Girls go to Mars

I need not see to believe-
this presence of Ganymede.
We were led to learn,
our blue planet Earth-
was alone soaking in saltwater.

But you showed yourself-
Ganymede.

I rose early too, like those stargazers,
eager to see what they wanted us to believe
was a Blood Moon-
but she was just blushing,
rosy from her fullness.

Like Eos at Dawn,
there you were again,
in the company of dead poets,
attending the school of contemplation.

Rising first, in rings around dreams,
taking lullaby swings, at gravity-
Who thinks nobody is looking-
thirsting for Truth.

Fixing the future, diving into their divinity,
stuck swimming in the stars;
unable to reconcile, to beguile or even manage
a simple smile to reconcile but choose denial,
Ganymede.

This galactic, Earth-shattering news about Jupiter
Intro-speculative chattering, simply makes me feel stupider

Composed 3/14/15.

Image By NASA/JPL (Ganymede's Trailing Hemisphere) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.  

A Spot of Sage and Mint-Tea

Haiku V
The only advice
We should heed or ever need
is "We too Shall Pass".













Image information: from Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain By Valentin Bousch: 

“English: The Prophet Isaiah. 1530. This window comes from a series of seven windows made for the choir of the Benedictine priory church of Saint-Firmin in Flavigny-sur-Moselle in the Lorraine region of France. Bousch was occupied by the Flavigny-sur-Moselle project in the early 1530s. Three of the extant monumental windows from the series each bear a date (1531, 1532 and 1533). Together, the windows presented a Biblical narrative reflecting the story of humanity, starting with the Creation and Fall of Man (now in a private collection, Langley, British Columbia), then consecutively depicting the Deluge (MMA 17.40.2a-r), Moses presenting the tablets of Law (MMA 17.40.1a-r), the Nativity or Annunciation at the east end (lost), the Crucifixion (Saint Joseph's church, Stockbridge, Mass.), the Resurrection or the Supper at Emmaus (lost) and, finally, the Last Judgement (lost). This medallion, together with the medallion of Moses (MMA 17.40.4) and the two medallions with the Craincourt and Savigny arms (MMA 17.40.5,6), was originally part of the window from the set depicting the Creation and Fall of Man (now in a private collection, Langley, British Columbia), inscribed with the date 1533; a drawing in Nancy, Bibliothèque municipale (Fonds Abel, carton 152), records the complete window intact in the priory church of Saint-Firmin before it was sold.”

Fish & Chips

There are many fish in the sea

but none exactly quite like me

Not one true carbon copy.

No nanotech cloning imagery.

Our markings are masterfully made

schooled in survival, games well played

decisions and debts to be made, repaid

resoled, rebooted,

eyes on tails

follow ink splotched surging trails

dreaming afloat where freedom sails.

Migrating maps pre-installed, recalled

streams of consciousness, or so-called

evolution, defragging currently stalled

in sleep-state.

Compress and refract by

blue chip, red chip, intelli-chip hacked,

flowing, downloading, backing-up tracts

for holograms in fact-

particulate of calcium carbonate,

brackish, choking, saline tracing, mineral state.

Four-going feets and fins of fate

sedated intoxicated waste-

carried along ripping liquid lies enmeshed in

holy nets, trawling along with severed ties and

anchored ambivalently under horizontal blue skies

and producing the Lowest Common Diatom

there can Be with so much salt. 

Composed 3/14/15.

Image of painting by Herbert James Draper (1910) "Flying fish" [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

FOUND! Gain's Partner-Will Accept Reward!

Why would you want to know- you couldn't guess

that this Pain is about to win.

Despite all my acute mental prowess,

I shall soon be defeated, I confess my sin.

I'm calling my own bluff,

I'm not strong enough.

Its unassailable relentless wrath,

grabbing and slashing from inside,

on its unforgiving hell-bent path,

leaving little me nowhere to hide.

I'm calling my own bluff,

I'm not strong enough.

From the vengeance deemed I am due,

as this sentence, to life, and all thereafter-

shall not pass as easy or quietly true.

My organs chortle, gurgle, cackle in mock laughter.

I'm calling my own bluff,

I'm not strong enough.

