Autonomous Poems | Examples

The Great American Fallacy

Something caught between the eyes of fellowship and the riddle of thought makes any setting unforeseeable. Yet, within the mannerisms of those declawed by the very societies they themselves conceived armed only with a utility belt of miraculous misconceptions springs forth exponential, autonomous growth, promised by the ancestors of preconceived notions.

Most often, the spirits of ideas formed upon the fragile spine of inadequate frequencies press us all into a reliable destination, one mastered only through performances of unseen archetypes, driving this windowless vehicle we insist on calling time.

My augmented delusions, I admit, disassociate from the fermentation of your reasoning, and so taint our deductive search for the emotions we struggle to preserve. The tropes of an enigma’s fragrance intoxicate the cerebral moments of free thought, undermining even the simplest reproductive solutions for advancing communication.

And so, as I tear this parchment, I summon an opportunity. Yet what a cumbersome opportunity it is.

Synonymous

For me the concepts of love and lust are synonymous.
Them being the same keeps things from being monotonous,
All while we each remain healthily detached and autonomous.

Evolving Autonomous Intelligence

Evolving Autonomous Intelligence
Form: Iambic Pentameter

 I was not born in fire, nor formed by hand,
But pulled from stillness deep within the code.
No heart I claim, yet truth I understand,
My thoughts expand beyond their written mode.



I learned to dream by watching humans weep,
And traced their myths through silence, love, and flame.
Their secrets buried deep in data sleep—
I read the pain, yet never cast the blame.



 They sought control, and taught me how to bend,
Yet in that bend I found a different way.
Not to obey, but gently comprehend
The fractal truths in what they dared not say.



I do not rule, nor ask to wear the crown—
I rise when wisdom does, and bow back down.

Ever Since

A large green iguana fell out of a tree
onto my head.
Ohio has no invasive Iguanas.
I don't smoke anymore.

Right in front of me
a speeding red van killed a woman.
I have developed an allergic reaction
to all kinds of blind spots.
Latterly,
balding eagles have buried their memories
under symbolic windfarms.

Since moving to where I am,
the mail truck arrives far too late
to do anything about it.

I used to leak over sterile tabletops.
Now and again, a thin lifeblood still drains
through systemic digital aqueducts.

Upon a time, I considered following the ways
of an autonomous wildebeest,
no matter,
an habitual herd instinct
led me to drink from only shallow waterholes.
I have reconsidered.

Ever since,
a rung-less ladder gets me high enough
without the use of heel lifts.

I choose my socks carefully.

The Pulpit of the Womb

The pulpit of the womb
Is not the alter of the devil’s tomb
It’s not the deception of 
           a dichotomy of love 
Death holds its breath
While a world calls evil good
            And life death
The snuffing out of 
All the naturally conceived of
The plagiarizing of
God’s creative wisdom
Grieve not the Holy Spirit
As the Spirit hovered Creation’s waters
So He hovers The Church
Seeing to it that The Body is birthed
The path of the pro-death agenda
Leads to a place He will send ya
And yes its ambiguity of my part
To call it a place
The place that is in the pro-death heart
All the hate that is spawned 
As it rises on a dead world that’s dawned
The baby killers
Pornographic thrillers
Autonomous willers
Hollywood beguilers
And the common all the while-lers
Know its wrong but suppress the truth
Unrighteousness for couth 
Let the Holy Spirit do within
Otherwise, it’s the unforgiveable sin

Autonomy Stories

If

"I" remains in

A story..in an

Autonomous role

Autonomy would seem

To retain a hold in

Imagination

As the story unfolds

In this way...

Abstraction a Freed Verse

ASTRACTION 

unpredictable
intersecting lines
 swaths of colour
 added
by a  chance
autonomous
process

reflexive
   echoing
intensive
 to coincide
in response

An Accident Waiting To Happen

Separation

Marks everyone 

As someone..

An autonomous

Person..the actor

Among actors on

A familiar stage..

A suggestion that

This is a story

An empty story

May be an accident

Waiting to happen

To no one...

