Multitudinous micro-
oscillations manifest
misleadingly,
Quarks quintessentially
quantify questionable
quantum- permanence,
Subatomic structures subtly
simulate substantial
superficies
Macroscopic mutability,
Fleeting fluctuations
fabricated from formless
frequency- fields,
Intricate interfaces interlock
intersecting illusory imagery,
Disintegrating dimensions
deceive dedicated density-
seekers,
Evanescent energies
effortlessly evade external
examination,
Architectural absolutes
automatically atomize along
apertures,
Vaporous voids vividly veil
vast vacuousness.
Fleeting matter masks
quantum voids.
He guards the perimeter of
my newly built life,
An unappointed warden to
his long- departed wife.
His surveillance is a shadow,
heavy and profound,
As his relentless, predatory
footsteps trace my ground.
He orchestrates a calculated,
unconcerned chase,
Inserting his fixation into
every public space.
My mailbox is violated,
stripped of its defense,
By his intrusive fingers and
his desperate, dark suspense.
He intercepts my letters with
a convert, hungry gaze,
To map the secret geography
of my escaping days.
Invisible tripwires hum with
electronic sight,
As hidden lenses pierce the
sanctuary of my night.
Those cold, robotic apertures
are blinking from the trees,
Recording every movement
on his digital decrees.
He is a phantom archivist,
compiling what I do,
An omnipresent voyeur of a
life he can't renew.
This suffocating vigilance,
this voyeuristic thrall,
Has turned my independence
to an exhibition hall.
He hovers like a specter in
an inescapable grid,
Unraveling the safety where
my fragile freedom hid.
A microscopic tyranny that
never lets me be.
gestures
so
delicate
a
paradox
meticulous
spectral
tactile
an intimate
transience
of
ambiguity
a sequence
segmented
in anonymous
apertures
to
a
transparent
'morrow
OPEN FORM in lowercase without grammatical symbols ,uses spaces&breaks relying upon 'the one breath limitation' & as a 'happening' requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input &respond in a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood & thus is inherently variable.
Love is non-mechanical
it doesn’t crank, pinion
or always work dependably.
In cavalier moments, I thought I knew
something of how it all works—
it’s apertures and shafts—
its grinds and reciprocations.
I’d judge it’s motions
work its levers, judge its spins,
and address its slippery angles.
You could call me obsessive
but obsessive people don’t
obsess this much.
You could call me compulsive
but the compulsive aren't
this compulsive.
All I can do is poise, balance
or swipe a little black credit card.
It’s the only magic I have.
I can’t turn bread into wine
or fish into water.
I can’t make the blind walk
the deaf to see or the lame to
taste again.
God reserves some miracles,
keeps them as close to the vest
as cards.
Jugglers work the circus,
mimes thrash to communicate,
and tightrope walkers fall.
.
.
Songs for this:
Viva la vida by Cold Play
When There Is Love by Karen Sokolof Javitch
The Rainbow Connection by Sarah McLachlan
.
.
How about a Christmas playlist! Because Christmas is in 10 days!
www.daweb.us/xmas/Christmas_29.mp3
A random road wanders across the desert
as voluminous clouds chase the rising sun
nary a sound can be heard, save for the
whipping wind and clicks of insects.
The yawning horizon stretches out
reaching towards a vast, expansive sea
its crystalline beauty is but a deceptive liar
for death surrounds her ever lapping shores.
Almost uninhabitable she is
like a barren womb in want
her waters are lifeless, a fluid grave
bearing witness of her desolate decay.
Fish carcasses tell their solemn tales
along her distant, lonely shores
their bony apertures are splayed and pecked
hungry seagulls circle, hunting for scraps.
Relentless winds are spreading littered
whitewashed bones
causing them to tumble about
conjuring up a false sense of life.
Now the moon is rising
as acrid air hovers over the sullen sea
the winds seem to shout, “go away”
a dull emptiness prevails.
The blackest night, save for the moon
descends upon this accursed place
where the bony beach rattles its lifeless tunes
along a haunting shoreline
that no one wants to see
where no one wants to be
beside the Salton Sea.
Whispers are battling with my soul’s delight,
Shining on half of my senses in time.
Mute the translation in its rhythm away from the drum beat in my mind.
What the micro vibratos may mean to this moment that festers down the long road,
A language that does
compute in my hard drive.
Thought processes cancel the overwhelming expanse of my lungs,
As each inhale and exhale folds and withers.
In that time the initial thought processes flood my minds eye,
And engulf every ounce of my being.
Which forces the beauty and semblance of my persona,
To parish into the oblivion unmistakably in the depths below.
The sea and sky only fall victim to the earth once in the rotation of the sun.
But all I figure in the voice that echos in my chambers eye,
Like sweet honey combs to my ears.
For if it challenges my courage,
Moves and pushes through the smoke and mirrors.
And begins to figure the apertures were the very essence of my humanity comes full circle.
On the edge of the years calculation of my absolute consecration in this world.
Who can know the mysterious
ways of the clouds?
They travel in white whipped masses
and gather like solemn pinnacles
looking upwards in reverent penitence.
Silent clouds slowly form and move about
like floating fields in a heavenly marsh
or like soft suspended pillows
making themselves vulnerable
to the temperamental ways of the wind.
Sometimes they seem almost helpless
as they wander in a ghost like state
like wastrels, weighed down
by the prospect of an impending storm.
The yawning blue sky
has become quickly overwhelmed
by clouds’ alluring apertures.
Now they collectively amass
in billowing silence
crowding the vast
sweeping hemisphere.
Slanting sunlight breaks forth
to spar with clouds’ menacing shadows
that threaten to overtake the light
like competing shadow puppets
during a midday matinee.