Not on my side-

without symptoms, forecasts, or warning,

I nearly died.

It was a calm early morning.

Now I wrestle with my watch.

Staring at its face, watching and winding.

Turning and winding up the senses a notch.

The old me painfully minding...

I've met its partner Gain-

although I cannot recall

how to get in touch without the aid of Pain,

a burden on hold, a stall, a trip to fall.

I'm calling my own bluff,

I'm not strong enough.

On my battered behalf of fragility,

beaten into heavy submission,

a memento in futility,

severed fibers corroded by contrition.

Senselessly stalking it lurks,

in many minutes for granted, in the idle hour-

it’s coup in the works

Pain without Gain is killing my power…

I'm calling my own bluff,

I'm not strong enough.

Turning me inside out,

I would never want you to understand

how much company of Pain I can keep or without-

a sound, painted a smile, with a sleight of hand…

I stopped calling, I answered stronger,

I decidedit won't be killing me any longer.

See Pain has no mind-

and neither should you-

but if you find

this other of the two

(although you have it made and are not apt to exchange)

I advise, I implore, you to keep yours,

I plead for you to take heed, don’t trade

or swap, barter or lend by standards or poors

keep your gain and your sweet lemonade.

Image By Guillaume Duchenne, 1872, "for Charles Darwins chronology of facial expressions and emotions of man and animals" [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Looking to score a mentor

Haiku IIII

WANTED: A Pound for

an Eliot, can't pay more

than a nickel a notion

Image via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1944 from North American Aviation, cartoon drawing, Robert F. Yonash.

I'm in the din

The peace and quiet,

of sweet retreat,

costs a pretty penny,

                      know those who buy it.

I used to live next door to the Pacific Ocean,

she's a tranquil sea with moody tides.

Lullabies of foam white noise,

                       swirled in predictable motion.

Humbly not in a castle or large house surrounded

by sand and fog, but a boxy cubby with holes,

for the salty air to settle in,

                        knuckled undertow and pounded out.

The street grime, all the passers by,

dog walkers, perverted gawkers

linger in the marine air- over there where

                         pteradactyles in vees fly high.

Now, dwelling in the neighborhood,

the freeway hum, and soft suburban strum,

gives the beat of the civil street-

                         moving was good for us.

But a new boisterous big band

plays this bouncing barrio cacophony

from squeals to words next door, grows the baby-

                         each side stoic fences watch.

Hidden outside in backyard nooks,

under the bamboo pergola, behind the garage,

the short STOP sign was here when we moved,

                            perched in peace where no one looks.

The train blares through the solitude,

left on time, right on schedule,

a siren wails in urgence, whoop-whoop the cop

                             car cheers in calm pursuit.

Busy builders compose machines,

climbing roller-coaster, screaming gears,

out front a concert speaker rolls by,

                               dimmed by security screens.

Chalkboard scraped shrillness,

rings, beeps, tweets, buzzers,

crunching, growling, laughing, crying,

                                 alert to dying in all this blissful stillness.

My volume button broke,

listening to folk voices of vagrancy,

echo emptily, ringing in my head,

"No one's home," I said.

Image by By Ford Madox Brown illustrating a scene from Shakespeare's King Lear, "Lear and Cordelia",  (1849-54) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

Haven't I seen you somewhere before

The soul divided
Twice undone
to the power of one
made whole by reflection

The moment of the shortest light
Good and Evil ebbs and flows
in the Noon and Midnight glows
your shadow hides, refusing to pose

You are still the same You
even as you grow and change
recognizing your old self as strange

A reunion of sorts
to meet in the middle
of life, like solving a riddle
reminding one of deja vu a little

Don't be afraid to peer deeply
past the pane, into the windows of the soul
while reciting the rote lines of your role
Acting like still life takes its mindless toll

Notice the view as you climb
Up, or don't and stay the same
but you cannot blame
your over elevated aim

Running into yourself
after all these years
no longer judged by your peers
or motivated by fears

Easily spooked, a sketchy outline
of who you really are
now grown older and traveled afar
mapped and trapped by your own falling star.



Image By Harrison Weir (1824-1906) "Reflection" [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.