Saturday, October 15, 2016

O' Frosty Well Wisher


On a crisp October morning
                                pondering
For Once, then something,
                                and walking up to the
Well
knowing-this space of Sunday-
                                light like water
can be contained
in a soul cup.

A leaf
          Bob's on top, floats,
ripples rile his rite to disillusionment to-
day,
the way
some seek these shimmering somethings-
Although, as the pessimist already knows
the echoes
                                 signal emptiness,
or
depth
perception.

When he peers down
                                 beyond superficial self-reflection
he alone wonders
why water doesn't wait
                                 for focus
or stand as straight as a
Wall.

On Frost,
with the-
               well,
                        frozen over,
whispering whiteness wonders
when it will all become clear again,
For once,
then nothing
                    but wishes taken for granite
reliable as a wall.




This poem was inspired by and in conversation with the poem by Robert Frost titled, For Once then something.

Image credit By Syed Usman Ali (Own work) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons. 

In-syndication-Nation


The stream of unconsciousness is now paid by subscription,
binge zoning, apple watching vegetable-arians
we see and squat-what plot?
With over one hundred high definition channels
something new, something true, something not blue-light-
or that you've never seen or heard before,
the source says it All.

And another rerun-
that one you know so well you mouth the final words
better-off dead
in your head.

That poor real child of the child in the old episode
of that Forensics science show-
you know the one whose mother was murdered
brutally because of her baby,
Plays over and over,
like a bedtime story.
And the child knows the last lines
by heart
because the last name is the same.

What about that Robert Zimmerman,
commonly known as folks 'Bob Dylan'-
boy-back in the day-he played that rebels cause,
changed his own name to comply-
in a word
Why,
I heard
leading double lives can be prized as Nobel-
isn't that swell, a dissidents dream so it seems
easy to win and lose
(poetic expressions).

Again and again, we trend to be
episodic and neurotic, we act
on impulses
wanting and willing
to forget we know the end,
we can pretend this is a new one
We watch it again, bewildered still
by old made new,
again,
and again and again
in-continuity
of the remotest control.

Shock and Awe
(the sequel).




Photo taken by Cecil W. Stoughton, May 5, 1961 [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.
(Description: Watching flight of Astronaut Shepard on television. Left to right: Vice President Lyndon Johnson, Arthur M. Schlesinger, Jr., Admiral Arleigh Burke, President Kennedy, Mrs. Kennedy. White House, Office of the President's Secretary)

Friday, October 14, 2016

It's Who and What you Know (about them)


We know more about people we've never known than ever before.

Before now, you did not know who you did not know,
and who you knew mattered mainly to you 
and only those who knew you
mattered more.

More than ever 
whatever you think is known. 
They know you 
and know what you think, or think they do.
They do know more than ever, 
not about what they know, but about what others think they know.
They think they know something about whatever, 
and whatever they think they know 
is something to think about. 

The ones that now think they know you, you need not think you know, 
even though they think you know you know them.

Think about how we know more now than ever before
about people
and maybe people are still learning.
Maybe learning 
whatever others think isn't knowing anything.
Knowing anything is better than not knowing what you know.
Is that what people think? I don't know.
You know, without knowing anything about you, 
I bet you know more about me than me...
who knows nothing and nobody 
ever more than ever before.



Painting by Abraham Solomon (1854), [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Monday, October 10, 2016

This way to today


The sun burst forth its light of day
from the desert floor and climbed white-knuckled over 
the frosty rooftops
                                                   beaming a widening smile,
exhaling puffs or clouds 
                      released in a distinct triangular way.

It dawned upon me, 
                                      low lit in golden rays, a sea of 
silver hairs and etched face lines, wisps of cirrus water 
                                       afloat, I am Just
                                       in Time.
Mercurial matters as these at sunrise
the ambience of obvious juncture
                                       enlightenment-the way-
the light leads the I -
Back to the horizon.
Yet again...
This must be the first
genesis
                                                                      Trinity taking the shape of day
like this one, our only Sun.

The Bio


Her tepid clay pigeon pen
Unresembling wings or other flying things
Flows
She strangles its narrow neck, interrogation by noose
                                                            Loops and scratch
lines. Facts. Only the boldest,
                                                            truest statements
apply. Condensed herself in this square space she avoids and
skirts the far edges. Newspaper crisps in the October low sun
and pollen makes her more 
Miss Chevious.

Her plump pinkie smears tracks while the pointer pushes on, blame, and her thumb has its privileged back-
space-deletion is better than insertion.

They want to know-she said-Or do they?
Write a Bio 
or abbreviated autography, They have requested                                                                              do in process
Theories sound better in white, she writes and smears-
-Eternity in a paragraph-

History at present, is blurry. I have aimed at Life in a picture.  It is coming in-and per-fading, presently-the eye-just passing through.  That she-writes poetry. She lived there, has left -no forwarding ad-dress. She still dwells, not here, not She. 
Miss Chevious. 
Good? He too-with two shoes walks the same line. 
Post-haste. 
Mister Place & B. Gananew


Painting by Florent Joseph Marie Willems [Public domain or Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Sunday, October 9, 2016

mincing


admitted none
wanted other
place people
there looking
harmless wishes
willing luck
superfluously
too much
said thought
corrupt convince
convoluted
diluted solutions
whims words
wasted wanting
none other.
admittedly.

Painting by Wassily Kandinsky, Red Spot II (1921),  [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Saturday, October 8, 2016

Page sniffers


There was a time when-
They will say...

From what remains-
We can tell-
Stories.
Ago.

In this time,
Through these
They found each other &
This is how by smell...
Through the ages
sealed between the pages
Vials of hermetic memory...

Though this does not last-
the notes have all but died-
Faintly, there is a sense
only Paper People
remember Reading.


Painting by Paul Cézanne [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons.

Tres (trace)

Water Today, warm raindrops glass blurs, the blurry glassy, sharp sparkles sugar. Behind Evening, it was good. Leaves all turned into shadow...