River rocks

The strangest thing about change

is You

who won't move.

Rivers start from a spring-

a need to move

Onward.

Convinced in mossy stoicism,

the rocks jump in

to gather ground.

Bubbling in the hustle,

eddying around,

resisting the rush-

You are the smooth stone.

Let it go.

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

Throwing Moth Balls and Catching Fly's

Why it was just the other day, I was staring at the ground, my mind astray,

and along comes a troop of Armadillidillidae.

Now I know this may sound silly-nilly,

But Nay!'Tis 'bout those Roly Polies and Bug Boy Billy.

Who doesn't love pill bugs when young-

'Cept did you know they eat dung?

Shoot 'em like marbles, baby bug balls-

Shoot-more fun than playing with dolls!

'Cuz things that are wild and that wiggle,

Always make children wonder and giggle.

So back to Bug Boy Billy, who likes his bikes;

had a Make Believe Shop where he'd fix trikes,

(Since even the most handiest of boys,

 use special tools that are really just toys)

And just the other day, as I already said,

A line appeared on the ground, a gray thread-

But it 'twas those same very Armadillidillidae,

crawling and millipeding in their buggy way,

Itching to make a pit stop

at Billy's infamous Trike Shop.

Billy told me they were in great despair-

For they had no bikes or trikes for repair.

This was precisely their pill bug problem,

they pleaded with him to make some-quite solemn...

Lo' they had no candy or gum they could pay -

but promised some privy perks anyway.

So Billy happily went right to work-

and he did so with a slight smirk.

When asked what he was doing-he shrugged and said, "Oh you know-

I'm just lettin' these roly polies help git my imagination back rollin’."

Image By Lewis Hine, 1874-1940, photographer. [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Inventing opportunity

One day I'll make it.
I don't know what-but it will be good!
And
It will work-
                      all-It-self-out.
Making music together…
Hanging little notes on harmony…
It will sound like Peace.
And it will be the perfect
Temperate, the good-kind-
                       all-ways, Eden…
Forgive me, I was distracted There
Where was I?
You are Here needing a new map-
or the cartographers tools-precise
positively exacting.
Anyway-
It will have wide double swinging,
doors of Opportunity-
permitting construction, 
                         as I grow.
Blowing the tops off,
ripping off the roof to show how,
echoes only repeat mistakes
                          little people inside steeples.
Been there.
Without time for interior decorating or renovating-
                          just focus on the façade.
Inside is where it is, where is dwells-
                           I can move it-if I only knew
what it used to look like…
It is not finished-yet.
You see, I may never Be.
I'm missing a piece-
                          or more.
And
I forgot which door I was looking for.
Locked up next to Remember and Remorse,
one is painted Amber and the other Aquamarine.
And
after knocking all around I found-
Today was the day,
I was forgetful enough
to Fail.

Composed 4/23/15.

Image of Frederick Collins, Inventor, pictured with a "wireless telephony device" circa 1904. 



             

Medieval Party of Three

In medieval times it was believed that We
humans, that is, can be summed up by parts of three
not referring to the almighty trinity
they are the Rational, Sensitive, and Vegetative versions
of We, but you already knew
of this rational ability used as a harness
or you'd reasonably choose not to read this
a veritable, factual, brain food buffet
digesting and investing

The next part of us is perhaps a bit
of a stranger that cannot be trusted
just yet-leary of the sensitive side,
with shades of red, oft suppressed, sub-hued
for all its, weepy, sappy splendor, spontaneous
combustions of joy and rage,
kindled faith and love
sparks fly-implode
adoring and abhorring

Completing the homo erectus trifecta
the vegetative, it grows on you
strangling with seeds of sustenance
adding flavor, dashing zest and verve
sugar and spice, these are signs of life
wishing to be savored, simmered
leaves drink the energetic sun
emitting aromatic gasps and pants
devoured whole, after taste

Gathered together in trinity
the Rational, Sensitive, Vegetative me
are branches of our thinking tree
where experience is planted, knowledge nourishes
and ideas grow like weeds
the synergistic nature of threes
unbalanced teetering imagery
ideally revealed in poetry.


