I am the ring around Saturn
spinning words as particles of ice and dust
with the power to transcend
I am the original chosen to be right here right now
transmitting verbal frequencies
through speaking my thoughts into existence
I am the heir of omnipotence,
born with a direct connection to profound abundance
The one whose words will age, yet still have substance;
since there are no boundaries attached to my pen
I am constant energy
Translating personal experience into imagery
Vulnerable to tyranny,
yet i continue attempting to share some truth
through this abstract language of poetry
I am the core
I am that I am more
I am the Divine Presence that is the Source of my rewards
I am the green you get when you mix too much yellow with the blue
That shade of gold you get when the sun resides into darkness
and when it ascends in the dawn burning dew
I am the transition between the third and fourth dimension of time;
the love you feel when you realize how it feels
I am the poem that is abstractly direct
because I write beyond limits
absorbing frequencies from 3 to 8 hertz
through meditation for several minutes
I am the one bridging the gap between
the analog ascension and the direct connection to spirit
The one who is love
because I am a descendent of it
I am the rhythm that the wind blows
I am the beginning and the ending of stories told
about the universe and how miracles unfold
I hold the power to accept judgement from those who will do just that
Not knowing that I am them in the absolute reality of me
I am knowledge beyond measure because that is my right
So I continue meeting the different parts of me
when I meditate and write
Who am I?
I AM, THAT, I AM
Now my tendrilled soul,
Has found its pergola-- Christ--
To wind its way up....
Whether poets, showmen or philosophers,
Or mere cowboys who follow herds—
They all want to leave behind a lasting mark—
More than frail paper etched with words.
But the cold, hard truth still lies in the doing
And all but a blessed few will fail—
But on we go like bison over the cliff—
Hoping our wings sprout and we sail.
And like restless sleepwalkers we do wander
From one thing and then to the next—
Till we find what it is that will then save us
To put life in proper context.
So on we scribble and strive for the right phrase—
Catch meaning and life in birds—
Put emotions and feelings we briefly hold
On this frail paper etched with words.
He told me to write a poem
About beauty, wind blowing
Hair tossing , dream making stunning
Gorgeousness of living
Beauty addicts and blind ambitions
Movie stars and historical happenings
Formal dresses, women in high heels with
Faces meant to smile
That’s what poems should be about, he says,
Your good at that kind of thing, just spit it out
“Shawty, write a poem about beauty, that’s real poetry”
“Everything is beautiful, baby…”
“But what is beautiful to you?”
Births and rebirths
Phoenix Red celestial torching of the hearts
Interlocking fingers in twilight
Kisses, Death, sorrow, crocodile tears
Laughter, Ecstasy , black
White, brown, yellow, silver crimson
Skin on skin, chest to chest, on and on, soft
Hard City light heaving, breathing against the Ebony sky
Natural Twinkle of diamond shadows,
Cosmos, Atoms, Hydrogen bonds, Electrons
Nucleus, matter, anti-matter
Smash together, slither mutually
To create harmony.
Everything is beautiful.
“Just write about that then..”
"Not everything has to be written, somtimes you just have to
live it out.."
"What's the point then?? What's the point of writing about butterflies
and waterfalls? I just don't see it? Why do you have to doll everything up and
make it more then what it is? Not everything has to be picked apart and analyzed."
"Mmm, I suppose."
"What's real poetry to you?"
"I don't understand."
I recline and rest my head on his chest
Tracing lines of thought on the ceiling
Helping him dismantle the universe and put it back together
In his own way
Enjoying lyrical symphonies of life
Breath by breath…
"This, baby, This is real Poetry.."
Poetry won't hold her tongue
When desperate times
And the little men they breed
Would counsel silence.
She bursts instead Athenalike
From out the wearied brain
Or grows painfully from every vein
Like ivy's tiny tendrils
Pulling monuments to ground
Inch by inch
To let in the light and rain
From which newer monuments may grow.
She cares not at all
For their inconvenience.
She shows herself so many ways:
As the boldly topless Priestess,
Snakes coiled about her outstreatched arms
As the nun in golden sunlight
Falling through cathedral stone
This lady is a child
All innocence of face
And Ageless eyes
She knows all that remains of purity,
And every excess she also calls her own.
