Best Almanacs Poems
"Poets are Us"
The blood dripped
off each piranha's
sharpened fang
acquiescing
compliant
with tragic complacency
keep it neat and clean
within the margins
no detours
stick like Teflon
to the poetic rules
virtuous and unsoiled
aa bb cc dd
pristine are us
sanctimonious sugared pus
we live for
accolades are us
Dorothy reads
Poets are us.
Smiles wryly,
laughs
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
"Happiness"/ Goldfrapp
https://youtu.be/mnHlGONToIc
"The downward slippery slope...."
(Anonymous)
"Un Coeur Simple", Gustave Flaubert, 1877
https://interlinearbooks.com/blog/our-sixth-interlinear-translation-un-coeur-simple-by-gustave-flaubert/
https://www.encyclopedia.com/arts/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/simple-heart-un-coeur-simple-gustave-flaubert-1877
e-book
https://www.gutenberg.org/files/1253/1253-h/1253-h.htm
"Flaubert's Parrot", Julian Barnes
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Flaubert%27s_Parrot
https://www.supersummary.com/flauberts-parrot/summary
e-book
https://pdf.allbookshub.com/general/flaubert-parrot.pdf
revert video settings at 1080. Best watched in full screen mode.
“Electric Dreams of the Sleeping Orgonon”
A tangerine dream
came out of the blue
cloud busting citron burst
electric dreams
of the sleeping
Orgonon
raised a little death
le petit mort
by mesmerism
hysterical paroxysm
still life
exists
(LadyLabyrinth / 2022)
Tangerine Sunset - Sydney, Australia - 8.12.21
https://youtu.be/96QsrXf_7_A
Kate Bush - Cloudbusting (with lyrics)
https://youtu.be/mwKoKusPkwA
Cloud Buster
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cloudbuster
Cloud Busting
https://www.encyclopedia.com/science/encyclopedias-almanacs-transcripts-and-maps/cloud-busting
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cloudbusting
Orgone
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orgone
Wilhelm Reich
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wilhelm_Reich
Orgonon
https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Orgonon
“A Book of Dreams”, Peter Reich (son of Wilhelm Reich, Psychoanalyst)
https://www.katebushencyclopedia.com/book-of-dreams-a
eBook - "A Book of Dreams", Peter Reich, 1973
PDF Link – free Ebook – “A Book of Dreams” by Peter Reich, 1973
https://zh.au1lib.org/book/4973817/247e9a
We mark our lives with milestones which are cold
and mathematical. Dry almanacs
and calendars, we carry on our backs.
But heavy numbers perish, once they're told.
Our age is almost shameful. If cajoled,
we might reveal it, may just tell the truth.
Why don't we celebrate remaining youth?
Why do we tell off years in terms of "old"?
I have another way to measure time.
Sensations matter more than months or years,
loves lived, loves lost - these are my souvenirs.
The old north bridge, our secret meeting-place,
warm wind, that pollen "blizzard", that embrace ...
these count my life. And I count them sublime.
Who created what I need to know right now
I need to know the who , the what , the when , and how
The big bang theory is that just some host
Cause I believe everything came to be by my GOD and the HOLY GHOST
They teaches us that we form from the water s or some ape that walked the land
But my Bible teaches me that life was breathed into dust and that how GOD created man
Am I to believe all this to happen due to some type of calamity?
Or was everything spoke into existence the land and the seas
So you say from nothing there came something BOOM!! And everything was there
Yea let’s just say that I believe that one but even that boom had to come from somewhere
Well you can gone back to all your research through your encyclopedias and almanacs
But as for me I have my Bible which gives me all the facts
Seeking and finding my own self has been my constant quest,
Like a traveler in the desert, my thirst has no rest;
Digging deep, my strength gets drenched, leaving me pitiable,
Wells within seem empty and void as though lamentable!
A name I have, for namesake, though so preciously given,
Life-cart, though with rough and tough movements, often self-driven;
Possessions, some given some earned, all seeming so silly,
Something for far above often my depths calls me deeply!
