We follow that which we do not know
is rationally plausible
or analytically
verifiably true
For the dutiful
dare we call it
implicit
ardent
faith
It was my lovely mother who devotedly fathered me;
She taught me wisdom and the ability to analytically see.
Fully guided me with discipline; sprinkling lashes, when necessary;
She trained me up, “In the way that I should go” and not contrary.
I learnt life-moulding lessons daily; through which I matured;
She re-enforced what I was taught at school, because it mattered.
Daily she provided, while teaching me that it was God who provides;
I learnt that decisions have consequences; so before you decide scrutinize.
She always solicited advice and aid from other men about “guys stuff;”
Because she understood that in some areas, she didn’t know enough.
She never slowed down; gave up; nor as I see it, never once rested;
Even when her health, strength, will and faith; life’s trials sorely tested.
When all is said, written and done, my beloved mother is the one;
She bore, raised, mothered and fathered me – she’s my Wonder Woman.
End
By: Dion Penville
"How good is your intuition,
When assessing the situation
Theoretically,
Or analytically
To be witness to,
Or deciding for you
The net result,
Of former doubt
Is it derived,
By good vibes
Is it a premonition,
Or educated supposition
It it insight combined with fact,
To determine the final act
Or is it obvious to recall,
Like handwriting on the wall
Maybe it’s like reading tea leaves in a cup,
With all the events and nuances to add up
Or don’t if your not inclined,
In reading everyone’s mind
Like a moth that builds a cocoon,
Emerging as a butterfly soon
Our thoughts and observations are woven,
To see the goal we have chosen
Or the mentality of emotion,
Be it person or place with devotion
For much can be left unsaid,
Requiring your intuition instead
So take a moment to suppose,
What your insight will propose"
Trish Lee was un- apologetically,
absolutely, completely,
foundationally, right most of the time.
She was basically,
categorically, mathematically,
able to tell time because her cuckoo clock chimed.
Hypothetically, analytically,
metaphorically, she understood the cuckoo clock
better than most.
Because scientifically,
comprehensively, she could shift-change
and enter the clock like a small wispy ghost.
i read indulgence mid scripted words
breaking all the rules and then some,
what be greater than gutting & swallowing
uttermost concentration of language
critically consummated or otherwise,
communing within written ideologies
something profoundly reverent or
perhaps deliberate liberating nonsense,
nonetheless commonsensical compunction to
the discerning foresightedness of poets
& enduring escape artists 'tween psyche's
hallucinations & declarations
about analytically anomalous analgesics
and mellisonant melancholy metonymy,
rising above the fray of brutally alliterated
annotations fragmenting & fracturing dimensions,
steel blades sharpening anthologies' imperfect isms
inferring resoluteness 'tween deductive reasoning,
willing exposure imparting quintessential bollocks
literally grasping mercilessly melded metaphors
courageous enough to virtually be aptly bled,
plunged beneath swords' inky touchstones
There's a story in the bible that should be clarified-
it's true that Jesus Christ was crucified and died
but Judas never hung himself I know he's still alive.
I was doing shots with him down at a local dive,
he was dirinking bourbon and I was drinking rye.
He was getting wasted as I listened analytically
to a story of betrayal he was pouring over me.
He wore a smile upon his face and talked congenially
but under that exterior it was obvious that he
was a raging fusion of covert hostility.
I sat there and listened through several shots of rye
until the conversation faded and then it finally died.
He paid his tab in silver and as he staggered off outside
I sat there on that barstool completely mystified
as to when he'd finally kiss this relationship good-bye.
Judas is a friend of mine but I want all of you to know
I get very nervous when he stops by to say hello.
I stand so far and silent as I become invisible to the ever growing crowd, an atmosphere of consciousness building thoughts into an idea formulating like a cloud, I can see all the scared eyes concealed behind every veiling mask, a sequence of smiles and personality reflection where most dishonestly bask; Iv'e spent endless nights alone with a million questions to ask. Insanity shapes as chemical consumption psychologically rapes, enter my mentality but know first there are no escapes. The silent suffering seems to bring a smile, comforting darkness from a self imprisoning exile, glancing through the eyes capable of seeing truth beyond mask's of denial. maybe a blessing, perhaps a curse, analytically obsessing, a mind unveiling thy universe. The embryonic earth so majestic and frail, the womb so caressing and warm; Where only darkness has managed to prevail, I watch the destruction from the eye of the storm.
Conversationless
I’m not a hermit, a recluse
or otherwise estranged anti-social degenerate.
My IQ, is nothing to brag of, though a little high.
I’m polite, pleasant and usually display good manners.
But my conversationese is less than what would please
a listener, stone deaf operating a jack hammer.
It’s not that I’m stupid,
I’m not.
I’m just systematic,
and perfectionistic.
I think a lot.
Even the most mundane, trivial situation or idea,
I analyze.
I dissect it completely, exhaustively, physically, until it is analytically naked.
It is stripped of all possibilities which provide insight.
I’m just not good company.
I should change.
I think I should change.
I think I should decide if I should change.
Maybe I should decide first what I need to do to change.
Or maybe I should decide what I can accomplish if I do decide to change.
Do you get the point?
Do you understand?
Let me explain it to you again,
and again—and again--------and again------------------------and ag------------!
© Feb 23 2010 Charles Henderson
Stretched before shaven imagining,
embedded in grey matter,
glistening sparkles simmer,
glint in muddy streams.
And dreams come on cascading,
traverse the emerald view,
patchwork of fields
stitched by olive brocade.
As far as the eye may garner,
landscapes forever spread,
distance spills incessant,
analytically dissociate.
Caged in a wide open space,
stand and stare and enfold,
loneliness rules the hour
for I and my captive self.