She woos the soul with its own music;
Her skin of sunsets draws her devotees
Towards her embrace
Her sweetcool breath like snowind calling
She comes again unbidden
Whispering her sweet nothings,
Bearing words to work
Creation Destruction Change
Upon her restless,
The paper lay flat
on a low reading table,
yet thick in it's pages,
a days worth of fable.
Our library bright with it's
rays to it's sills
and the paper bleached white
with a grey side of gills.
It's HEADLINE in blue
relaxing your eyes.
Large print making stories
seem simpler than size.
Text in black letters;
dragged out into words.
Knowledge you crave for.
Ideas in herds.
News from a paper
pressed for attention.
Left on a table
as though for detention.
Low and behold the hypothetical child…
smitten with raincoats and anorexic amber…
silently imbued with a spiritual vocation;
the pension led phonographs of silver split denial…
passively fathered by motherless harlots
… castrated by the wire…
low and behold the hypothetical child…
I do not know?
Sometimes I walk this road alone -- Sometimes they follow me.
Sometimes the places that I go aren’t meant for them, but me.
And, as a poet, I have responsibility, and must step very carefully.
I write of things that I have done and things that I would be
Always aware, in my steps are those who follow me.
Some follow in blind loyalty, some by the trust they have in me.
Some come out of curiosity and some come with expectancy
To see me trip and fall.
And so before this journey ends I’m sure I’ll satisfy them all.
Ain't a word, you said.
but it takes a daring gust
for things start to be.
Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)
Metaphysical Moment …
… Nature’s Mysteries
This Haiku is for:
The Haiku Master ‘Raul’ Moreno
Metaphysical Poet Extraordinaire’ (smile))
I reached out for you once again
after eons of pretence, snobbish disregard
and plain neglect.
Yes I reached out, not with strong steady arms
that usually attend others
but with emasculated courage and battered pride.
Yes indeed I sought you.
I summoned you dear one
from the far far seas where to sail I had cast you
and had briskly walked away
to find solace in another's arms.
So now I sought a vantage point
from whence I could peer
into the darkening horizon
to see your approaching mast.
Yes I did indeed summon you, indeed I did.
Yes I called out for you
to attend me from the depths I had banished you
when life to me had smiled like the morning dew.
Yes indeed I called you,
to serve me in rhythm and imagery
to fill my plate with tone and hue
and soothe me with your rhyms in rhythm.
Yes call you I did, I really did.
So now I lie in the warmth of your words
like a lover cuddled in embrace
as you stroke my erstwhile desolate state
with the stroke of your flowing stanza's
and my heart you've now lulled to a soothing calm
with the rhythm of your crafted lines.
Yes indeed I reached out for you,
for I missed you.
Since joining just yesterday,
I have not had much to say,
As I sit here idle,
Waiting for a title,
I watch as you pass my way,
I am honored to be here,
While a select few may jeer,
Mostly I can see hope,
From the end of my rope,
Bringing about a joyous tear,
For all poets who have been called,
Disenchanted or enthralled,
Our mission always true,
We inform and move you,
To make you act or make you halt,
To rise above and expound the truth,
Or to lose ourselves in a groove,
Whether blatent or far out,
We live to learn - live to shout,
About love, laughter or the blues,
For although I may be new,
To this small poetic group,
I see what you've built,
With talent and skill,
Namely this Poetry Soup,
Meaning, ever bending, never ending-ly open to changing it's mind and opinions,
by moving around words and pulling and pushing in different directions,
until everything changes, rearranges pages in history
just for the mystery to begin again
with new songs, new players and these layers and layers
of summits and new beginnings.
Of openings back to where we came in.
New meanings are foaming and forming
within the fatted belly of doing and screwing until done.
Come watch a new one get sprung.
A new shape to take place of the old, behold
and believe in your prayers.
They keep coming these layers and layers
and faces of women and men.
Turn around just to begin again.
Here’s what I’m thinking now
at the end of the world:
There are no atheists in foxholes—
no theists in politics.
If knowledge is power,
and power corrupts,
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero?
Does it matter that I didn't’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
There’s a poetry reading tonight
whence I’I'll chide other poets
who don’t sit alone.
I won’t bring up death
but I might have to breathe,
even into a mike
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo
maybe even a wince or two.
Just maybe I’I'll talk about love
and how following your heart is like following a dog—
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs).