Knowledge, strength, power and wealth seem boringly tiring me,
Eating and drinking and sleeping and waking have no glee;
In my smiles, laughs, cries, and weeps… my quest, like the full moon, glows,
In care, share, love, loss - like a swelling stream - quest overflows!
Why am I born? Why do I exist? What is my great goal?
What is my physic? What is my psyche? What's the sole soul?
What should I think? What should I speak? How should I act and react?
Why should I admire? Why should I abhor? Is quest my pact?
The sea I see do not wake waves in response to my quest,
The forests and deserts cover all treasures at my zest;
The earth and cosmos cloak their secrets like history-scrolls,
Heavenly wonders too keep answers hidden in their souls!
In hills and vales and caves and mountains I search my being,
Before saints and sages seeking my true self, I'm kneeling;
Arrays of archives, books, and almanacs give no answer,
My quest seems to eat my interiors like blood cancer!
In this quest for existence, span spent is whole life and more,
Some little grains; more of chaff; the rest have no proper score;
The question - what's life? - remains, yet, like an unsolved puzzle,
I drink from my wells, yet, never quenched, find me still guzzle!
Inner yearning to know me wholly ablaze like wildfire,
Will this be calm and the truth comes to stay when I retire?
This quest was, in me, inborn before my birth in the womb;
Will I be able to quench it before I reach my tomb?
30 September 2021
''Q'' Contest, NEW ONLY Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Constance La France
There are Scores of fiction and nonfiction mysteries
so enthralling we Call them page-turners,
thousands of Romance books and riveting histories,
many shelves of Illustrated books for eager visual learners,
almanacs that advise us about Planting and seasons,
psychology books That describe behaviors and reasons,
science books deemed to possess Ultimate reliability,
DIY* books for those learning to Rely on their own creativity, . . .
The list is almost Endless, but there is ONE Book of the ages,
which God inspired. The Way to the soul’s Salvation is within its pages.
Do It Yourself
The day’s hours were worn down and a sudden sunset, that
resembled a master’s painted glimpse of Valhalla, was upon
us, its majesty of deepest blue, blood red and black.
From our tenth-floor skew, the river looked, for all,
like a wrinkled sea expecting a storm. Boats moved
to tie up before the dark body of windswept clouds arrived
trailing a wall of downpour and flickering, electric thunder.
Our study group had run over, as they tend to do. Most of the
members urgently moved to pack up (they’d be campus bound).
An unpropitious rumble and fierce flare of light, revealed that mild
twilight had swiftly faded to a darkest stormy night.
My pinched-pleated curtains thrashed before this tempest for
the almanacs, feigning a life they do not possess, like twin ghosts
stured to wrath.
“We can order in,” I offered, waving a menu from the downstairs bistro, as I closed my French, glass doors. “Why not eat here and wait it out?” I shrugged, “My treat,” I offered, “and I have wine.”
A pleasant embracement of relief and consent followed. What held
more power, I wondered, the society, natures coerce or the gratis fare?
Later. as we parted, a young man paltered, repaying me with a quick hug and cheeky kiss. The valueless touch, was itself rewarded with a small grimace of a smile, but the sin did not overset the mood.
.
.
Songs for this:
Riders on the storm by the doors
Stormy by Classics IV
I would like to talk about the coronavirus which has caused so many of us to agonize
I will stay away from politics except to say…it has made some people act unwise.
Instead I would like to stay closer to home…after all home is where I’ve had to be
and talk instead how this coronavirus has been effecting me.
This pandemic has seized many things we used to take for granted and put them out of reach…
On the plus side we have spent more time in our kayaks and on walks along the beach.
I haven’t enjoyed wearing a mask…living in this kind of artificial bubble.
but if one person is saved because I wear it…it’s totally worth the trouble.
I’ve hated social distancing…I miss hugging…for goodness sake
I even attended a Zoom birthday party where I could only see the cake!
The wear and tear on our car is better…since we only travel to the store.
and my hands as well as my jeans and shorts have been washed more than ever before.
