“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, August 15, 2015
A poem weaves to night
There was a little poem
who lived in the Land of Language.
He went about his daily deeds and duties,
somewhat similar to yours and mine
as makers of our days and ways,
in pursuit of a perfect pleasure craft.
The little poem moved along,
one step at a time,
like you and I,
but on legs of eight,
which Occidentally caught the light,
sometimes,
like lines
(except not an octet).
He worked alone and in the dark,
the little poems eyes adjusted and accustomed
this way, preferring this process,
hiding himself during the day when others are out and about
and get in his way, breaking the connections-
concentration of the grand design in his mind.
Relentless still,
the little poem weaved his words all night,
starting over, adding on, redesigning
his cozy mental matrix
made for suicide moths drawn to
the light.
Blinded with sight,
blocking out the newest sign
a reinvented lyric, a trap in translation.
Lost in Confusion,
stalled and flailing-
signals are sent, along these lines,
the little poem reads the notes,
gathers and wraps more than needed
the little poem stashes his words
for other webs to weave
spinning their marrow
for a tomorrow
he never saw.
Image By: Luc Viatour [GFDL (http://www.gnu.org/copyleft/fdl.html), CC-BY-SA-3.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/) or CC BY-SA 2.5-2.0-1.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5-2.0-1.0)], via Wikimedia Commons.
Taking in the Aether & the Higgs Ocean view
You see
the problem is:
I need someone to help me figure out-
or to talk to,
theoretically,
hypothetically
(poetically)
I muse
in a place
I cannot quite describe
I will not come near
being able to show you
the particles
flying and suspended
suffocating the air with the dots
of the question mark,
Specks
they're sometimes called
I see them flying in the air
suffocating and thick against each other
compelled, repelled, forced and willing
mixing cosmic stew, stars colliding
thick with dark matter
Sometimes
I could choke
on the chunks of thick loneliness
attractive pollution, vaporous resolution
the pressure we place
on a black hole, I feel
my heart exploding
in symmetry with infinity
You see
these words
this world
-what's the matter?
the anti-matter and all that allusion
the illusion said of what should
particularly
not see
I feel them touching me
like gravity-a weak force
but you're not floating away
from me yet
just expanding your magnitude
So how do I show
that I know
the connection-in reflection-
the theories of strings beyond beings
staff that carry the notes
that fall on deaf ears
like blind stars
like us
who would rather
Not see
the day come of the dying sun
with no one
to talk to
but someone not looking
and
saw it too.
Image By NASA [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. Image taken by ROSAT shows confined hot gas captured via X-ray providing evidence that the gravity exerted in groups and clusters of galaxies is attributed to dark matter.
Simple Syrup: In-gradients
Most simply, Love tells
Us we are not the center
of the Universe.
Heart and Soul nebulae
Image By NASA/JPL-Caltech/UCLA (WISE) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Heart and Soul nebulae
Image By NASA/JPL-Caltech/UCLA (WISE) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Wednesday, August 12, 2015
A poem w/out words
?
...
!
Shhhh
IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII
/\
Amen
♫
↓
↓
kerplunk
☼ + ♦
Ω
♥ ∞°
click.
"No amount of wordy explanations will ever lead us into the nature of our own selves. The more you explain, the further it runs away from you. It is like trying to get hold of your own shadow."-D.T. Suzuki
Things we take for granite
Walking by a pile of ordinary granite
my daughter noticed a glimmer.
Delighted with the sparkly sight,
she asked me why it shone so,
It's just DG, I said plainly,
So, you don't know,
she replied rhetorically.
I too remember when
the world was more than real
you could feel the newly forming
foundations building up
under you, from deep inside
your hot energetic core
spreading slowly like land
determined and undeterred
not oblivious and permeable
nor in the hurry of water
its mad dash with a splash
molten rock chooses to ooze instead
I remember a time
when steam jets barely cooled our fires
and together we tamed the wild world,
before us digging up and burying forevermore
weary from moving around in endless Revolutions
We finally settled.
Like throwing pepper around the perimeter
so pedestrian people wont notice
tremors of short fused attentions
unable to make the connection, cross the bridge
to take the leap, to draw a rough line,
to reconnect
the connection of
the extra and ordinary.
From leading edges, subdued and stable
the matrix locks its labyrinth
in the basement
of continental islands.
Granite is there.
Unanimously equigranular,
metamorphically unique,
on this marble rolling
in concrete space.
Catching the light just right
the quartz and phenocrysts insist
on throwing off latent sparks;
like kindled memories of plutonic days
mingled in potassium feldspar rays
streaked pink with passion
the blushing boulders
pushed by Sisyphus
eternally carry us forward
as though not moving a pebble,
or grain, or granule, granum, granite
swallowing our diamonds along the way
decomposing
and eroding
molding
the upper crust
down to
their carbon core.
One should never ignore
the things we take for granite.
Image by Halvard Hatlen (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, August 9, 2015
Of Men Making Magic
Killing witches did nothing
for Satan's side
Jail is not the auditorium
where Gods cheerleaders
throw their pom-poms around;
spitwads bounce off the moral walls
poking holes in the purgatorium.
Across the tracks the church is full
by now book club fans discuss theoreticals,
hypotheticals, troubadours spin shiny cups and
card tricks, knowing every card stacked
in your deck
making deals,
the full house faces are flushed
out of the heat, in sweet retreat.
In World War We All (mostly) agree
its purpose is based on property
and perceived utility all the while
Heaven becomes swarmed with infantry,
infiltrated and besieged by Heroes
overthrown by horrors and darkness.
Military men like barter chips
that crumble through the slit
the hourglass of invention
that contains all your broken
bones
ashes
Was
When
On that grave
forever day
a clump, a stall,
not a grain did fall
God noticed
and did nothing;
graciously watching as We
built molehills into mountains
that crumble back into the Sea.
God was content
with this practice in futility
feckless and spinning silently.
"The Forties
and in the desert cold men invented the star." -Franz Wright
Image of painting by Gerrit Dou [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, August 8, 2015
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