But how many times have I used that line
since the story I wrote about you,
a witty and sexy and fictional you?
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you.
I won’t recite it from memory
because I don’t think about you that much anymore,
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me,
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes?
I don’t remember your eyes
except they are blue.
And I don’t remember you,
not even when I smell cucumber and apple,
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed
or when you walk through the door
happy to see me;
even then I don’t remember you.
Does it matter that I don’t love you?
Would it have mattered if I did?
How about a few one-liners
for the end of days?—
Depression is self-awareness,
which you’d know if you were;
I need Ritalin to listen to you,
Lithium to hug you,
Viagra to feel you,
and Valium to sleep.
All you need
is me standing there, waiting at home
with turns of phrase and word plays
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand
but want to buy as much as I can
and how I love celebrity gossip
and detest poetry slams
and find rhyming trite
except when I am.
Hypocrites can still be right,
which you do understand
because you nod at my nonsense
about fighting the man.
But now, at the end of all things—
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read,
and you’re just sitting there, smiling
asking me to pass the bread.
‘ A Metaphysical Moment ’
A Metaphysical Moment
Electrifying To The Touch
Breathless, Thru The Clouds
Can My Heart, Take So Much
… Can My Eyes Endure
All This Vision, I See
Can Voice, Even Speak
Over Roaring of This Sea
… Can Ear Even Listen
When I Am Flying So Free
Soaring, So True With You and
Metaphysical Moment and Me …
A Metaphysical Moment
Will I Ever Understand
This Mystery of Our Universe
The Mystery of Woman and Man …
(And I End This with an Haiku for
The Haiku Master ‘Raul’ Moreno and
Metaphysical Poet Extraordinaire’ (smile))
Metaphysical Moment (The Haiku)
Metaphysical Moment …
… Nature’s Mysteries
Metaphysical (definition) as an adjective:
Metaphysical of early 17th Century Poetry
Relating to the poetic style of John Donne,
George Herbert and other early 17th Century Poets
Who used consciously intellectual language
And elaborate metaphors that compared things
A poem is more,
Than rhythm and rhyme.
The words must have balance,
With tempo and time.
Free Verse is like that,
The words have a blend,
That helps it to flow,
From beginning to end;
Sometimes like honey,
From a sweet honey tree,
Sometimes like a river,
As it flows to the sea;
But there's always a message,
Or a story that's told.
The words can be sweet,
Or compelling and bold.
A poet's an artist,
Painting pictures with words,
Bringing out music,
Your ears haven't heard;
A music that comes,
From down deep in your soul.
It makes one feel free,
It makes one feel whole,
To be able to write,
Words that reach out and touch,
Something special inside you,
And bringing out much,
Of the feelings inside you,
That we often hide,
Often revealing things,
So deep inside,
Even you did not know,
Were hiding in there,
But the words shine a light,
On beliefs and on cares;
So when you read a poem,
Don't just read words on paper.
You must feel them and taste them,
For words have a flavor.
Sometimes it's bitter,
And sometimes it's sweet,
But if you taste it,
It's always a treat;
For a poet shows more,
Than the stories he's told.
When he shows you his poems,
He shows you his soul.
(Tread lightly and don't kill the messenger)
Speak to me
Construct the images
You wish me to possess.
Be fluent in your authority
To command my thoughts,
Motivate this mortal
With your perpetual souvenirs.
Present deliberate challenges,
Enticing and fascinating,
So I may be authored
By your wisdom.
Expose your riches
In stirring tones;
No matter the cost,
I will pay.
Such is your ability
To heighten my experience,
Dismaying in tremendous form
And awful honesty,
Until I have become
Spent, replete, and supplied.
I would be forever grateful
If you’d only lend me
A breadth of your time,
Ripening my observations.
Speak to me
And I’ll be the resolution
To your question.
I do not know?
Many nights I've sat typing things for which none will ever read.
Burning midnight oil only to add to this mornings trash.
Then going about the act of pretending it's all good.
Wearing a mask of my own creation.
These long nights of endless confession to empty wall's.
Hollow thoughts from a bitter heart to scared to exist as himself.
The page lay beaten only to be erased.
the circus of life is a deception for after the show when the dust settles
the magic gives way to truth.
Tempers flare and thoose happy clowns appear to be just angry ordinary
people who hate and loath there so called friends.
