Saturn in Retrograde

Wait!
Hold off!
Hold on-
What is going on?
This doesn't feel right...
Why are those stars so bright?
It must be a neon sign the way they align,
Vacancy 
I'm jumpy,
on edge.
If your friends jumped off a cliff
would you too
act-re-act?
But what is this cause
effectively, a cause for pause
of thought,
or not.
I lie
in wait,
sorting numerical fate.
I don't know why, I never lie
down
looking up, brightly
filtering lightly
through Truth's sieve
I believe
what falls between
may be indecision,
or just pieces of pessimism...
Seeing the signs, reading the route,
maps of the sky don't try
to make sense
of something so immense.
I'm going to need that sky crane
to see the hole
light at the end
of tunnel vision
that predicts,
narrowly,
Saturn's negative position,
set on a backwards mission
revolving by karmic volition.

Theta + Haiku

Spontaneous

chaos is simplicity’s Truth

change is not complex

The balancing act

of super-symmetry

through two-way mirrors

As the cradle rocks

lullabies of gravity

carrying a moon

Fusion of Forces

electromagnetism

binded by tension

A microcosm

of you, a macrocosm

of We, divided

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

Headspun

“If someone says that he can think about quantum physics without becoming dizzy, that shows only that he(she) has not understood anything whatever about it.”-Niels Bohr

Make your point

Cradled in the smooth groove
stretchy slope, perched between
your pointer
and omniscient thumb
the hexagonal pole poised in position
and lightly pinch
its slender girth
slide midway down its length
or further,
depending on your comfort level
or prowess,
practice with pointed objects

It's metal headband
watches from behind, coaching
looking for mistakes.
Taking aim with the tip
the bulls eye opening is your mark
the electric desktop bladed machine,
a miniature tree shredder of sorts.

It will resist and rock, grind
and gnash,
vibrating and stimulating
to the touch
Five seconds will do,
enough to make your point
sharp and new
although you've lost some length likely
you've left some carbon footprints where
it whittled itself away
right before erasure led to its faded decay
ashes to coal, black dust in the wind
archaically, today the pencil is passe.

I still use one today
and I could continue on rhyming this way,
until my coal dark pencil turns light grey.
Then again-
I think I'll grab a pen.



Image By Juliancolton (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Clouded

“It is better to have your head in the clouds, and know where you are... than to breathe the clearer atmosphere below them, and think that you are in paradise.” 

–Henry David Thoreau

Wise eyes

Blink the drapes

promise me just a peek

into the whole you

Some light filters through

nocturnal pupils wink

in growing view

The horizon waits

posing at a distance

closer than infinity

Muted dimensions bleed over

open endlessly, unraveling 

before me, after you

Swallowing the hole

lingering note, an after taste

foreshadowing hues cast

between you and I

a line is strung

will you

touch it

with your

wise eyes?

Composed 6/20/15.

Image of painting by Paul Émile Chabas [Public domain], Nymph, (1869-1937) via Wikimedia Commons.

I should just calm down

Like you,
(I suppose)
I cringe at my poems
often
they seem sour
or too tart.
They have been called
fierce
But I'm too tame to tell
what that may mean...
I don't mean to complain and lament
vent-
No, yes, I do.
Poetry is my only place to put
pesky perplexing intellectual problems
(that make me insane)
and confusing confudling conundrums
(that cause me brain pain)
about what-nots and that's and i's
about love, and existence and
perishing...I wince too.
I'm not like my poems,
they are my comfy clothes
(without make-up)
And somehow this non-me
hiding in my poetry
is beginning to resemble
someone new
I'm not needing an answer right now
but I think you sense it too...
I smell a rat-but I have a cat,
I can be fierce like that.