Prismatic Proliferation (Haiku)

                                                   Perfect

                  Refraction of  Incandesence

                Shining   ∞   Multiplicty

Image credit: Dispersive Prism, By Kelvinsong (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Times are a changin'

It's high time
climate change be seen NOT
as a problem of neglected ecology,
but of maligned chronology-NO-
that's the result,
the problem is this;
We equate ice cubes melting in water,
which creates displacement, a delusion,
with polar ice caps melting in the ocean,
which destabilizes our centripetal inertia.
The top no longer spins the same.
The bottom not quite pinned in place.
Reliable gravity keeps it all nailed down,
sucked in our atmospheric skin.
Astronauts must drink with straws.
I'm no rocket scientist, but I KNOW
plastic bags are not melting the ice caps.
That's just hot air, toxic agitprop gas.
Some Scientists and Astrophysicists,
have hypothesized;
a gravitational shift of gears
to centrifugal velocity,
changing the years.
Do you know what that means?
It's heavy.
When science finally solves the riddle,
they'll find that Time has slipped away-
while the plates pushed ahead,
volcanoes plumed and spewed,
major quakes are cued,
and the floods pour in,
then the aftermath...
Adding up the data (to date), the evidence shows
a climate change, (yet evidently no one knows)
whether the change in weather
is a climactic conundrum
for environmentalists and green thumbs,
for horticulture or a culture of horology...
What we would do if today's date is no longer true?
It's now May 48th, in the year 2032.
I thought you knew, Time was never True.

Composed 6/2/15.

Image by NASA taken 4/20/2013, Saunders Island, Greenland, Baffin Bay.

Wanna Rochambeau?

Like a street performer, like a trouper, (street: trouper)
I do my act if no one is watching,
                                       juggling my choices.
Mainly for free, or some pennies
                                       the Change not wanted.
With sleight of hand and plenty of practice, (hands: practice)
                                       it doesn't look like I try
Making Magic.
I am ambidextrous.
I am a woman.
                                      (they are one and the same)
                                      (Mother: Medusa)
Not every woman knows what's in her bag or how to use her
                                      Tricks
or treats themselves good.
                                     
It's dangerous to perform for others,
                                       without total trust in your skill.
In one hand I hold
                                       a folded blanket
to wrap around like hugs, a shield of
                                       warm love.
In the other hand
                                      I conceal a knife-
an appropriate protection,
for self-defense and public assault.
It scares people when I show the sharp blade(s)
                                      so I often keep it sheathed
its appointed place, razored edges inside.

I pulled it out of my heart one day,
                                      as only I could do,
wedged though it were,
                                      still dripping with gilt.
I am not a bull fighter.
I am a peaceful cow.
                                      (matador:grazer)
I do not run with scissors.
My blanket is a cape.
I am always begging for Change
                                        (performance : art)
From the stone that was my heart;
                                        I pivot,
                                        I spin,
                                        I begin,
again, two out of three.
                                       (the best of me)
The blanket as thin as a sheet.
The sword as sharp as scissors.
The rock that is my heart,
I ro-sham-bo,
(rock: paper: scissors)
(ching: chang: walla)
(ick: ack: ock)
leaving nothing to chance.
A woman will always win.



Image of living statue Kate Mior, performing as Angel of Good Fortune, Ontario Canada. 

12 Haiku for the Graduating You

I.

A graduation,

means two hands for beginners

starts all over again.

II.

A walk down the aisle

a cause for trepidation-

unless it's only you.

III.

Cap, gown and tassel

garb for the graduating-

leaving naked.

IV.

Lunchbox and recess

healthy lessons learned in school

useful blocks of time.

V.

The school house was not

your permanent residence

it is half way home.

VI.

Clique's are sticky groups

like fly traps, tarpits, quicksand

loiterers in life.

VII.

High school-That was it?

All that insecurity 

was not about you.

VIII.

Fear and loathing wait

outside the high school iron gate

I'll still protect you.

IX.

Twelve years gone so fast

tying shoes to getting gas

your childhood was such a blast!

X.

Over a decade 

of homework and studying

just the lesson plan?

XI.

The mirror becomes 

your friend again, instead of 

one you pretend not to know.

XII.

A proud mom, I beam

rays of opportunity

basking in your glow.

Image credit:By English Sgt. Ray Lewis [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Bowl of Gigot

Excerpt from an Interview by Paris Review with Lawrence Durrell (1912-1990)

“I simply approached the three sides of space and one of time as a cook will open a recipe book and say ‘Let’s cook this gigot.’I had no idea what sort of gigot was going to come out of it…sometimes you have to take these colossal chances when you see a ray of light that beckons you particularly.”

A Bowl of Gigot
East meets West-
in this eclectic sweet and sour dish,
with an aftertaste that's beyond delish!

A meal cooked up,
stirred around slowly, boiled down,
its base flavor in the addition of the rue,

that pinch, an herb-of-grace,
mixed with a metaphysical lace,
depending on the chef's preference.

Secret sauces that stew,
Einstein's elan and Jung's Hindu.
It takes no energy to make, nor does it matter-

The way your soup comes out,
with more science than philosophy or art,
its all a matter of personal taste.

A confluence at a continuum-stop-where does it start?
Where Confucianism bumped into Foccault's pendulum.
Food for the soul.




Image of Indonesian soup bowl, By Taken by fir0002 | flagstaffotos.com.au Canon 20D + Tamron 28-75mm f/2.8 (Own work) [GFDL 1.2 (http://www.gnu.org/licenses/old-licenses/fdl-1.2.html)], via Wikimedia Commons.

Only the devil-may-care

Why Lie about it?

I am the devils' advocate.

His veiled language occupies me.

And I find comfort in hiding behind the blinds,

velveteen drapes are just overkill.

I made my bed,

built these worlds in my head,

for Him to roam. As his advocate,

I make room, rearranging if I have to.

How hospitable, how despicable of me.

He’s a master weaver like the arachnid,

who cross stitches the eyes of my soul-

shut tight, like the dead, with X’s for eyes.

I hang on these invisible threads,

they are the fibers of my Being.

As though I needed Him as an ally

just to get by. Triumph, I will never win.

He’s louder than me in volume.

And voluminous, illuminous He appears

to me, to Be, eternally.

Thou shall not deny or preach,

the other side- Lies-in all of us-

the devil knows

whose side we are on.

Did you hear His solicitous speech?

Image of painting by Santiago Rusiñol [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons, c. 1890's Figure Study.

What to do with a flower

He said no women ever walk with flowers anymore.

He was from a land far away,

the Motherland, the Moon.

How exotic, I thought...

And while adding this meaningless task

to some To Do list or other,

I sensed

How tragic,

to be strolling along

whilst this beauteous thing,

dies in the clutches of my sweaty palms;

strangled and spent,

plucked and perished,

wilted while walking...

And I remember,

I smiled wide,

at this vainglorious vision,

thinking all the while, 

Boris, what a meaningful, exquisitely beautiful thing.

*Boris Pasternak, who noted in an informal/formal interview published in “The Paris Review Interviews series Writers at Work, 2nd series” the first line in this poem as a casual observation whilst walking with the interviewer/writer Olga Annenkov.

Image credit By Florida Memory [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.