Dream that it would have all been diffrent if not for this or that.
never taking blame just putting it on others like normal so called adults.
These long nights breed anger and that page takes the punishment
and like a coward I look apon this act of pure thoughtless work.
And second guess myself wishing only for the approval of people who yearn only
for the approval of some one else.
Like hamster in a wheel never getting anywhere.
For who wants to be themself when you can be a watered down version of someone who
wasnt good to start with.
I cant say the comforts of being a clone wouldnt be nice .
But I never did like things that were nice.
Never cared about being on a list or kissing someone's rearend just
to have them talk about me as soon as my back was turned.
Be yourself and cherish thoose who hate for the bitter and cruel amount to
nothing and there only hope is to lure you down there same dead end life.
The clown tries in vain to make you laugh.
The fool doenst know or care if you laugh.
And me Im just the jerk adding to the mornings trash empty
as the page that sit's befor him.
Cavemen thought only of self preservation and sex.
In someway evolution was faltered.
Man learned to measure:
You cannot hold an inch, or a mile,
you cannot see a pound, or a ton.
They are but measurements.
They do not exist but in our understanding
our understanding of what they are.
You can hold a stick that is an inch long.
Yet, it is only a stick, and not an inch.
You can see a tree that is a mile away,
but it is a tree and not a mile.
A pound of butter is only butter and the pound
is but the measurement of its weight and is invisible.
So is the same for innocence and evil ;
Innocence is love in ones heart for others
and how far a heart can stray from love is evil.
Measurements of love.
I was born in Amhurst Massachuetts
on Decenber 10 1830
and had died May 15 1886
My hair is bold like the chestnut burr
and my eyes like the sherry in the glass
that the guest leaves behind
I cannot write about the world without
first backing away from it and then
comtemplating it from a distance
A word is dead when it is said
Some say I say it just begins
To live that day
Who Am I ?
My Poetess Sweet
You see my face and you see my expression but you don't know the real me that i'm
You don't know that behind these eyes that a little girl cries every night, you
don't know the half so why are you desperately trying to label me with some brand that I
would never wear.
If you'd look a little deeper into these pearly browns you know that I am not just a
cover you have to take time to read the book to really know me.
You can't just skim the back or listen to what other people say because yeah I might
be talked about but unless you dip into the pudding you will never truly know why.
Maybe if you looked a little deeper you'd see someone trying to keep up in a endless
I keep on moving but it's never any good I guess I underestimate myself or maybe I
just need someone to give me courage.
I see the surprised look on your face and all I can do is laugh, I bet you didn't
think that I had so much depth, I better you never realized.
So even if it's not me your interested in, please let me teach you one lesson. You
can see some much more behind the eyes of a girl than the cloud of makeup hiding her
In a girls eyes you can see her insides, her deepest fears, her insecurities.
Behind these eyes is the magical side, and if you can look into them first then I know
that your confident and well worth the struggle.
there is, indeed,a relationship
between music and poetry
creation! expression! release of things inside
If I had experienced neither, when I had died
And had to value the worth of my life,
And rate the influence my existence generated
for the general good, I'd be shy
How can I explain my worth, after I did die..
On this point I'd be proud,
Cause somehow I was so lucky,
To experience the joy of both
and did my best to leave a small mark
of my thoughts upon the earth
If but one word, one song,
one counterpoint jam, one painting
that I had done,
had meant something
to someone, than in this regard,
I have won!
I do not know?
For what is life,but today
A tale as old as time.
But no mater what men can say,
Or put it in a rhyme,
A life,no man can tame,
And destiny lies wait.
For here tomorrow not the same,
Is twisted by our fate.
But what can man see today,
That shall be on the morrow.
Will it bring joys my way,
Or bring eternal sorrow?
I do not know?
Dancing in the Gates of Heaven.
Than the next,
Monty Python Flying Circus.
Staring Shoel in fearless,
Anything else unwritten between the gazing stars & earth.
Is that what it is all about?
Never given the readers a chance in dull reading?
