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Sunday, January 31, 2016

Frozen Words

How to put in code, what's not out loud
These words are frozen water clouds.
But love burns, inside the mountain of a sun.
Direct at your heart, center of my life,
Words won't carry weight, or try.
Words alone will swamp you,
A hunted seal, you could drown.
I'm not the orca, circling
Or a convent of hooded hashishins.
I am the raft that keeps you above water.
Losing you would come around.
So melt frozen love, I am patient,
For rays to turn ice, into ocean.
And bring you to your senses.
I'll warm the level of your sea,
And flood your city to its knees,
Then when you see the water rising,
You'll know it was love that made it so.

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Number and Rhyme

Nine years passed, we all grew old,
Tears don't last, and neither will gold.
When all is said and gone and done,
Intent is the only song that won.

On the shores of Lake Ontario,
I'd like to see more of your tail yo!

The duty of rhyme is for beauty that shines,
The intent of prose is for a rhythm that grows.

A lupine strumpet Romulus seduced
Divine trumpets was love induced.
Supine cantua amused the wench.
Remus confused by bovine French.

The nerve of a vampiress satire, 
Are her curves of which we'll not tire.
Additions of blood and fights in the mud,
Are sure to make me a box office buyer.

Twins, our shoes live separate lives,
They win and lose as husbands and wives.

If I can't write a rhyme, I'll have to just drop you,
With a name set in time of a gal who out talks you.

Tantric experiments in symmetry,
Make limbic merriment, naturally.

When poetry of youth is gone,
 . . . adultery hears truth in song.

Icarus fell, on wings of wax,
Gold as well, before April tax.

Mathematics of meter and rhyme,
Makes asthmatic all cheaters of time.
Equations with numbers our deeds are encumbered,
By meanings that feed us yet die.

Yogi Yoshi graced my door,
Feet upraised, hair on floor.

'Tis not a perversion to say kundalini,
Made inversions in Santorini!

Thasos Mykonos Santorini,
Yogi Yoshi in a bikini!

Yogi Yoshi in Mykonos town,
Taking poses upside down.

Octopi are free-floating, an achievement worth noting
     Not jellies for crustaceans in hiding.
Forsaken their shells, for intelligence from hell,
     and mastered the art of beguiling.

A residency in poetry would makes tenancy a dependency.
The menacings of sharks at sea brings harmony to the ocean tree.

She's loaded, lit, pilots retiring,
Weather well-boded, and fit for a firing!

Some night when we're feeling fine
After a rich meal we've taken with wine . .
Tell me some tales of gals with young males,
And afterwards I'll tell you mine.

Natasha got married on a tour of the bay,
To a boy who spoke Russian as well as Anglais.
There were artists and critics and writers of reviews
Salmon and shrimp and fancy hairdo's.

A sentence does time, to restore justice of rhyme,

An equation is persuasion: "Take an eon, on vacation."

When I know all Gnossiennes,
. . . Then I'll go 'homme parisien'.
Just a bloke, with poetry,
. . . who plays the notes of Eric Satie . . . .

The alignment's right for sexy poems,
Sized on sight by respectable tomes,
What's struck down, when once on the town,
Is permission to romp as we roam.

Adjust the day with poetry,
Wait to play some Eric Satie . . . .

The gamble's up, minutes are down
Our fables fucked up, the climate's not sound.

Bitcoins say that Gold is dead,
Goldbugs see a craze ahead.

"Don't fly too close!" old Dedalus said,
"You'll die like most in the cold sea like lead."

Though Natalie writes some poetry,
She knows she's not seen eternity.

Words fall to earth, seeds push up fruit,
The writer gives birth, or hides like a newt.

What heavenly yearning was sent,
All that poetry on Earth had meant.

Thursday, January 14, 2016

Song of 81 Poems - XXXVIII

True Celts, four teens now
  understand your absurd innocent wife.
Her choices slaved Gulag hands.
She heard about your lame dead Father,
    blue sculptures read as songs of anguish.

I feel her doom obsessed,
  a happy sense stops me.
So go to where dead skulls appear,
  and think, Queen Daughter,
    start inclusively, to capture on canvas.
pictures above thought,
    the freedom to paint impulsively, for a show.

"Drug my brain!"
  I may ask them for their Mom,
    if we could hear picture originals
    start to discover music,
A share in pride,
    would someday impose a rigid problem,

Guilt spaces every bitter advantage.
    avoid this enormous sibling head
Bold father, his garb must stink.
Suffer raw pain, flavorless sanity.
    in pulses, hence beauty is balanced.
  We  know our Sun God,
    Sculpt him blind.

She has the last demand,
    for psychedelics found in art.
Perfect sister see the silhouettes
    of sounds you just spoke.
Know, understand,
  Learn inclusively our dark earth.

Try to impress her!
Weren't they too bold
    to believe we can't pull.
Her faithful brains, raw partner,
  saw her stroke best.

Mister please think I present often
   a lead from above.
    Do you hurt?
Would a special Rainbow wish to beat her?
    See in front thoughts through a curious ear.