This pandemic has stopped us from going to the movies…
something we used to do religiously…
Apparently now we’ll watch anything…even the Tiger King…that’s showing on TV.
We are exercising, doing more puzzles and reading…mysteries, novels…almanacs
anything to keep us healthy and our minds sharp as a tack.
Because this pandemic has effected our memory…
for instance…any show we watched when this pandemic began…you know…way back when.
we’ve already forgotten what happens in them and so we get to watch them again and again!
Deborah says it’s not the pandemic…we’re just getting old…but her theory I must poo-poo
I’d rather look at all my faults…and blame them on the flu.
Forget where I put my glasses…walk into a room and can’t remember why…
have difficulty getting out of a chair…feeling a little less spry…
These have nothing to do with old age..I believe it’s academic
when it comes to problems such as these…I blame them on the pandemic.
And I’ve noticed Deborah doesn’t laugh at my jokes as much as she used to…
It’ can’t be that I’m not as funny…and I hate to start another unfounded rumor
but apparently this pandemic can effect a person’s sense of humor!
In conclusion as we are experiencing something in our lifetime
we’ve never experienced before…
I know this coronavirus will win its share of battles…
but we’re determined to win the war.
Winter roars back,
May slips from view,
April has lost its anchor
in these storm tossed sky’s.
Songbirds scrabble under
canopies still too thin
for cover.
None look up but huddle
in puffer jackets recently stowed.
It snowed all day,
now the wind is shoveling daffodils
out of the soggy earth.
Mice nibble roots
brought up from old larders.
House cats glare from frosted windows,
bare feet wrap themselves in wooly
Christmas gifts.
When May arrives it will find us
defending slowly melting igloos.
Water is filtered through strong drink.
Fortunately, we have almanacs
and long range forecasts
so the present need for handmade arks
may not be necessary.
I walked down the alleyways of London
Early one edgy Friday evening.
I am a touring, curious resident, mind you.
The sun was shy and was sinking breathlessly and
With the hushed melody of frazzled fog.
I headed towards a snaky road, cobbled to fractured
Heels and hills, and stumbled upon
Oxford Street, famous for all manner of glitz
And devoted heartbreaks.
It was nearing winter, but not yet wintertime.
Autumn, hoar with age, and damp,
Was about to swallow her pride and go away —
And go the way of all flesh—
Leaving nothing behind but her gathered and swept-up
Wreaths of browned, aged, haggard leaves.
Oxford Street, the world's loudest bazaar,
A fattening roofless museum of couture
That runs on a long, broad and sinfully perfumed hall,
Peopled by men and women, ancient and modern,
Fogeys and hipsters,
Held fast to its deafening sound and picture of glossy, sexy lipsticks,
Redder than deer blood,
And assembled pieces of mascara,
So charming, so flimsy, on glass trays and wooden hooks,
Each selling much more than a fragile penny.
I inhaled and exhaled, culture dragging my feet, cloyed by
Sensations strongly adhered to by hissing smells of now and then.
I was shocked by the magic of flitting lights and fleeting senses.
Shoulders rubbed each other with shuffling, dragging gaits,
The rush needless and lacking in manners.
Should there be a fall from the height of Stevie Nicks' platform
Shoes, the grounds would rumble, ankles would dislocate, ‘HELP! '
Would be screamed beyond Beatles' decibels.
On Oxford Street, it's go your own way—beyond Fleetwood Mac.
I followed in the footsteps of only those who walked with caution.
Litters of shredded London Evening Standard smelled differently, rolled and
Spread out, reminding everyone, resident and tourist, of the
Elegance of the English alphabet, the fine fonts of printed almanacs.
The next man I stumbled upon his shoulder, a reserved newspaper
Vendor, the age of an embryo, yelled, Blimey!
Hosting my bent thorax upon his bale of hanging papers,
He asked, pulling me up with his one unfettered hand,
His breath on torture,
‘First time on Oxford Street, mate? '
‘Last, ' I mumbled.