Image of painting by By Leopold Kupelwieser (1796-1862) (Diocese de Rouen) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 'Journey of Three Kings', c. 1825.

Throw me a line

Trying to define a line-

A line of poetry starts as a blurry outline with some noise. The space and shapes the line occupies against a wall, a canvas, a page, a screen, build a visual architecture which occurs in poetry as immediate as being aware of your surroundings...almost unconsciously, our peripheral vision or, “line of sight” makes a determination for us-are we safe to proceed, is it aesthetically intriguing enough to want to look deeper? Is it intimidating or inviting?

The line of sight is most obvious and easily interpreted in the paintings of a single dimension such as is utilized in compound poetry. 

A line is a march. A single file of footsteps to follow, a direction to take. This why the end of a line in poetry is called a foot.

A line is a direction. A line in a script, a cue we take to assume the role of the Poet, we get into character when we read a poem, adjusting our costume, vernacular, inflection, tone and put on their shoes.

A line of poetry is a family of words, stuck together whether they like it or not.   

Throw me a line

You are an English teacher out with friends

It is after hours, late at night

And you are not in dress code attire

Your hair is down, your skin smells

of warm peach nectar and musk instead of

gum and lead

and you fear you may get a detention

Yourself

Live & Learn

Truth or Dare

Not tardy to the scheduled seedy establishment,

the Lowered Bar

thankfully dark inside, unable to see

past your drink, as stiff as

the dank ambiance provides

You decide to only have two…or three-we’ll see…

In saunters a disheveled man with a clear plan

You are in his eyes, throwing you a line he tries

“If I could rearrange the alphabet I’d put ‘U’ and ‘I’ together,”

Rebelliously you respond-

“I’d give you an A for effort but your words are like a broken pencil-pointless.”

Image of painting by Ivan Grohar (1867-1911) Slovenia [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

snoitcelfeR:Reflections

We call them reflections

because they work like mirrors,

you see,

they can only be understood backward.

*ECNALUBMA*

For your safety these images too-

are closer than they appear.

We also call reflections memories,

because we are re-minded again

of something old we want new again.

The intoxication from nostalgia

so comforting-like an addiction

forgetting-

the last time…

Memory is reflective,

returning its light to insight,

when one remembers to stop and think-

if this has happened before,

mirroring another time, you saw, you see

reflecting upon,

the memory of the old you.

Composed 4/21/15.
Image of painting by Frank Markham Skipworth [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, 1911 'The Mirror'.

The Truth About Poetry

To communicate, adept ones opt for speech or song;
spoken or written we agree that words can be wrong
but do their best at getting something off one's chest

and to fulfill this need for sharing, suppose poetry does it best
a lost language, an ancient art, as broken as it often seems
those potent fragments are more real than our dreams

Poetry is a proper form for composing Truth
and admittedly can be too long in the tooth
some of which is vague, blurry or abstract

But intend to recreate not fabricate fact
with daring ultra-sensory potentiality
limited only by your own sensual reality

Getting engaged is up to the reader willingly
one must be blindfolded but curiously led
down the aisle with what this has Poet said

remembering ahead this language is not dead
and you've already come this far without
getting lost, needing a map, having a doubt

about if what this Poet says is True
some words are inadequate, unable to translate,
or are simply made anew, and now able to state

Truth in words the carry their own weight
without making a sound when found and state
in a respectful dialect that may resound and resonate

in some way, a tingle or lingering thought when done
with a poem, a song lyric, jingle or rhyme,
it has spoken-not wasted your precious Time

a new language in you awoken
at least I hope you will see, and Trust in me,
to discover how pure Poetry Truly can be.





Image By Jusepe de Ribera (Spain, Valencia, Játiva, active Italy, Naples, 1591-1652) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, from LACMA, 'The Poet' 1620-1621-etching.