If only could be as happy as we
thought, once the winding road
had snapped from too much turning
around and around, like a
stairway to heaven friday night air guitar
fretless and hopeless, strung out
with much airtime, beating
Hugo the bear with batter splatter-pale,
and tricking for a fiver honey.
What colour is anger
red, as the flames
that once ignited my heart
blue, or is that just a feeling
black ... when there is no light
everything is black
even your glances
but what does it matter
it is all blurred in a crossfire
even the unspoken is painful
if there were no passion
we could lead spaghetti lives
limp and tasteless
so let the tears fall
it is my heart's way
of speaking for me
Our task must be to free ourselves by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature and its beauty
~Albert Einstein
Somone is gnawing on invicible bones
and there is nothing to do about it
as it is completely, and utterly, natural
There are those who gnaw on bones
and there are those who observe them
I observe them, and I favor this the most
What transforms this world is — knowledge. Do you see what I mean? Nothing else can change anything in this world. Knowledge alone is capable of transforming the world, while at the same time leaving it exactly as it is.
- Hiraoka Kimitake
Alone he will address the troubles
and flaws of the times:
willfulness, ignorance
and drink driving.
Geriatric Man sees through their disguises
with a biff and a bam , zimzam,
flailing taichi magic out of his palms
he makes them eat fist munchkins,
sad and sorry for the day
they turned tail and flew from righteous mindery.
Geriatric man soars through the age
with the power of gentle manliness
and a stiffly starched tie,
throwing rude people onto the back of his pickup,
and processing the rubbish at the police station.
Woven webs of written illustrations
Populate a seasoned structure
Prompting late and plural sensations
A concocted current reasoned rupture.
A perfect composition of smitten stealth
Steals the senses and lines the psyche's shelves
To decimate underwritten wealth
Left with the confounded nature of ourselves.
Hold a grace period to lend a thought
Of crystalline genius, a radical paragon,
And manufacture the ideas that were wrought
Outlining in elyptical polygon.
So mesmerized the mind at will
As per our following would uphold us
Entering the odd empty rind to fill
And surreptitiously build and mould us.
"It is not the rich man you should properly call happy, but him who knows with wisdom how to use the blessings of the gods, to endure hard poverty, and who fears dishonor worse than death, and is not afraid to die for cherished friends or fatherland."
- Horace
A Wasp Brings Music in Spring Clouds
A day like today with all of the windows thrown wide,
a new wasp near the rim, appearing to want out,
the window open so near, it seems a trick, as he somehow overlooks the exit.
I spatula him out.
The new wasp, lost, with no thought of life, but to life,
Caught on new blooms, the clouds and the wind,
the wind won’t stop, nor its music in clouds.
To play music would act against the wind,
would disturb the look of the clouds turning in on themselves,
no music, but a new wasp’s wings, the clouds, and the wind.
The wind sings of long-ago hills, a wild queen riding bareback,
breathing crushed clover and sunned horse,
running heavy and relentless as a mountain falling,
past the hut of an old mountain man,
an old man living on raspberry tea,
keeping warm by the blaze of peacock feathers,
the blazing eye of peacock tails, his mirror.
Sleeping in a circle of mushrooms,
dreaming of wild queens,
haikai on his tongue, like health.
A wasp lands in his tea and drowns.
No music on a day like today, but the wind sings of
the pallor of winter, the sorrow that strays over all endings,
no matter how anticipated, or welcomed.
In hours like these, nothing means more than the lyrics of clouds.
Last edited by Riesa; 03-08-2009 at 03:58 AM.
"Don't matter who they are, anybody sets foot in this house, they are company and don't let me catch you remarking on their ways like you were so high and mighty."
Originally Posted by kiz_paws
very nice. I liked " we could leave spaghetti lives, limp and tasteless" very much! yay, kiz. I loved it.
"Don't matter who they are, anybody sets foot in this house, they are company and don't let me catch you remarking on their ways like you were so high and mighty."
?
OK
now
this's
I admit
I do things
when I see you
yes, I can't keep still
when I am far from you
it's something to remember
the way you walk so adorned
Your wardrobe fascinates my senses
the way you walk so adorned
it's something to remember
when I am far from you
yes, I can't keep still
when I see you
I do things
I admit
this's
now
OK
!
Last edited by mmaria; 03-08-2009 at 05:08 PM.
Love doesn't make the world go round,
love is what makes the ride worthwhile.
LOL mmaria, the first thing I thought of in "looking" at this shape poem was a wardrobe malfunction! Very weird, and clever. (typo in the 10th line)
Thanks! The situation that inspired it was such: wierd and clever
Love doesn't make the world go round,
love is what makes the ride worthwhile.
you talked of woods but there were no trees in your voice
and even as you grinned and called yourself my lover,
the stuffed crocodile peeped out from its planet under the ice
and phase-shifted round to abstract from itself some more
Fitting together the interface
That once was dripping like slaw
Falling like moss at a rapid pace
Dodging arithmetic law.
Seldom again will the Mind do time
Within the confines of limits
Now I'm aware of a shift sublime
In the perspective of scale that rivets
Deftly the tools of calculating
Resonant fruits in filigree
Degrees o diffidence abating
In rays of shed reverie.
"It is not the rich man you should properly call happy, but him who knows with wisdom how to use the blessings of the gods, to endure hard poverty, and who fears dishonor worse than death, and is not afraid to die for cherished friends or fatherland."
- Horace
wow, this is really weird and I love the flow and rhymes.
history flows slower around you,
measured glint when you cross the road.
I could have done my ritual of traipse and peek,
you could have done your ritual of smile and shoulder,
lips that could be sensual,
if there was malice
in the space between the sky outside your window
and the doorframe borderline,
I wouldn't have noticed the wars and the floods,
or the line-up of fathers gone by.
Life could have brushed through me, uninvolvedly content,
on its way from here to the night.
Last edited by SleepyWitch; 03-10-2009 at 12:11 PM.
Very nice Sleepy!
and somehow a dog
has taken itself & its tail considerably away
into the mountains or sea or sky, leaving
behind: me, wag.
- John Berryman
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