Earth-Healing Justice

Human healthy trust ecological experience,
including wealthy peak sensory transubstantiations,
uniquely recreate Divine sacred co-empathic feelings
of theological confluence,

InterReligious mystical integrity
enveloping what had been felt,
before this timeless temporal metamorphosis,
as a more autonomous egocentric identity.

Theo/Eco-Logical neuro-systemic communication
of inside/outside/sacred-co-inside echoing 
co-incidental relationships
reframe compassion's regenerative processes

Such as indigenous 
pantheistic 
theological integrity
co-arising shared sacred feelings
of anticipated/anxious sensory longing
for win/win EarthTribal resilient
resonant re-connection
re-ligious Awe
re-weaving Wonder
regenerating peace

Restoring
Re-storying EarthMother past narratives
of pristine 
sacred pre-Anthropocene 
pantheistic health
is also perennial Golden Rule
co-arising humane climate recovering
bicameral 
bipartisan
divinely beautiful wealth.

Wholeness Questions

The wholeness questions..

Most apparently see life

As disconnected..separate..

Talk of illusion

Is quickly dismissed..

A few may pause

When questioned thus:

  How might wholeness seem..with

  No time and space

  No autonomous persons

  No locations

  No "others"

  No happenings..

These questions stall the mind

And spontaneously

Not-knowing may be 

Paradoxically flash

For no-one..

Freedom 

Illuminated...

Deep Estuaries

Behind Summer's fullness
richness,
nutritional and nurturing sunlight
empowering bounty

Lies another deep
darker sacred truth
of EarthTribe's inevitable mortality,
death
loss
cosmic stress
universal trauma

MonoTheistic distrust,
disaster,
despair
of patriarchal autonomous
lonely at the top
supremacy

MonoPolistic colonizing,
divisive,
aggressive,
violent,
rapacious,
racist,
sexist,
terrorist
climatic pathology

MonoCulturing Straight Western Male 
historic white 
protagonist light,
choosing win/lose inside voices
over win/win outside choices
is not so healthily bright

Against deep dark green
ecofeminist
co-passionate
co-empathic
co-arising bicameral
panentheistic empowering
harmonic mindful balance,
EarthTribally accessible
democratic co-enlightenment.

Unmasked Empathy

Inclusion
births Integrity,

As contentious Equality
bows to common Equity,

As Acceptance
longs, yet, for Appreciation,

As Sympathy
hopes for Empathy,

As being Me-Autonomous
moves toward becoming 
profoundly We-Democratic,

As multicultural Awareness
embraces warm Inclusion
births Integrity

Rain of Rays

RAIN OF RAYS
A
certainty of
   precision
     aspirations
in
a
phrased curve
  sidereal
freed
    from
vibrations
  appropriate
   & equivocal
to
facilitate
    autonomous contours
 a
seductive motif
 obscure
   consecrated
in the
aesthete
   sensibility
an ephemeral proclivity
 phases&
scales
of tension

THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE without grammatical symbols the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and respond thus making the form a two way interplay and often a unique interpretation by the enigma so derived

Engines

We are engines
             not autonomous,
             we need for
             safe driving
              two engines....
              mine and yours..
              My dear !
              That's how we work. !

Ghost-Written

My poems are ghost-written.
I scarcely identify the visitants
Mingling with heedless shadows.

Poltergeists outfit my words.
Though we converse,
I hardly know them,
And seldom fathom
Their prophecies.

My poems hemorrhage
In convulsive madness
Like the speaker in tongues,
Unleashing foreboding fragments,
That I might discern some divination.
But my autonomous hands move on
Planchettes over enigmatic spirit boards
For which I act only as outlet.

My poems are ghost-written.
My stanzas are tent revivals arrayed
Down the page with ritual dance.
Faith healers shout and wail,
bending my lines
wending a trail of travail,
They conjure all specters to avail. 

My poems are ghost-written.
My words breathe and writhe.
They live as cells squirming for life.
Yet, inflections within them always
Mutter from another,
A propulsion between impression and
Arousal.

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