Best Apprentices Poems
Mystical labyrinth of twisting harmonic warnings
Gazing into infinity’s composing handiwork –
Moonbeams in silver sung sonatas –
Ivory hued cantatas resolved from heart pacing crescendos
Spring’s soothing birdcalls after tympanic thunder.
Measured tempos of rhythms search for their time signature
As aching melodies in moveable feasts of swans
Search for resolutions in atonal firebird tango ballads
Through classical dusty suites of western legends
Not losing pitch or tripping over downbeats.
Too many notes squeeze into four square spaces
When magic flutes songs soar over seraglio dreams
Imperial marches set imprisoned phrasing free with fanfares
And close encounters of key notes discard dissonance
Seeking rhapsody in hues of blue.
Plaintive and joyful - hopeful and merciful -
Healing rhythms inspired from the eternal melody,
A lost chord to haunt then heal the midnight heart
All arranged in one accord from the Master’s apprentices
To rest in finality of one trailing echo of waltzing river.
With confidence in his voice, his hair all askew
The Donald proclaims, "I can run for President, too!"
A self made man, with several TRUMP towers
The Real Estate KING is now "man of the hour".
He feeds off and craves attention and power
Surrounded by apprentices and staff he encounters.
Imagine the boardroom meetings at the Presidential suite
as The Donald decides what bills to veto or keep
Or world leaders to send to the suite or the street.
With street wise straight talk, he'll get the job done
And make sure the world knows we're still Number One
Bomb the hell out of ISIS, set the world on fire
Stare down terrorism, point his finger and say
"YOU'RE FIRED!" (and mean it, too!)
Written on 6/17/15
Eminem Protege 2
Don't care what you think
I need Ten Shrinks an Ten Pens Full Of Ink
To Let my Inner Wisdom Tink
Colder Than Ten Penguins In A Rink
My Spirit Fitness & Physique at it's Peak
Adrenaline Obese
Extinguished to Concrete
Out the Pyramids Extinct
Into this Physical Dimension as A Sphinx
Face of a Beast of a Lynx
Idiot Beliefs placing limited reach
on my limitless fatigue
My Old Image Obsolete
I stole Potion from Ten Witches An Ten Wishes
from Ten Genies an Ancient Magicians
an Buried the lamps in the Ditches
while I summoned Ten Fighting Spirits
of Venegance as My Apprentices
I Opened my Sealed Syllabus
to Reveal my Ventriloquists
Just left Hells Kitchen with Skin Itching
with Skin Blisters open Skin Pigments
Stealing Lucifers Instruments
to Use them Against Him
To appear as Glitches
against the System
I cook Hot Meals with Mittens
an make him taste the Illness
I'm Inventing
But only an Sample for Interest
for His Taste Senses
cause Hells angels can Sensor the Sizzling
I'm Fly like Ten Twin Pigeons
with Eagles Precision
I'm a Scientist but I ain't writing Science Fiction
with Knowledge that would leave Einstein Winded
I been Fighting for Living
100 percent Percentage
an no less than a Percent difference
Still Power in my Engine
to keep the Ignition Driven
You can't Compare to these Rare Characteristics
the Judgements from your Conscious
is InTolerant to my Unresponsive
Mental Doctrines
Im use to Antagonist
Real Hebrew who's a Zionist
False Prophets who Diabolic an Jewish
Judaism Created with Iron Fist
in A Luciferian Science
of Enlightenment
Jewish Hybrids Of Pirates
Stolen Israels Environment
I ain't Racist
Just apart of a Nation
Created
Created Generations to Generations
Heritage Invaded
an Culture Undertaken
Perpetrated
by The Synagogue of Satanist
my fire been Penetrated
the fire in the eye of the Tiger formulated
stripes on the tiger Blazing
I'm Judahs Inspiration
an Judas Envy Craving
But I'm not Babylons Patriot
Bablyonion Doom Waiting
Doomsday
when the Moon Change
The Wolf Rage
Waging Spiritual Shade
against Ravenous Wolves in Sheeps Wools
is Game
Sharpened Tools
my Sword is Shaped
Cut open the Wolves
an Bathe in the Pool
of Blood til It's Drained
I'm a Prophet in the Apocalypse
What's in a Name?
by Preston Hill
The Sun gives birth to dawn. We meet for the first time. We introduce. What’s your name?
