangles.

I think wealth should be calculated

by Karmic Score divided by Faith.

The way it looks,

I will get to watch

two Haley's comets pass, elapse

(in my little blinking life).

I used to live at the seashore,

where there are 1,440 waves

that break every single day.

And even though I move around,

(often in circles)

and am not there to see the crash,

I know those waves are still

breaking

(without me).

Nobody can remember what it is to be an American anymore.

America isn't even 500.

Didn’t we manufacture ancient history (yet)?

Monsters make earthquakes.

Geologists think about flatware.

Their i's bigger than their plates-

the I in inertia, that is.

And anthropologists are making strides,

measuring footprints in lieu of the gait.

I never want to grow out of my imagination,

I'm waiting for flood pants to be back in style.

I've accepted my death is nothing personal.

I am not sorry,

(anymore).