(Inspired in the highest of all of you in your comments to my writings, thank you
Globally, miners jubilantly jump for joy
Smiles on the faces of every girl and boy
The grins of a newly opened Xmas toy
Trade unionists bounce along the street
Music blaring and the tapping of feet
From nurses to Bobbies still on the beat
Street parties announced in the nation
Satan who brought economic inflation
Is deceased, now’s the time for elation
Its times like this I’m sad I’m an atheist
And can only shout and wave my fist
And then go to the pub and get pissed
generic minds listen to generic music
have generic thoughts that are unknowingly abusive
watch generic things talk about generic things
gee this generic *****is spreading like a disease
better get your flu shot
thats what they said to me
a suicidal vaccine
a subliminal killing spree
its contagious and the outrageous
thing about it is that the people are blind in an eye
that they didn't even know they had
it's sickening to watch these clueless civilians
inside the looking glass
with nightmares of being free
without a key to their mind
for it is trapped in the frequency
in the illusion of time
bathed in our universe
killing all that refuse to see
those that admit to hypocracy
or see the message in hip hop
how cant you see
the message in the lyrics that
bring adolescents to their knees
from bullet wounds conflicting their flesh
contradicting that they're the best
but the songs keep telling them that they dont need no rest
that they dont wanna go home
that they should ride alone
with the gat as their only companion
and so the only path they choose is the one that they're told
until they grow old and hope turns to a window pane
inside a window pane, until all they feel is pain
they realize that the music itself is ashamed
so whats to look up to
when you cant even speak when you cant even walk because you look so bleak
your eyes are sunken from the tv you're infested with the dee zees
now its too late to turn around and live for your conscious
so when youre screaming oh please
close your eyes and bring your mind to life
open your eyes for the first time
and never wonder why
since the answer this entire time
has been inside
and you better find it before you die
you dont want your soul to be in a pool with all the others
a buncha brothers missing their mothers
but only seeing strangers
only feeling the haters
wishing they would have used their minds when they had them
and now its too late,
now it's time for another new born fate to grab them
Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words,
and not necessarily my reality;
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing
You can be who you want to be on any level
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys, or places that some don’t even think exist
They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses whether they are just cases,
or me in the absolute right here
My words exude positive intentions;
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections
and reversed dejection
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul
Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect
according to divine order
They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time
because up until now,
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside –
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words
Contractual agreements with publisher caused DELETION
‘ Constructive-Criticism … (An Oxymoron, For All But A Few) ’
Constructive-Criticism Is Good, It’s True
But, I’ve Only Seen It Used Properly, By A Few …
‘Cause, One Thing I Know, That I Have Seen
‘Some’ Use Criticism, Just To Be Mean …
Then, The Term Should Be: Destructive-Criticism
‘Cause, They Ain’t Even Getting Paid! … To Spout Poison In ‘Em
I Know Then, They Want To Abuse, in Jealous-Individualism
So, Maybe, They Need An Enema, or Have An Embolism
Coming Up (or while under Construction) I Was Told
And The Engineer-Advice, Was As Good As Gold
‘ If You Can’t Say Something Nice, Don’t Say Nothing’ At All’
So, I Don’t Bomb Somebody’s Building, Just To Watch Them Fall
Constructive-Criticism, Don’t Sic That Dog On Me
Take It and Go Bark-Up, Somebody Else’s Tree
Take A Look At Your Own, Before You Tell Me What’s Wrong
You Know What You Can Do With That … (and The Horse You Rode On)
And In The Words of ‘Tom Snyder’, (The Idea I Relate):
“Just ‘Cause I Think Somebody’s Trying To Kill Me … Don’t Mean They Ain’t!”
And, If You Don’t Like My Building, There’s The Door, Walk Away
I Don’t Need You Cutting Down, My Structure of What I Say
And If Negative-Criticism, Is Under Construction ... That’s A Front !
When Have You Ever Heard of Something Negative, Building-Up ?
Maybe Somebody Dropped Them On Their Head As A Child
But That’s No Excuse To Criticize, Somebody Else, or Their Style
And that ' True ', for A Few, I Meant at The Beginning
Here Are The Ones, I Accept Their Condescending:
GOD … Loved-Ones … Close Friends … (and Me)
‘Cause I Am My Own Worst-Critic, You See …
Constructive-Criticism, That’s an “””Oxymoron”””
And Look How That Word Is Spelt … Hon
(I Prefer The Term: Commentator ( Cause I Love to Comment ! )
‘Cause I Want To Polish Your Metal, Without Leaving A Dent
the less i have of
the additional use of
the more it breaks down