I cannot begin, these unknowns,
Varlam and Vsevolood, were mad,
   yet they performed fast and dry.
They ate the original spirit of love.
   at breakfast.
Along came opaque sanguine sleep.

Were they too bold to presume
   improvements through blue?
"Sensei, Brother . .
"Society owes me a beautiful fetus."

I need to see who you are
  as emotion makes important, a very crass impulse,
    a degenerate show.

Might I call nature sweet?
It's alive, the vaginal pink masterpiece.
Our stand-in event is passive,
  much I made thrives better
  when instruments have a new voice.

Try to flavor an unknown kindness.
  We still believe in sky,
   in a dark chocolate howl.

Chat, dress nude, intimacy,
  to try a life-like vintage body,
Together there's gold,
    the tedious weasel's secret measure
    gives past communication.

Partly green, cooking is better,
   if children grip society.

Mom, hard characters never lose.
Please sense in our red passion,
  my art river.
He and she are chanting face to body.
They want to see on Crete, shame and psychedelic passion.
"Chant" she would say,
    "I'll believe it when smoke calls."

Stay the experiment,
as you improve know her thoughts.
    "The fool's got class!" . . .
If they attack they can't hate her.

Did you die?

Song of 81 Poems:

  1   2   3   4   5   6   7   8   9
10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18
19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27
28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36
37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45
46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54
55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63
64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72
73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81

Tuesday, January 12, 2016

What IS love?

One might ask, do the reasons for loving even matter?

What are the causes of love?

Where is love? And is the direction of our love real, or just an illusion?

Shouldn't love be something that we do without reason?

Does love go somewhere like the soul or spirit after death? Or does it rot within our perishable bodies? What happens to a love that perishes?

Is love that I feel even mine to begin with?

If love is without reason, cause, locus or direction, birth or death, object, or even subject . . . . then what is it?

Might there be equations that define love? A differential of loving, an integral of attraction?

Possibly yes. But they will only approximate, the behaviors of love just as physics attempts to model the behavior of matter and energy. Light and matter are not the equations that describe them.

Love, like gravity and light, seems to hold some universal quality. Is love like dark matter, that= invisible stuff holding galaxies together? If love is heavy or light, is love governed by gravity?

Love might simply be our animal perception of one of the binding forces that hold the universe together. Love has been called an emotion. Emotions are the study of psychology. Yet in that universe, the science is also inadequate, the psychologist all the names and labels he throws at human conditions, simply mask his lack of understanding.

Like the physicist's model for gravity, or the strong or weak forces of nuclear attraction, love may simply be an emotional model for defining ineffable forces that are much greater than any of us. Yet physics fails, to explain love. The corollary breaks down, dissolves into a myriad differential equations, each without a pulse of life.

We do not know where it comes from, or where it goes when we are done loving. We know it is everywhere, yet we seek it. Love seems to act as an incentive and a reward, but also as punishment, but performs inconsistently at both. Economics won't explain love.

Love can come from anyone anywhere and be directed at anyone, anywhere. While it may be said love is blind, lovers feel gifted by second sight. Does love obey the laws of optics?

We know it cannot be found and yet when it is inside us we know it is there, stronger than we know who we are. The laws of physics of conservation of energy can't explain love.

Love can be empowering, enervating, debilitating, enriching, denigrating, or even fatal. Love can be destructive or creative. Cosmology and astrology can't possibly deal with love's complexity. Yet love always seems true to its own laws.

So what are those laws? Are there any?

I love this or that, this place, that river, this woman, that man, this child, . . .

We do not create it, nor can we. We do not destroy it. Nor can we. We give it to those who have it, and to those who don't. We ourselves may not have it, yet it is possible to give to one who has plenty.

Love may seem similar to water in a glass, in our bodies, or the sea. Sometimes you get a little dose and know it won't last. Yet it is still water. You can horde it, you can waste it you, but it won't be destroyed. You can transform, it break it down, yet it returns, as water.

You can drown in it or die from lack of it.

It can power the world.

Yet if you horde water it will go flat. Sunlight may not be captured, but the energy of sunlight can be. Where does the sunlight go after it's energy has been captured? Physicists have answers to these questions, but about love, they do not.

Love may transform the behavior of water, this has been shown scientifically, but the simile breaks down again. Love and water are not the same.

Yet how we treat that water seems to me to be the nature of love. How do we treat the air? Do we show grattitude for sunlight?

All people cherish love, the thirsty and fallible cherish water in a desert. Yet water seems everywhere except where needed most. If only we could all stay nourished by it forever.

Religions promise oceans of unconditional love. Global warming promises too much water - the icecaps will melt. Can there be an excess of love?

When love becomes doctrine, we lose it. The worst acts of violence, are often conducted in the names of creeds that preach love. 

Love moves freely, independently and in ways superior to all life. It can flee or reappear anywhere, anytime.

Some would say managing love is about managing expectations. Know your love. Don't expect it all the time.

Love seems to demand terms, to flow where and when it wants. 

Know love when it comes your way. Recognize it. Pass it on.

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