Reflections of

Reflections Of

stemware

laughter

counter tops

a rendezvous

Resolve to Dissolve

I lived outside today

.... for a little while

and wondered why we've grown so determined

to separate ourselves from nature.

My legs crossed beneath me

on weeds and grass and pillowed ground.

The sun at one o'clock.

A distant bark and rattle of a man at work

were notes out of tune

amidst the rhythm of

distinct species announcing themselves in

well trained song.

Where bare skin felt the earth's connection...

feet on soil, sun on face and neck

birds and other sonic wizards

against the exposed filaments of inner ear...

These fused bonds requested

that all my points be exposed 

to any other chorus

which Madam Divine wished to share

So the troublesome layers,

whether blouse or jeans, glasses or stubbon opinions

that stood between my own nature

and nature's nature

were dissolved and at that moment

I was author and audience

of her sublime dance and song

I lived outside today

and shall return

Poetry

Everyman's Life is designed as a resting place for my new poetry. I had stopped writing poetry for more than 20 years. At one time, many moons ago I had a box of it from when I was very young. I also had a different life and was quite a different person (in a way) and never thought of myself before those twenty years had come, as anybody who wouldn't just sit around and write poetry pretty regularly.

So when I started back a few years ago, I had become pretty proficient on a computer. What I discovered was that I was rusty on poetry. Some pieces came easily but I really wanted to try to revert to a style which I hadn't really used since I was very very young. Like my earliest poetry before I was even 11 or 12 was all rhyming poetry.

I decided there was a reason rhyming poetry was enduring. It is because it is musical and is memorable, as much for the sound and alliteration, as for the actual words or theme. Obviously, rhyming poetry is quite out of vogue. Certain people who aren't extremely literate (I mean that by the truest definition, i.e. someone who doesn't read much poetry ((that includes me))--) may think poetry usually rhymes. But take it from me, if you were to poll 100 people who spend much time with writing poetry now, a very large percentage would think rhyming poetry is very passe.

Still knowing all that, I took a stab at some rhyming poetry. As I look at it now, I have actually forgiven myself. You see there was a time after I had written it that I was very embarrassed about it. So I beat myself up over it. Hey, I stopped writing rhyming poetry before junior high. By high school I was already a poetry snob. I was so deluded that I thought I had skill enough to proclaim my independence from tradition.

Now I wish to tell everyone, including the 99% of poets who think poetry shouldn't rhyme and if it rhymes then it isn't good poetry, Go to Hell. Go to Hell if you judge poetry on the basis of meter or rhyme or existence of or lack of existence of alliteration. Go to Hell if you judge poetry period. If you enjoy poetry--Congratulations. If you like to write poetry--"May I have this dance?"

If you like some poetry and don't like other--welcome to your mind--it is extremely unique...your mind I mean. But my point is, the reason a poem is good is if it is written to communicate a feeling. Period. That's it. Technique is up to the artist. But presence or absence of art is the kicker. How good the art is is totally subjective.

A beholder's eye does not require a license.

More is more or less--LESS. Less is much much MORE

 

More is more or less--LESS. Less is much much MORE

Learning to add is the easiest of math.
Subtraction is harder by far.
Our cups will level off by evaporation.
But that requires that we learn to stop filling.
Stopping is a great start.
Removing is the second step.
Finding ourselves is the reward.

Seeking the reward is filling again.
And thus no prize will come of it.
Even finding the reward requires that we look
with new eyes.
Finding ourselves looking is walking backwards.
Holding your breath leads to death.
Exhaustion leads to illness.
Stopping may lead to rest.
Staying at rest is key.

Less means less than not seeing the difference.
The center between more and less holds no space.
The passageway works because of what is not there.
What is there prevents us from finding the passage.
Therefore we learn to subtract in order to find more.

Today

Why fire?
Why rain?
Will simplicity come again?
Two hands are cupped and swing.

The sun pulsates.
The water cools.
Combined, they steam.
Pores open.

Heaven above.
Earth below.
Forgetting--the goal.
Return to the uncarved block.

Shadow Boxing

hello box.

box with a bunch of symbols on top.

Font?

Font with an arrow. push it. go ahead.

it is magic. called a pull down menu.

menu?

menu in a window.

but what window?

and why is that line blinking at me?

it is trying to remind me that it will perform its duty.

just type.

type and it will make the letters appear.

in the window.

under the menu.

other symbols.

how do i know that the little "b" in dark type means BOLD?

and the little slanted "i" means italics.

How do I know?

Did anyone ever tell me?

never had a class.

my daughter has probably had a teacher tell her.

she will probably never wonder why we call these boxes or windows.

i like them. all of them.

especially the colorful little painting of a symbol. it means picture.

it means go find a pretty picture and put it in with your words.

a world. there is a wide world waiting.

the blinking line reminds me how fast. the pictures. how fast i can find the pictures.

do you want a picture?

do you want?

do you?

do?

d?

d

you're not really there are you?

what if i find a picture of you?

would you come then?

would you come to see your picture?

would you tell people that you found your picture in a box with a pull down menu?

Spon.ta.ne.ity

having never failed to sample life's little cur.i.os.ities

i wonder what was given up in all that freedom?

ah, i see. inte.gri.ty.



wow. a schmuck eh?

will you have me for all my failings?

will you accept this whisper of regret as a sample of my trust in you?



my gosh, can it really be a crime (hears Fred Astaire)

dancing cheek to cheek?



distracted by the overwhelming whiff of sweet lilac,

he departs to make love to the purple bush.

enshrined in rhap.so.dy,

his awareness of some separate self disappears.



and with it, any thoughts of in.secure.ity