Clouds are endlessly breathtaking
and appear seemingly mute
except for faint whispers from the winds
as if time stopped to hold its breath
within the boundaries of earth and sky.
4/18/2023
the poet is the ship's Captain
the story is about the sea sailed upon
a tale beneath in the cargo hold
at times the most tranquil of waters
filled with benign waves
become walks along Elysian paths
or a tempest, red skies on the horizon
filling the falling journey into night
no longer now hidden
exposed to the Furies' rage
we are at the helm, quill in hand
where imagination and inspiration
fills the sails of this sojourn
upon acres of dawn's delight
lost in the moon's horizon rising
awaiting the harvest of its grandeur
sailing on without a moment lost
no worry about the surrounding fleet
the cargo we carry is our own
matters not the treasures others possess
because the wealth in this Odyssey
is our accounting of the soul's desires
find the words where boundaries
have to be breached and language
moved to higher peaks
so all the valleys come to know
there are heights where some may go
while sitting beneath the bough
lost in some Idyllic day
read line by line, then take flight
soaring on wings never before experienced
where the soul drinks ever so deeply
from the apertures flowing with nectar
from the Ichor within the poet's quill
OKC 6/22
the bottom lines scripted peripheries in a mirror
a headline toppled and reversed time and place
left became right and wrong pretended its centre
denuded illusions spoke in forked shiny tongues
lingua franca became subversive and spun yarns
and the spike of a spindle put wool over her eyes
prologues anticipated an apocalyptic message
hindsight firmly foreclosed unhinged shutters
framed in warped memories she recollected
blinds and veiled faces curtained in rags
holes and apertures appeared in the lore
essence void of existence smudged in tears
she relived captions and small printed subtexts
post-scripted antecedents and false premises
edited reminders and pasted virtuous contrasts
until meaning blocked out the pain of denial
a book mark covered in dust had refused to fade
and sealed approval onto questions and doubts
22nd June 2020
They told me the Gospel spoke about Him.
I've searched Dan to Beersheba
but could not find the women he festered.
They asked why I can't see what they see,
I told them my head is too unreasonable
to pass the test of poisoned goat,
and to invite unseen critters to stay overnight.
I refused the washing before I spoke to Him.
Anything to get to my head. They came
at me with Razer phones telling me they
wanted to sever ties between my shoulders,
I changed my Facebook profile before
I smile again, but they came at me with
a young man crying the story of Yusuf.
Someone must have lied about the paddocks
that pasture my emotions; there are no apertures
in the fences. I did not hesitate to ask his reasons,
they did not hesitate to rejoin, the prologue
by Him contains the newest explorations
and oldest disclosures. I find that hard to believe.
It is not good to play with God; I saw him
burned a statue of Jesus with lightening.
The Marshutka travels down
the jarring road, and
just as in
life, we are unsure
of the hurdles we will
encounter
along
our
winding
journey.
The torn and
chalky seat carries each
of you,
And you are with me,
Just as was
intended, by a divine intervention,
for our blessed
meeting.
Your kindness needs no
words because I can see it in your
eyes,
beneath the veil that
covers the raw you, the one that
cries,
Scripted within
your
iris,
I follow your narrative, with
every creasing blink,
And through passing
looks
our living stories
interlink.
In those speckled brown
pools, I see your soul,
I see
your past and
the worries you hold, passing windows
of cobalt blue
I feel the truth that lives
in you,
and
in apertures of forest green,
I see the things that you
have seen.
Your dandelion clocks,
show where you
went astray,
and where the wind of life blew your
seeds away,
And on this everlasting journey,
the two of us sit opposite one another
on this rickety marshutka,
Separated by the language we speak yet
found in our own translation.
Girls and boys grow up proportionately
With needs specific to their given gender
They become women and men so they say
They say celibacy is dead, is nonexistent
Technology becomes a vice for them
When at the casino, machines seduce adults
Dazzle pretty, show bright and shiny objects
Screams and rings are on display in public
Slots entice the visitors to do bad things
Remain un-phased, are hungry for the money
And keep you satisfied for just a moment
Passion has a special language filled with coins
As you depart penniless with your shame
Apertures lie in wait for the next boy or girl to seduce
Communication is all they want to do
Show some symbols as a token of their love
It's just a game for boys and girls to play
Slots have the last word, last action
Remain with their virginity intact as they say nothing
The craft came in a blaze of light,
people all knelt in awe,
slaves and Pharaoh gazed at the sight
no-one had seen before.
Two beings appeared, surveyed the scene
and down the ramp they trod,
not knowing that before them, all
would worship them as Gods.
The great Pyramid now stood complete,
and the next one would begin,
again, walls that had no apertures
so no light would shine in.
They watched the children run outside
playing, despite the weather,
and, later families all sat to eat
at table, all together.
“ This was how” Anubis said,
“our own lives used to be,
before our species had advanced
with new technology,
the simple pleasures all replaced
by screens and wires and games,
with everyone in their own world
now nothing is the same”
Ra said, “ fair point, it's time to leave”,
engines fired, they were gone,
took with them what Pyramids needed-
Windows, version one.
For contest 'Ancient Aliens', sponsor Anthony Slausen
January 9th 2018
As wisdom falls through apertures of the sky
forever evanescent in nature passing us by
We are told too frequently to know our place
or there'll be consequences that we'll face
Still, a man must do what a man must do
sometimes this concludes taking a different avenue
When a man is confronted with many conflicts
he cannot live so his life contradicts
Standing alone this may entail for a while
with nothing but your own thoughts to beguile
Yourself you see in a mirror of crime
repeating the same offense "life" every time
Squandered inky poetic renderings
blood ensued parchment's apertures
led astray in convoluted evolution
'tween muses fiery premonitions
and starlit descending skies' envy
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