We chat respectfully- all the while the sun continues to rise.
To think that once long ago in the cradle of humankind an idea sparked knowledge.
Testing, poking, prodding the mind, pushing thought into expression.
What was then an idea to be spoken was finally written down.
Pictograms on cave walls, diagrams of the hunt, the battle.
Pictograms on clay pots depicting commerce from a life long ago.
Pictograms on parchments that develop shapes, gestating onward to the formation of letters, words, ideas.
Of contracts, agreements, mortgages, governments, constitutions, proclamations.
Pictograms on chalkboards, blackboards, whiteboards on which an idea will be conveyed.
And children learn, apprentices advance, executives and politicians chart budgets and trends.
Pictograms on buildings, bridge abutments, railway cars declaring “This place is ours”.
And as ideas spread so did humankind. Wars and peacetime. Love and hate. Dignity and honor.
All emotion within passed from one generation to the next as the sun climbs higher in the sky.
And on one small piece of ground a family, a clan, a tribe, a village began to grow giving titles to their neighbors in relation to their geography.
Mr. Rock, Mr. Hill, Mr. Rivers greeted with a jaunty wave of the hand.
Then John had a son. Then Samuel had a son. Then Lars had a son.
Yearning for identity, Mr. Cooper, Mr. Smith and Mr. Baker began to teach their trades and build a future, contributing to the economy and serving others.
Soon, the village grew into a town, the town into a city. Nations and states formed and families, clans, tribes and cultures pooled together with separate and distinct idiosyncrasies.
In every language and aspect ideas spread, carrying seeds from the beginning.
Leaving their expectations, hopes, fears and dreams imprinted on the pages of history.
And as the sun reaches its apex, I look at my watch. You ask me, “What’s in a name?”.
I reply, “The world”, then smile politely and change the subject.
I WAS ONLY A BRICKLAYERS HELPER,
WHO GOT TO KNOW TOO MUCH.
SO I WANDERED INTO THE DESERT,
AND BEGAN TO BUILD WITH MY TOUCH.
A SECRET CHAMBER THAT WOULD HOLD A KEY.
MY APPRENTICES WERE BAFFLED!
TO BREAK IT?THEY WOULD NEVER SEE,
WHAT WAS HIDDEN IN THIS TRIANGLE!
SO I SHOWED THEM HOW TO BUILD IT SMALL.
AS REVEALED TO ME BY MY MASTER.
AND PLACE A RAZOR THAT WILL NEVER FAIL!
OR PEEL!AND RESISTANT TO ALL DISASTERS!
Pickled like gherkins in vinegar
Crystallised forever in sugar
Set and translucently Jellied ...
Hung like smoked, salted meat
Pigments crushed from earth
brushes from fine animal hair
Is it because they freeze
the sitter's image which
survived as the best image
of the sitter for millineums?
Linseed oil Egg tempera hand
mixed by devoted apprentices
Were paintings used for
communication to the viewer
Eyes moving behind the paintings..
before humans could read
or write?
To capture the likeness prior
the invention of photography?
The armadillo
In his protective thick shell
Holds not a candle
To the armor protection
Built around his emotions
Holds not a candle:
Meaning:
To compare badly to a know authority_to be unfit even to hold a subordinate position..
Orgin:
Apprentices used to be expected to hold the candle so that more experienced workmen were able to see what they were doing..
Such purity, bliss
sweet angel’s apprentices-
Preening downy wings.
Look around you!
See, the now is everwhere
as spirits fly from flesh
bent over drafting tables,
sharing vision with the last
of Wright's apprentices.
What messages will flow
across the global plain?
What secret sinews celebrate
their isolation from millenia
of boxes heaped upon themselves?
Free spirits all
and Wright, sardonic ghost
unwitting father of beneficence
assumes a single facet
in a cosmic jewel/
For now, this planetary face
has made a synthesis of art
to house our work, and play,
and inspiration.
Now the schools roam free,
thank God!
