Sunday, January 31, 2016

Frozen Words





How to phrase, what's not out loud
These words are made by water clouds.
Direct to your heart, center my life,
Letters 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,
And when you see the water rising
Please do call and advise me.

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.

Enough of this rhyming poetry,
I'm tired of what I hear.
It's time instead I wrote for my eye,
And not compose for my ear.

Every story in words has a particular smell,
Of a plane in the dirt, or a liar from Hell.

To thee on shores of Lake Ontario,
I'd like to see more of your tail yo!

Ancient sword and white napkin sabrage,
De-corks champagne of a by gone age.

The duty of rhyme is for beauty that shines,
The intent of prose? The rhythm of growth.

Romulus seduced a lupine strumpet
Love induced by divine trumpets.
Supine cantua amused a wench.
Remus confused by bovine French.

The nerve of a vampiric satire, 
Babelicious curves which will not tire.
Fake fangs and fights in mud,
Slake my thirst with flights of blood.

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

If Donald Trump should heed the call,
to lie and pee beside his wall,
I’d hate to miss the sound and fury,
Of the Rio Grande filled up with urine!

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.

Truth's in fabric of shitty media,
Put some tooth in what Kubrick feeds ya.

Hide the truth in plain sight,
prop it up for all to see.
Let it fly like a child's kite,
then you call it conspiracy.

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.

Kerbel Space employs fanatics,
to confuse the pace of mathematics.
Cerebral 'g' is same on Earth,
begins the game of denying birth.

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."

A dragon speaks with forked tongue,
Sagan will teach that you've been stung,
Musk was read into what went down,
And now he hides like a Martian clown.

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




Truth chants for thee.

I understand your absent wife.
   made choices, enslaved by gulag hands,

I feel her doom, obsessed,
   a happy sense stops me
      I go to where dead skulls appear,
And think.

Queen Daughter, started to capture on canvas,
   pictures above thought,
   And the freedom to paint.

Rigel drugged my brain!
  We might ask for their moons,
   So we might hear picture originals.

Start to discover music,
   A share in pride would someday impose
      a rigid problem.
   Space offers every bitter advantage.

Avoid his enormous snake-eating head!
   Bold father, this garb must stink.
      Suffer or paint, forever sanely.
         Impulsively, sits on beauty balanced.
            We  know our sun God.
   So sculpt him blind.

Fly over an unknown kindness.
  We still believe in sky,
In the dark chocolate howl.

Chat, dress nude, intimately,
   try a life-like vintage body,

Partly green, cooking is better,
   As children grip society.
      Mom's hard character never loses.
   Sense in our red passion my art river.

He and she are chanting face to body.
   They want to see on Crete,
      shamanic psychedelic passion.
         "Chant" she would say,
   "I'll believe when smoke calls."

Stay in the experiment.
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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