Buried castles

Hind cloak and dagger you poise to guard thee
And conceal thy truest strength in mask'd
provocation! Lo' er thy weaponry
in defense against poison'd darts unseen
And penetrate those crystal streams, shatter'd
baubles by sounds may smash back to thine own
conscious fortress upheld on stilts aloft
none too far for arrows thrown in spite
to carry venomous signs of violence
symbolic gestures we propose to one
exchanging vengeance in our vows to keep
symbolic peices, armaments left and l
of leaves fallen-pollen armies make charge-
And stark violets by lillies  mark'd on graves.



This is an attempt at playing with Shakespeare's Sonnet LXVII.


Image By Wikisense (Own work) Scaligero castle[Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Imagine in Nation

What doesn't ask
doesn't care.
There it
has been said,
did you know
I care?
We are in War and Love
above all else
I dwell in neither possibility
but probability
namely the art of science
or the scientific artist
these are the best of We
wherein domain and abstain
are eminently plausible
coextensively
if it has feathers and quarks
respective of space
and time to think of asking
who cares?


Image of painting By Ernst Karl Georg Zimmermann (1852-1901) (Dorotheum) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sky scrapes

contrails drew all day
as one would fade, another blade
cutting in on blue, gilt by sun
without a red handle
on it to be seen

what chalky lesson
is trying to be relayed
that the entire sky should
altruistically accommodate
and become frayed to mineral slate
from all points of you

grey matter made of our machinated arts...
and those parts of paths remain staining royalty
bleeding lines out
ward, the cons alibi
covering for clouds
on a crystal eyes day.



Image by By Willow2012 (Own work) [CC0], via Wikimedia Commons.

A-flow-T

It was up-side-down-which
is not up There
is no up-any-way
that the dhow
knew the way the wind blew
and grabbed it as the how
to get There
the Tao
and even keel held bronze pins in place
on the starboard to cease and assist
sunken ships weight and wait
with least resistance finding that
flow
feels easy like you know
down pat what is
up
either way anyway
if you don't flow
with it
you'll never know
smooth sailing up-on destiny's dhow.




Image of painting by By Maxwell, Donald [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The writing in dust on mirrors

They lied
              all along
They think
              they were lying
(to them-selves)
               it showed through
eventually
wear and tear:
tears and wears

feeble few
who knew
               the lies were untrue
and said
(to them-selves)
                it was naturally so,
unfolding
upholding
For now
                 yet I know
the decay
                 eating away
Bones and Memories
(buried)
Stones and Sticks
(thrown)
                  shatter glass houses
and mirrors
reflecting angel dust
                                 and cobwebs
clouding what could never become
(the whole truth)
after blowing
                   living a life
being numb,
breathing evil wind
it's too late-
                   nevermind.



Image by By עירא (own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

The Creative Process by e.e. cummings 1 and 2 (plus 5)

                    

1.

Of my

Soul a street is:

Preternatural Pic-

abian tricktrickclickflidk-er

garner

of starfish Picasso

thrombosis trees

hit

my soul

repairs herself with

Prioress of Shari mind

and Matisse rhythms

to juggle Kandinsky gold-exchange-standard

away from the grind gifted

muscles of Cèzanne’s

logic

          Oho.

           A streamer

There is

where stramineous  birds     purr

2.

Picasso

you give us Things

which

bulbous: grunting lungs pumped fulgurate of Shari They mind

you make us shriek

presents always

shut in the sump screech of

simplicity

(out of the

bizarre unbolted

Something gushes vaguely a squeak of planes

or

between squeals of

Nothing grabbed with circuit breaker shrieking tiger-eye

solicitation screams whisper.)

Lumberman of the Distillation

your brain’s

axe only chops hued inherent

Trees of Ego, from

whose living and bifoliate

bodies lopped

of every

preternatural

you hew form true time

The above two poems originally composed by e.e. cummings have been given the 5 up adjective treatment whereby each original adjective is replaced by the preceding 5th word in the dictionary. Normally this is a 7-up process but I like the number 5 better. 

Image of painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Yellow-red-blue, c. 1925 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

A Poet's Advice by e.e. cummings

A poet is
somebody who feels,
& who expresses his feelings
                                                -through words.
This may sound easy. It isn't.
A lot of people think
or believe
or know
they feel-
but that is
thinking or believing or knowing;
not feeling.
And poetry is
feeling-
not knowing or believing or thinking.

Almost anybody can learn to think
or believe or know,
but not a single human being can be taught
to feel.

Why?
Because whenever you think
or you believe or you know,
you're a lot of other people:
but the moment you feel,
you're nobody-
but-yourself-
in a world which is doing its best,
night and day,
to make you everybody else-
means to fight the hardest battle,
which any human being can fight;
and never stop fighting.
As for expressing
nobody-but-yourself-
in words,
that means working just a little harder
than anybody
who isn't a poet
can possibly imagine.

Why?
Because nothing is quite as easy as using words
like somebody else.
We
      all of us
                     do exactly this
                                          nearly all of the time-
and whenever
We
      do it,
We
     are not
poets.

If,
at the end of your first ten or fifteen years
of fighting and working and feeling,
you find
you've written
                         one line
                         of one poem,
you'll be very lucky indeed.

And so my advice to all young people who wish to become poets is:
do something easy,
like learning how to blow up the world-
unless you're not only willing,
                                                 but glad,
to feel and work and fight till you die.

Does this sound dismal?
                                         It isn't.
It's the most wonderful life on earth.
Or so
I feel.


The above text has been reformatted from the original version by e.e. cummings, this passage was included in the introduction (xi-xii) for the book, "A Critical Path" by R. Buckminster Fuller.


Image of painting by Unknown Pandora's Box, via Wikimedia Commons, Public Domain.