If age is a constant then daydreams and nightmares
will cease to exist when the best of life is achieved
as maturity stabilizes at a level of immaturity favors
the innocence in confidence-mired ill-retrieved
those hopelessly enwrapped by rhetorical triggers
stemmed by the proposer amongst the ill-believed
'tis liken a heist at gunpoint to corner those regretters
to have brains (methinks) to cusps their mind deceived
and churned their souls to enter their relievers
and entertain the premature notion that they conceived
participants to ascertain the wherewithal of achievers
better or best consciously the line of inquiry perceived
to mull over and enter the zone as one of the leavers
to post with the best, to the winners be my best-wished.
I believe I may be Artificially Intelligent
For many of my lessons were taught by fools
Y’know, those pencil pushing test correctors
The teachers in all the schools
They gave us tests to ascertain
The truth of what they knew
That we’d complain about a D
On assignments over due
Taught us to write sentences
A task that seemed so dire
We went to sleep wrestling with
A dangling modifier
Teachers in the science lab
Their eyes slightly askew
Kept a clear path to the door
Never knowing what we’d do
Yet as it seems with all success
Like the day I hit a homer
I got to wear a funny hat
And pick up a Diploma
Thus, when they say: “must be AI”
I flash upon the past
Knowing that the “algorithm”
Would be tossed right out of class.
Explain
Short ?circuiting again,
Someone check the main,
There's an energy drain.
Rewire the brain,
Break the chain,
Let's end their reign.
I'll explain.
Subjected to pain,
Everyday strain,
To attain,
Financial gain.
Trying to maintain,
While they campaign,
Leaving a nasty stain.
Can someone explain,
Our money spent in vein.
The problems still remain.
It's insane,
Inhumane,
Our existence inane,
Trying to retain,
A piece of the mundane.
Spirit explains,
It's creating disdain,
On your inner plane.
Its Limiting our domain.
We need to retrain,
To Ascertain,
And Regain,
The power we contain.
Time to obtain,
The key to the arcane.
When I write
my goal is to be
impersonal as possible --
giving all credit
or defeat
to the Muse, Devil or
God of a partner.
To my mind,
Poetry, must speak independent of
the author, using a schizoid sort of
logic --
there must be a life
exhibited, that upon completion
the author, reads back with as
much interest as any foreign tourist or explorer
thinking: "where did that come from?"
Then I know, in my own humble way,
though not having touched the face of greater
creation, I have at least seen a small feature, moving on
with better sense of future direction, what to strive for
while in further pursuit of the art. Poetry, like everything else one does
in life, should be viewed through a sacred lens --
in order to do one's best, and for best results.... As I cloudily
ascertain. My method. I know nothing.
Billowy storm clouds turn to skies of azure blue
Agonizing pain fades when its days are through
The trek of life has its many ups and downs
Its seasons of smiles, its times of frowns
We hope more joy and gladness are recorded
Than all the heartache and sadness that’s reported
Yet troubles and trials are given that we might know
That adversities strengthen; crises help us grow
If all the joys were placed in a basket of cane
And all the pains put in another of the same
Then both are put on a balance scale at life’s end
Would they equalize or which one would ascend
Perhaps, it is just a matter of how one views life
Joys are difficult to evaluate amid strife
And pain often accompanies times of celebration
These tensions are oft together whatever the occasion
Daresay, it is not whether these tensions exist or not
Inner feelings of ecstasy or agony play their part
It’s how we handle and ascertain life’s various scripts
Life’s many ups and downs, its differential treatments
As I was headed home, a squirrel
Passed me going south.
I noticed him because he had
An acorn in his mouth.
Since winter’s not approaching,
I am curious to know
If squirrels still amass a stash
For when supplies run low.
Or was that nut for dinner
From his daily market run?
Or a late addition to a meal
His family’d just begun?
I have no way to ascertain
What’s stored within his nest
So, like many other mysteries,
I’ll give this one a rest.
In the days of wine and roses
April showers fresh the air
Garden sculptures change their poses
Streets are leading everywhere
Sun is shining through the curtain
Through the gluey young green leaves
And I’m fairly well ascertain
You’re the reason of all this
On the cloth of glowing satin
Bowl with fruits, and open cage
Magic songbird sings in Latin
Memories of Golden Age
Boats are gliding down the river
Ours is most lazy one
Wings of dragonfly in quiver
Shimmer with reflected sun
We were heading for tomorrow
But we docked at yesterday
Days of joy, and days of sorrow
Built that harbour of pale gray
Home together, here's the bind
Every morning brings new rose
Every evening brings new wine
It's exactly what we chose
Home, unreachable for troubles
Garden, always quite the same
Life’s a boy, who blows fine bubbles
On the picture of Millais.
For nigh on a hundred-fifty years it has graced the rugged shore of Maine!
Its welcoming beacon guiding sea-faring souls who sail the mighty main!
It has weathered untold fearsome storms of gale, snow, sleet and rain;
A faithful, stalwart sentry defying such nuisances, guarding its vast domain!
Old Captain Blair, its keeper, knows all too well the perils of the sea,
For he captained majestic sailing ships for many decades, you see.
He wearily climbs the circular stair to light the candles at close of day,
And with practiced eye, scans the roiling sea to ascertain that all is okay.
Alas, one dark and stormy night the US Frigate Arcturus met her fate!
A blinding fog and raging seas doomed the Arcturus on that fateful date!
The beam of the lighthouse could not be seen! There was naught to do!
The ship was dashed upon unforgiving shoals drowning her valiant crew!
The old lighthouse still guards that stretch of sea to this very day.
Modern lamps now cast their beam while Captain Blair sleeps 'neath the clay!
