“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Friday, September 30, 2016
Totem poll
The final straw of September twenty-
ninths slit of smirking Black Moon-
the Indians have hung onto summer
with the same tenacity as their water dances
around the fire-I feel-
too long, feathered, and hot.
Sweltering shaded shelters there are none,
and I am white, weak and wrong,
along native latitudinal lines
not strong enough to weather
this Fall-
the pressure is too high to let go.
It makes me want to tear off my clothes
and immerse this blue skin in the sixty-three degrees
Pacific ocean
pacific specifically
calm
cool
collected.
................
September is succumbing to
October who strikes us sober.
Chill.
Breaths like poetry help acclimate me
in worlds like Autumn.
By Internet Archive Book Images [No restrictions], via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, September 29, 2016
Luciferins
Burst babies
thought Up
by condensed concentration
Stardust dynamo
make more meaning
while you're Out there
Gold has become worthless...
What will we inherit
or will we let it rest,
and settle Down
under pressure
pushing and pulling at the same time
is nothing,
stretching and squeezing time,
we do this,
pliably trapped inside a movement
We float-we spin-we suspend
judgement-no-Light-
weight-less
we wait until it works out
a match made in phosphorescent phantasie
we are dynamic
charismatic we create
we panic
knowing
THIS
Artwork by Mihály Zichy [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Tuesday, September 20, 2016
Absorbing Autumn
Is it morbid to smell October
under Septembers fallen leaves,
dripping eaves?
I prefer not to be buried-thank you-
but I admit, it reminds me of a familiar place,
the earth Rising
and all...
Whereas when you see the sky
Falling
all over the place and filling in
with charcoal over blue with hefty white-
for contrast-
at last,
Relief.
Is it autumnal to wonder-
would it be better to biodegrade
or evaporate?
I am happiest under rain
when the leaves are crimson.
J. M. W. Turner [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
"Rain, Steam and Speed - The Great Western Railway; the painting depicts an early locomotive of the Great Western Railway crossing the River Thames on Brunel's recently completed Maidenhead Railway Bridge.The painting is also credited for allowing a glimpse of the Romantic strife within Turner and his contemporaries over the issue of the technological advancement during the Industrial Revolution"
To Those Who Prose-
It is best to stay away from prose-
you may squint-if so inclined
It takes a few words to get to the heart
blame the onion
O how it makes many squirm
to live like a libertine-openly
If you must, take a deep breath
before diving in-
the wind is strong-
if you catch my drift
umbrellas are for sissy's
It is how proper prose
becomes-to sharp to handle,
inverted, in brief
taking side-steps
where precise ought to be...
It is useful to let your mind wander
alone.
Image of painting: 'At the Writing Table' National Gallery of Art-American 18th Century (1790) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Astir (Haiku)
Before the first rain
the Poets all woke and spoke
of their sense of smell
Painting by Apollinary Vasnetsov [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, September 17, 2016
Bountiful ball
The harvest moon is up
and my stomach does not growl.
There is churning in the earth,
the reaper is due-
But none look when he arrives.
There is the usual warm glow
where a sinister mood once brewed.
Alas, there is no warmth or desire-
I am no longer hungry.
The moon goes on along
shining orange and strong...
at least the grass is getting greener.
Stress test
Can you tell it's right if you hold it up to the light?
Do you know if it is better than good
if it can be completely understood?
Is it the ideal size-target market wise?
Does it truly sound like all the others that abound?
Is it flammable, is it like the animal
in us-
indigenous?
Is it harmonious or relevant, erroneous and malevolent?
Does it make you dance in some clandestine way
Does it have something significant to say?
Then-
is it worthy
to be called poetry?
Painting by Marie Spartali Stillman, Love Sonnets (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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