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

White Space

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain...

Quote the Iva, "There's always more."

There is more to see than meets the eye

"White Space, my place, Facebook, a dollar"

Quote the Iva, "Always more."

Stressed out, time poor, globalized, uncivilized,
massacred, distractions
falsify, simulate,
stimulate, "we see things"

Quote the Iva, "Always more."

We hope it's true, we think it's true, it sounds true, doesn't it?

Quote the Iva, "Always more."

Prprprprprpropaganda?

They wouldn't do that to us, would they?

Quote the Iva, "Always more."

And so to still the beating of my heart, I sit repeating

What most people Believe in today is some type of lie

Written with a nod and a thank you to the thinker, writer and designer of "What Most People Be(Lie)ve in Today, is some type of Lie," Michael Iva

to learn more see, http://www.changethis.com/32.04.100WaysKillConcept

spectrum

a friend bemoaned rare sun by invoking fair juliet and my internal taoist voice praised rain

go figure

Our Island of the Sun

Our Island of the Sun
by Winston Riley

Legend
A king whose ship was lost at sea pleaded a course of sanity.
Dependent on each other, the crew on deck should have sought esprit.
To such a ship came King O'bom.
Instead the crew, intent on blame ruled by anger, they sought to shame each other
on this land, whose name
was Island of the Sun

Two sides were formed, the red and blue. Which sword of these, they knew not whose
was tempered best. For strength be true, the test was hope for all--not few.
All eyes were focused on O'bom.
From far enough above, the ball seemed motionless and could not fall if tribes connected,
one for all on Island of the Sun.

What was the goal, they should have asked. For things designed to toss, not last?
To find the games which pleased them best? Would such an end provide them rest?
This voyage would define O'bom.
No easy job for any man. Invisible, they say, the hand which moves the trading of the land
on tiny Island of the Sun.

So much bloodshed traced back to oil with cousin coal their sky did boil.
Their rivers stunk and species failed, as with their values lost, their soil.
For these crimes they blamed O'bom.
Sixteen thousand kids died each day from hunger, instead of laughed or played. (I pray that your child, like mine, may
flourish on Island of the Sun).

Much of the pain, they believed by scriptures read could be relieved
and would comfort them in their grief. Would God guide Commander in Chief
to save a hungry child, O'bom?
"My Lord is best," one side would say. Others claimed theirs would save the day.
For tint of skin and love of faith, they waged a war
under the sun.

On what few things could they agree? What sacred views could both they see?
From pain all children should be free and healthy land on which to be
Petitioned thus to King O'bom:
Books and shoes, enough to eat. Not mines but grass under their feet. Unspoiled air
to breath and meet
on Island of the Sun!

Now
On these two battles we depend. A safe haven for all children and toxic free
systems have always been the guiding rule of nature's blend.
All eyes are focused on O'bom.
Perhaps it's us--our blue and red. Can we these two colors shed? So that all children
can be fed on Island of the Sun?

What's the difference between us two? So many bad habits to lose. If some of mine are lost,
will you? Purple is made by red and blue. Do not mistake the hue
O'bom!
Preservation of life requires that we take lessons from the fire, the care of which we should never tire
is Our Island of the Sun

Our Island of the Sun

Two sides are formed, the red and blue.

Which sword of these, we know not whose

is tempered best. For strength be true

the test is hope for all--not few.

Our eyes are focussed on O'bom.

From far enough above, the ball

seems motionless and could not fall.

Tribes connected, one for all.

on Island of the Sun.

What is the goal, we may should ask.

For things designed to toss, not last?

To find the games which please us best?

Will such an end provide us rest?

The time we're in defines O'bom.

No easy job for any man.

Invisible, they say, the hand

which moves the trading of the land

on tiny Island of the Sun.

So much bloodshed traced back to oil

with cousin coal our sky does boil.

Our rivers stink and species fall,

as with our values lost, our soil.

For which of these can we blame O'bom?

Sixteen thousand kids die each day

from hunger, instead of laugh and play.

I pray that your child, like mine, may

enjoy Island of the Sun.