In the BEGINNING, at the surface, we both met,
Two strangers, excited and uncertain, yet to set.
Down the memory lane, doubts manifold did GROW,
Knowing not how we’d together learn and know.
Through seven years our journey before us unfurled,
From infancy to youth as the coil of time curled.
Crafted with CRESTS and troughs were the weeks and days,
And you showed me my good and ugly parts lost in a MAZE.
I had asked my adolescent dreams to spin me such a soul
That completes me and becomes my true WHOLE.
But you came and saw my happy, angry and restless sighs,
And dug out my FRAGMENTS under the clear skies.
I fail to ascertain if you are a friend, lover or foe,
In musing about VALENTINE, feelings seem to plateau.
I pondered intensely what a mate, a lover, an other half is,
He is a reflection of the level of fullness within, the inner bliss.
Love truly is not in sweet cuddles, romance and gifts
It is one’s core building block, an experience WITHIN that lifts.
Through you my love, I heal the broken pieces inside me,
In our bond unbreakable, you are a MIRROR forever to be.
Geology, the science of the earth,
elucidates the intricacies of
creation of continents and opening of oceans,
explores the complex framework
of the multilayered deep interior,
and unravels the enigmatic structure
of the mighty mountains,
deciphers from the fossils,
the evolutionary trends of life.
The arcane aspects of earth’s ancient architecture,
imprinted in the petrified rock strata,
enunciate the 4.5 billion year history of the planet.
My expertise as a geologist
lies in the study of rock structures,
that ascertain the deformation pattern,
consequential to the interplay of tectonic forces,
drifting the evolving continents,
forming the changing montage of mountain chains,
like the old Caledonia and the young Himalaya,
and creating earthquake-causing seismic faults,
like in the Saint Andreas and in the Anatolia.
A piece of rock is not just
a chunk of ordinary stale stone to me,
the lattice of the entwined minerals
enumerates the lyrical anecdote
of the eventful eons of the earth,
motivates me with poetic passion,
as I unfold the mysteries of the blue planet.
here we are, abiding in bliss energised stillness
then an earthy agenda calls upon us to act
for there is a mundane task to be performed
in as ordained in our earth life role we so chose
hesitancy, if it arises, to dive into gross matter
does it not signal addiction to our comfort zone
what is that that inhibits our meditational orientation
merely by altering activity mind-body is to perform
introspecting thus we ascertain the cause within
being our inability as yet to bilocate fickle attention
which as yet has tendencies toward inertia or tamas
preferring to stagnate somewhere rather than flow
the aspect of consciousness that stagnates is ego
therefore as yet traces of feral residue remain within
restricting free and unfettered movement of presence
across all realms and domains in vibrant nonchalance
I do not know the different forms of poetry
To be honest I have no desire to ascertain
So many forms and so complicated
To much confusion for my lazy brain!
I just like to write my thoughts down
A combination of heart and mind
About life and all it encompasses
Usually in a rhyme
I love reading poetry
Be it fiction or the real deal
Humorous, heartfelt, serious, dark,
All topics and opinions on how poets feel
I respect poets who love a challenge
Who appreciate the varied poetry forms
But for me just reading the names of them
Leaves my brain all tattered and torn!
Qawwali, Jueju ,Concrete
Munajat, Vogon,Tyburn, Grook
Only a handful of many
Like words out of a science fiction book!!
My personal preference is to keep it simple
Avoiding forms like Diamanté or Suzette Prime
Continuing to pen my poems
In just good old fashioned Rhyme !
Take a Chance on a Chanso Contest
Sponsored by: Kim Rodrigues
placed 1st
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
With minds as clean as slates,
In queues, kids go to schools
To ascertain their fates.
With their colourful ties,
Clad in distinct dresses,
They look like butterflies.
Not knowing their races,
They make friends with others,
With smiles on their faces.
So soft are they as clay,
Take whatever the shape
You give to them today.
So subtle are their hearts,
Break them not with harsh words,
Let them play their own parts.
Give them freedom to grow;
Like gems they spread their glow.
INTERVIEW WITH A DYING TREE-
I stand erect I embrace we
You cover me I am under you us
Grounded together we two
I am of you, we both stand in the wind
Both sprightliness, yet of skins
I die daily, my skin sheds
We gather this meeting we hug a conference created beings
In examination whose evaluation our dialogue audience
Exchange canvass the 3rd degree who said you’re a dying tree
I shed skin you shed buds and leaves daily
I speak life, live tree I speak life into me
You’re created-higher than the grounds
You’re created to cleanse the air
So that I may breathe the breath of God
You’re confer with
You’re pollinated
You’re survey you sound out ascertain the opinion of doubt
You shall not be disease nor die out I speak life I decree
I speak life, no you shall not be hewed, nor are you diseased
I speak life, you’re not said a dying tree
6/24/23
For “The Interview” Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Anthony Biaanco
I don't know whether she's still there.
And nor do I really know why I even care.
For so many years she never crossed my mind.
But Daddy always taught me not to be the
forgetting kind. It would be nice to see her being
gently touched by the wind as she weeps painlessly.
An old weeping willow tree arrested my thoughts today
after many years. There was nothing sad enough about
the thought that grew a tear but, in my heart, I feared that
the willow tree may have met her demise. In my memory,
I saw her as stable and strong, a coveted shade provider at
the time. Back when I was just a boy, she seemed older than
the house in whose yard she grew. I remember her well, a striking
site ascending in fields of cotton, not far from a lovely pond popular
with ducks. Perhaps one day on a leisurely drive with my lifelong bride,
I shall ascertain her present status. And only then shall I be satisfied.
060223PS
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