“A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds.” -Percy Bysshe Shelley
Saturday, June 17, 2017
Act your aim
When we stay in line
like good little pixels
stacking up our boxes
edge to edge
we may notice
the oval, all circularity
is pointed, adjacently
and saved, if needed.
Connections and karma
are just
arrows attempting to be
boomerangs.
Hunters and gatherers,
acting in accord
with the right angles,
took shape, called it chalice,
and carried it with us
empty-everywhere
beginning and ending with "Fire"
-there was nothing-
to hold us together but the sphere.
1st(Top) Painting by Douglas Volk, 'The boy with the arrow' (1903) in [Public domain or CC BY-SA 2.5 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/2.5)], via Wikimedia Commons.
2nd Image Info: John Gower in a portrait from a book with his Vox Clamantis and Chronica Tripertita in Glasgow Univ. Lib., MS Hunter 59 (T.2.17) folio 6v. This is from a revised edition of the book published c. 1400 (before Gower's death). Gower is depicted as an archer with a bow and arrow. Gower prepares to shoot the world, a sphere with compartments representing earth, air, and water.
Text on the above image in one version of the Vox Clamantis reads "I throw my darts and shoot my arrows at the world. But where there is a righteous man, no arrow strikes. But I wound those who live wickedly. Therefore let him who recognizes himself there look to himself."
Friday, June 16, 2017
I was framed
Words wouldn't come
so I went with paint,
but the body was too thick
and the primaries screamed
even when kept apart
Those threads I cannot read
through
the prepositions and problems
drama and canvas scenes
in media res, centripetal
room at the edges
so bubbles don't pop
as tempting as black is
Purple pretends perception
like lines of sight
the same lines that bind
up brains and I's
omnisciently we see,
underneath it was red,
with light
become plane as day,
in a literal sense.
Arttwork By Michael Sevier (illustrator) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Thursday, June 15, 2017
The breaking of day
Start here,
Where it is new and all fear, trepidation and caution
We called it
A scream it is untranslatable.
Symbols show
More than scars softened over imperfections
Below we know
It feels more than numb, sealed memories to tote.
Foretold in light
In eight minute increment’s, sentiments sent somewhere
Between now and then to pretend de ja vu wanted to remind you
Nothing new better than you to rise
Lightly.
Painting by Nicolas Poussin [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
The sylvan man grows in light
After watching what you say
In the way
of change
concentration
cures
our severed taste buds and
need for salvation is mis-
taken for thirst of knowledge.
Flavorless is so often
Distasteful.
With the impressions all-ready made,
castes cracks to make like-ness, best selves,
come rise to the occasion or surface,
holding up the sky for the stragglers,
last ones out-
So beauty is the last thing any-body sees.
Rather-build an experience stacking up
of extrapolated theories, compacted clumps,
we build like dutiful doozers
busy before the Fraggle ruins it all
over again.
A variation of pattern provides for knots,
gathering spaces and pulls punches with curves
unfit for naked kings.
There can be all or nothing
theoretically and answer is not the source,
it is a question of directed desire, of
questions and may-bes.
Fear and famine are inadequate seeds
of inspiration for a fish to continue to grow on
and on immersed in its own currents.
The air is different amidst change and chaos,
at the same time, it was always happening,
never staying the same-
except the way you speak
of change.
I accept the way change
speaks of you.
Artwork by Jusepe de Ribera [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Sunday, June 11, 2017
Bide and bide
Patience was a problem
he was working on
And so: Nothing Doing about it
All's well that ends in a day.
Around the bend danger awaits,
there was no other way out.
Asking about contents and swatches
make a myriad of answers juxtapose and
work without reason.
I still stand-awaiting your reply.
His hyper heart, the others tainted blood, the ill-tuned organs, the laced food, the zombie pills, the (mixed) media/ (missed) messages, the dumb distractions, the deafening volume, the vast emptiness, the toxic air, the yellow water, the rush, the summit, the plummet-----
Do it NOW!
That is-jump-the wait is too great to hold onto for longer than patience holds peace.
Later-it will be too late to learn of love
and its heroic acts that fail to think
before giving up
the weight
was over.
Painting By Gordon Coutts (1869 - 1937) – creator Born in Glasgow, Scotland. Dead in San Francisco, California, United States of America [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
Gravitas
It was never about our dumb thumbs.
It was the way we stood up
to gravity
without needing to know what we have
pushed up against, the faceless force
of resistance that throws its weight in waves
that crash out of sight and none mind this weakness
the stacking of back bones.
The clock, the book, ape our names with a smirk and a stick
shows you his ant collections, meanwhile, the snake swallows its tail.
Pounds and heartbeats resist this ethereal oppression
that taunts us to compete with what we have,
as though a winner was ever chosen,
as if hope had more than clipped wings with whimsical wants
and rings only of brass cages,
only light easily escapes our local prisons,
with motion detectors triggered we creep
like suspicion
reflection and persistence and say we are seekers
what gathers as cumulous clouds all comes
back down to dirt before clay
this way something is from nothing
the spinal column rachets and secures its connections
between inside out, an idea, a step in the right foot first
direction of brave, giants leaps of grace
loss of place
higher than vertigo knows
makes me think
there was nowhere to grow
up is out.
I doubt our thumbs
gave us a free ride.
Gravity takes no sides.
Painting by Claude Monet, Heavy Seas at Pourville (1897) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
bed of coals
Enveiled, as usual
lifted my eyes by the chin
you invited me in
a place I know, have been
sitting by the fire-place.
And only on this hearth
have I seen illumination
made warmer
by generous raditation
over time and across space
between us-apart-of something else
that remains Otherness
between bonds like breath
we share aglow,
rekindled when struck together.
Painting by Santiago RusiƱol (1894) in [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
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