Much of the pain, we believe,

by scriptures can be relieved

and comfort us in our grief.

Will God guide Commander in Chief

to save a hungry child, O'bom?

"My Lord is best," is what I say

and you plead yours will save the day.

For tint of skin or love of faith,

we'll wage a war under the sun.

On what one thing can we agree?

What sacred view can both us see?

From pain all children should be free.

Armed with this similarity, we

beseech the service of O'bom.

Books and shoes, enough to eat.

Not mines but grass under their feet.

From land to land all brothers meet!

Rejoice our Island of the Sun!

One war deserves a fight to win.

A safe haven for all children

to acquire true happiness when

they serve others instead of them.

All eyes are focussed on O'bom.

Perhaps it's us--our blue and red.

Can we these two colors shed?

So that all children can be fed

on Island of the Sun.

What's the difference between us two?

So many bad habits to loose.

If some of mine are lost, will you?

Purple is made by red and blue.

Do not mistake the hue O'bom!

Preservation of life requires

that we take lessons from the fire.

For care of her. that we not tire--

our Island of the Sun

Reading Between the Lines

climate change, peak oil, water shortages

the cutest little babies you ever saw

HIV, H1N1, wars and famine, deforestation

reunions, Yoga, Tai Chi, Facebook and search engines

confined animal feeding operations

Thanksgiving

Obesity, diabetes, heart disease

Kellogg's, General Mills, Kraft Foods

Dashing through the snow

small children without parents

Eggnog

Depression

On a good day you get egg role

I'm sorry mam, your son was killed by a car bomb

good things come in small packages

that's another can of worms

it is hard to imagine anything so beautiful

gone to hell in a handbasket

Whatever can be imagined can be invented

we face mass destruction and turmoil

the most uplifting version of Ave Maria

the most hideous crime ever committed

the generosity of the human spirit

greed, depravity and hatred

Our

choices

are

a

form

of

mathematics

to

be

determined

by

an

invisible

calculator

Oh Glory Be

You. Me. Art.

If you live and are living--you make art.

Your smile is art. Your hair, in whatever state, is art.

Your bald head is art (and shiny).

Your walk is art. Your love is such precious art.

Your touch is art and so pleasing.

Your view is artistic. All that you see is art (and glorious).

All that you impact is new art.

All that you hold in your heart is too. Art.

You are such a great artist. There is no one who does art like you.

Tomorrow we can find other art to enjoy.

Let's make art today.

Consciousness Recognizes Itself

We sat relaxed as a gathering, engaged in light exchange,

remembering the significance of the night before…

when the white flittering flock of winged warriors slashed the morning rain

with the muffled explosion of their gliding gallop.

Bursting in like trumpets and tambourines born from nowhere,

rustling the tree top canopy with their synchronized swirling swooping dance,

then perching as a squadron, like a hundred shimmering spots of vibrating energy--

speckled reflections of diffused sunlight.

We whooped and whistled from inside the maloca and smiled.

Our selves were absorbed in to the Oneness of the forest universe.

All was well at Soga de Alma.

Lens Cover

A thin sheet forms the skin that holds back tears.

No one knows what the chemical is which bubbles up as majesty.

Colors with power enough to take your breath away,

changing on a canvas which no camera has lens enough to understand,

on a certain dusk, at a certain place, in a thousand lands.

And you lose yourself in the foreground,

wondering which part is observer and which part is observed.

This moment is all there is.

Farmers in Lab Coats

Chorus:
Do you remember the spread on the table,
by the bounty of our cousins own chores?
When commun’ty meant swings sets and picnics
Only got to by walking out doors.

Verses:
They name fake butter for valleys and corn cribs
While our health is secure we are told
Farmer John now wears a lab coat.
What you eat is what he has sold.

A coal fired farm fact’ry is spewing
In the distance from dawns early light.
Our diets are hardly sun ripened
As the boxes depict in disguise.