Boxes opening
inhabitants embraced,
stone and glass are lovers,
not containers, shadows,
now reflections...
workers, prison free, are celebrants.
The style of life, an artform
feeding skylines,
movements in a synphony
of form and tempi.
Outside is in
and passageways
are petals hovering, their flowers
offering a time of rest
before their faded fall,
paving paths of hope.
For now. design inspires
the theatre of street,
and races drawn together, birth
a culture free of wizened dreams,
embracing Guggenheim, and Sidney
and the wonders of an age
of mystics yet to come.
For now, I pray you free, young man,
for Wright is dead, and your festivity
is in your stretching and your knowing,
just as he a century ago seized faith
in broken icons--you
and sisters, brothers, give us hope
of revelation still beyond our sight,
another new tomorrow--bursting light!
~
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
S/he knows hot cold felt co-passions
calling to become Bodhisattva Caller,
EarthTown Crier,
co-messianic prophet of brightest gloom
begging prophecies still hiding
winning our least best common denominations
racing diverse nurturing
of ecotherapeutic tranquilities,
resonant resilience
to both call and cooperative calling back
listening through speaking
what has fissured pathological cracks,
powers of matriarchal hurricanes
nurturing yet controlling
Earth's patriarchal steadfast Peter rocks
deaf to nurturing calls of invitation
but best for flat plane echoing
climates full
uprising
evolving
revolutions
calling as we nurture echo-call,
crying as we nature fall,
supplying all we together recall
competing WinWin cooperations,
co-operators
of and for peaceful piracy,
creolic recreations,
trumping each reweaving species
relearning shared vocations
as Solidarity's apprentices.
Climatic avalanches self-invite
what we co-invited yesterday
as bounty.
“We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.”
—Ernest Hemingway
An incandescent drip of flavor
falls from the tip of my lip
words gathered and built
as my thoughts delicately fulfilled
the symphonies played throughout my mind
Entranced, my spirit soars
seeking its solace
in an empty space
where the lines of your soul are traced
I am not a writer but a slayer of sounds
echoing each emotion
foraged in the fortitude of light
My fingertips are their caretakers
they caress the pulse of your bosom
encircling each bit of tenderness
rising alongside my words
I put you on display
with every drop of ink
oozing out the fibers of my grain
My craft is a heartbeat
You are my sea
From the Bakers To The Printers
Just Like The Summers And The Winters
Come The Apprentices And The Beginners
Life Has Time For The Sinners
There are scanty men of tasty rhyme.
Shakespeare is dead and Marlow has gone with time,
Tennyson is under the soil and Holmes is no more;
Bunyan will never live again, and where is Poe?
I miss the verse of Nahum Tate,
A man stolen by the tides of fate.
I wish I could behold the mien of Coleridge,
Or see Longfellow musing upon a lonely bridge!
Now the uncoursed apprentices of this superior art
Have been left to dash hither and thither,
Knowing not which word to choose,
Chasing in vain some erratic Muse.
They say that little boats ought to keep the shore
And that larger ones may venture more.
I vote to labor on hot days and lonely nights,
I choose to rob myself of sleep and such basic rights
And attempt to fill these gaping gaps.
I seek no gain on this sorrowful earth,
I labour to earn some mystic mirth
When warmed by the blissful wings of death;
When its vanished the deceitful pride of breath.
Let no man recognize me for my plaintive works
While I'm on this earth of muddy murks!
Though unlived ages defter poets shall bring,
And blur all rhymes woven in my barren span;
May young pupil-scribes with like relish savor
These yellowing tropes as sworn zealots can.
Despite the flurrying crop of many sharper wits,
Let new apprentices of fine art read these lines;
And gratefully gain inspiration from olden writs,
Fresh as dateless gems in death-hidden mines.
And should new vibes rather greatly outshine
This dusty craft and they still dissatisfied pine,
Abiding honor for founding feats will here keep
Future pliant eyes that for fallen warriors weep.
Not for incurable want of well-winding nuance
May youth disdain this tart ink ten eons hence.
Think of all gone generations' fluids of the vine:
Piling time betters stale rhyme like bottled wine!
Muse forbid that future versifiers should deem
These musings an exaggerated antique dream.