“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Monday, January 2, 2017
Less is More, More or Less
There have been difficult times
I knew the right thing to say
and I honestly don't know how I knew
the exact words to highlight what had been hidden.
There have been less
trying times, I said
Nothing
not knowing right from wrong.
Between these
Ends
all the good times evade precise
meaning
over
time
the bad days try to remind us
how easily opinions change in the sun.
The only words left
spaces between.
Painting by Edward Robert Hughes [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Firmament (Hi-Q)
Why always the sky?
Does your hair move in the wind?
Breath is not just mine.
Image credit by Brian W. Schaller (Own work), Windy Day Great Sand Dunes in Colorado (U.S.A.) [FAL], via Wikimedia Commons.
Saturday, December 31, 2016
In the Rain Singing Purple Poems for the New Year
Another one
bites the motes, spits a clod,
and is claimed by fame, all in a name.
Again, not I
anonymous
let the book worms crawl in
and out as though it were all natural
and biodegradable over a lifetime
to deteriorate
this way
all of us bound in romantic tragedy,
we try to forget this poignancy
with age.
What comes
are words not unwise, nor mine.
Summarily, I listen.
My work is done
a hush has fallen.
Including this
one there were four hundred and sixty-nine
times I’ve stabbed at Truth-
only to burst bubbles, finding nothing
inside. I wrestle, is this not episodic
or just melodramatic...
I can guess.
My pen is dull, I have no credit to my name.
What feels right in living like me
is all wrong for others
(monetarily). I owe them one
for their certainty.
I feel no Nationalism
or sentiment
may be strong enough
to overcome
its little people.
And here we are, another orbit around,
One (more) Earth year
To reset
our broken watches and records.
Play it again Sam.
Let us dance.
It may be our last chance
to take it in
Memoriam.
Let us hum(an)
auld lang syne.
History v.1,792
What if we learned our lessons backward
instead of ignoring what lies ahead,
would we start at the end and dig ourselves out
from there
or is Here too near to Now to know?
What if we learned language primary by poetry,
as in, taught this way,
if we made an educated guess
we would we think more
if we understood less.
And what about what the ocean says, its native
cetaceans, their migrations…adaptations.
We would find a place
in their tragic tales, perchance
see ourselves in the eyes on fish tails,
mermaids and white whales.
Yes, hard to translate
some things don't
clearly.
Well,
what if we listened harder to things that seem
indistinct,
do you think we could hear the earth exhale
say deep in sleep, could we focus then
on the multiverse-
But here we are fracking up.
Waiting for a guide out of some terrestrial curse.
Would it be worse
to know we were too little to hold on?
We have cumulatively uncovered
more historically,
we have yet to discover
meaning,
we barely understood
what all of this implied-
No
Time to speculate
about Grand New Beginnings
By starting at the infinite Endings...
After all, how could History be
far too long ago and have not nearly enough
relevance or reverence for Us
by glaring reflection,
with Us reminiscing about the great old days
adding and adorning, making the old new.
We like changing the story as we go,
we can know just enough
to make it up
to you.
True-
with no good place to start
chaos will return,
before it was missed.
Our Resilience is rote,
Granted,
we have witnessed starting over
and elliptical orbits
again and again.
And I insist, as the diluted optimist,
we are still learning
on a curve,
spilling as we spin.
Shall we take it from the top?
Thursday, December 29, 2016
Book covers and titles tell all
If they knew any thing or two about truth in fiction,
or which was the stranger
of the two
If they knew respect is not a costume anyone can wear...
if I cared
they don't think of me
If they knew my ears were not sensitive enough
to hear small talk
would they only speak louder...spoken over thought.
They were not here when my daughter said we needed
more bookshelves, requesting wall to wall coverage would be good,
she envisioned this plan, we have more than enough
needless to say, she pleased me greatly.
If I had not been buried in stacks of books
I wonder if she would still want this,
to save me.
And
If they knew about being a parent-
is it obvious they could care less...
Apparently knowing would never be
good enough
to be great.
dropping the ball
memorists and statisticians note
the smuggled force in-formation,
feigns power.
Smarter than the averages
within their means.
If it were up to us
burrowed heads,
footprints and carbonated
rhetoric would leave a mark.
As observed, hope floats away,
proof we are wingless, too heavy
for syllogisms sake.
It is not as though we are not necessary.
We are...proof, part air.
Forecasting all is Fair
weather wise
we are all
dead weight-
Wait...
what about us?
Pele
Leaching lead mountains
Bled where scabs crust with healing
miracles to make
Image credit By Game McGimsey (http://www.avo.alaska.edu/image_full.php?id=5927) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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