An ancient recruit has changed nature’s system
And we’ve developed a taste for synthetics
So with loss of soil and income
Our farmers are replaced by our medics

Bronto and Rex have been long buried
But my Uncle stirred them up from the grave
And their ghosts are like bubbling ink stains
So blighted fields our lives can not save

Helix lived on a spiraling stair case
Spawned on the farm in old family ways
Along came a molecular whiz kid
And zapped poor helix to a weird purple haze

Now the science is known as ag-culture
Though more closely related to Frank Stein
Our four wheeled shopping carts runneth over
With toxins though our kids do not mind

Who runs the show here, we might be askin
Why don’t we get out and vote with our forks
And tell Betty Crocker, Unc’ Ben and Aunt Mima
That their stuff we aint buyin no more

The Astronaut Shuttle (Sang to All Night Long)

Sun is down The sky is clear
Throw back your head and have no fear
As space freaks, we're safe up here
Do the Astronaut Shuttle
Space walk, space walk
Take off your helmet, unzip your pants
Get the feel of moonwalk trance
Come over here and Shuttle
Astronaut, astro do, it’s better
Take off your suit, don’t talk
Come over here and Shuttle
Astronaut too hot the weather
Take off your suit, Moonwalk
Come over here and Shuttle
In the sky, tonight
In the sky, tonight
In the sky, tonight
The colony is groovin town
The Moonwalk now is Shuttle Down
The mission is good, don’t frown
Do the Astronaut Shuttle
Space Walk, Moonwalk
Take another shot
Tang and Tanqueray
Space docking wallbanger way
Come over here and shuttle
Astronaut, astro do, it’s better
Take off your suit, don't talk
In the sky--tonight!
In the sky--tonight!
In the sky-- tonight!
In the sky--tonight!
Can I come inside your space suit
I’ll show you mine
Oh yours is tight
And mine is fine
We all are floating
Dig the atmosphere
How you like the space?
I love your spheres
Space Junk!
Come on it’s time to shuttle
In the sky--tonight
In the sky--tonight
In the sky--tonight
In the sky--tonight
I like your space strut
Your crazy space hut!
In the sky
Down on Earth in mission control
To be up here, they’d give their soul
In the sky
Down on Earth in mission control
To be up here, they’d give their soul
In the sky
Float by, float by

Blessed Event

The space shuttle Endeavor has mated with the space station
and shot squiggly astronauts into the mother ship.
Now this tiny town of astronauts is pregnant again,
two hundred and twenty miles above Gaia, the mother of the mother.

The cosmic colony seems to be a very bright star with the
“apparent speed of an airliner.”

Walter Winchell would have called the result of this orgasm
A Blessed Event. And so it is!

Renewal

Did we inherit our legacy or did we attract it?
Are we innocent regarding our current dilemma or have we enabled it?
Is arrogance partly to blame for our feelings of helplessness?

→Starting today I will embrace HOPE and defend it!

→Starting today I choose to regard all those who are working for change as heroes!
(and for those who aren’t, may I reflect compassion, gentleness and understanding)

→Starting today I accept my role as a citizen of a planetary brotherhood which starts inside me, extends to my family, then my community, and is not limited by any artificial boundaries or shorelines

It's Time!

There’s a new occupation showin how to make a buck or two
There are very old seeds for sowin forgotten crops tried and true
There’s an old faithful slogan that’s restored the silent few
We’ve served the corporate system in spite of hunger and our thirst
It’s time now, Gawdamit, to put We the People first

There’s an old breed of warrior stormin as an army into light
And the children will be born in time to change the wrong to right
It is called a green economy and we have it in our sight
They fooled with Mother Nature, and the bubble it has burst
It’s time now, Gawdamit, to put We the People first

And if you like celebratin, then throw back your head and shout
For what we are creatin is what unity is all about
As a family of six billion strong there really is no doubt
Say no to tanks and missiles, the oil fields, they are cursed
It’s time now, Gawdamit, to put We the People first

Every morn a step is added on the path to life that’s free
You can feel the spirit rumblin ‘neath your feet, don’t you agree?
So put your arms together with your neighbor, it’s time to be
The world that we’ve been promised, the best, not the worst
It’s time now, Gawdamit, to put We the People first