Best Catalogued Poems
Every Wednesday lunchtime
Lexie temporarily leaves
the deafening silence of the multi-storey library
to swim at the local pool.
The echo and splish-splash
of the mothers and the toddlers, lane swimmers
washes through her busy mind
whirring with words and stories,
whispers of change;
shhhhhhh.
Librarian Lexie undresses,
emerges poolside, transformation unveiled
drawing looks as a painted lady
she remains Incognito.
Incredible pictures of mermaids and flowers and elves,
illustrations of her many selves;
for by day Lexie tends to the library shelves -
books to be catalogued and listed.
For Lexi loves orders and systems
yet by night, stories take flight,
she's an author of fantasy fictions -
prophecies and predictions.
As Lexie swims
her pictures through the prism of the water shape shift
and her mind drifts to the publisher,
the man who entangled her heart with his way with words.
Avoiding alliteration amplified his love language,
promised her a future in literature,
in cursive script he bewitched her,
he was wanting to brand her.
But Lexie read between his lines,
she found him grasping and greedy,
a dance with a demon,
and she told him, “we're not on the same page”.
And enraged she drew him
between the devil and the deep blue sea
just above her right knee
illustrated as an apostrophe -
a reminder that he was just too possessive.
I cant seem to find the happy
antedote to cool my negative
consequences--- malignant non standards
freud pennance desires to capitulate-re
the never know mores so the forni fun reins can be
pulled taughtly somewhere
inside lives a man who cares----simple
kind to all--pleasures akin to
mellow moon moments--get the
fish jist--uncomplicated---neurogladiolas
with leafs outstretched to catch
the morns love rays---fully watered
premise to a concubine wife unopposed
like all fetters released free to
abound under alcohol laden pods
in a swaying sequence water ballet peaceful in its
aloneness yet always ever seeking the never
true part ne'r so patiently ignoring---
Cancer quest staring you in the face
but cant be seen---know knows no
knowns eyes closed bloodshot--wishing
hard to overwhelmed joy visions of what could be--I know theres a palace in me that gushes being is a river raft of giving
tides unabated for the abandon quits warm of function
but in pure feet sense cant save
to swim in the same antidirection plan for a
single sec hard to find 30 days notice
self eviction would help but then whered i be
in the tunnel of soothing nonfixtures
riding on nosense syllables that
now sag to be a faraway foreign language
my own fault alcohol only a seed cloud
the deeper I think the more dense I look
in the wrong semidirection too quiet and
yet unyielding to promote a sick sense of
perserverance uncompounded like a gemstone past
its prime on the open market a bill past due
repossessed
folded catalogued drawn drawered in a
tightshell outcast lowbrow miniscule
catapult nurtured nonethe selfless retro
inconvenience breech birth brain divided
gray tipped shark heart profiled in opposite filling manikin lifestyles
Had there flowed blood
In our peasants’ veins
We’d have built bridges
To join our several ridges.
Then the many exiled peers
Might re-cross the flooded streams
That had divided their dreams
And pilloried the science of seers.
But the fire of want
Had our people dehydrated
And those (like me) who bled yet
Were catalogued to a grim existence.
O posterity!
Do not disdain our delicacy;
For time is multiplex
And might your ship dis-mast!
A pair of blue wings is hovering
against the inky black covering
within ‘Little Fox’ constellation
of Vulpecula designation,
portrayed with stipple sidereal
in Hubble image ethereal,
‘Hen two dash four three seven’ labeled.
A hen with fox is Aesop fabled,
except it was really a crow
in that apologue still apropos
where pride overcame the bird’s good sense,
so fox got the food through the pretense
of disparaging its corvine caw;
thus the crow dropped the cheese from its jaw.
There are many stories much the same.
In Middle Ages the bird became
chanticleer; Chaucer’s ‘Canterbury
Tales’ has one that warns to be wary
of flattery false and specious praise,
since fox on inflated ego plays
with rooster to hear his special cry,
hence to distract and snatch him thereby.
Yet fox falls prey to his own conceit,
and chanticleer flees to tree retreat.
But coming back to high-flying hen
which Hubble’s scope brought within our ken,
this nebula with glowing surround
was by stargazer Minkowski found
then by Henize later catalogued
as nebula with the name befogged
in misleading term planetary,
for that title is quite contrary
to remnant of an imploded star,
which is indeed what those objects are.
As shown by the wings, it’s bipolar,
cast off from a star like ours solar
which nearing end of its astral span
swelled to red giant’s flash in the pan
then sent forth its layers into space,
as a white dwarf for core took its place…
And yet my inspiration’s essence
came from the alae’s luminescence
seen in this vast stelliferous sight
against the canvas of cosmic night.
Still, one might fancy those whizzing wings
borne by empyreal bird that sings
melodies wafted amidst the spheres
only a starry-eyed poet hears.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
The image and info can be found by looking up Hen 2-437 on the net.
My genealogical family tree
was traced by a relative distant,
thus uncovering ancestral names for me,
of some who had seemed nonexistent.
The past came alive in my fantasy world
with visions of settings dramatic,
as I felt myself in scenario hurled
that verged on a theme operatic.
Some fancies akin rose from imagery mix
of five different wavelengths and hues
in Wide Field, of NGC one eight six six,
with orange-red old stars, young in blues.
It’s a globular cluster considered strange
in Dorado constellation found,
with sidereal periods of wide range,
hence a stelliferous bunch renowned.
One hundred sixty thousand light-years away
from Earth, at Large Magellanic’s brink
(a galaxy cloud turning round Milky’s sway),
this massive multitude seems to sync
youthful stars with others from former ages,
through metallicity analyzed,
dissimilar in stellar saga stages,
which left astronomers quite surprised,
because it appeared unexpectedly young.
James Dunlop, credited with the act
of discovery, still has his praises sung
for listing a host of stars in fact.
Indeed, it was in eighteen twenty-six that
the Scottish stargazer spied the group
noteworthy, and catalogued where it was at,
assigning a label to the troop.
In the case of this cluster Hubble captured
with varied residents in the crowd,
perhaps a new star batch was manufactured
in rendezvous with a huge gas cloud,
as in a cosmic orchestral creation
with melodies that interrelate,
scored by composer of stellar vocation
for astronomical concert great.
An opus like Handel’s, supernally grand,
might sound and resound in the cluster,
with symphonic reach universally spanned,
in radiant star-studded luster,
while music mellifluous echoes in spheres,
or so my reveries rhapsodize,
to harmonies chorused by stellary peers
that resonate through celestial skies.
Generations of humankind here on Earth,
measured in cadenced metrical bars,
could be likened to fugue theming death and birth…
Might we be analogous to stars?
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
Inspiration, image and info ~ Some of the Stars in this Cluster are Almost as Old as the Universe Itself While Others Formed in a Second Generation. It Looks Young and Old at the Same Time…
Why does the heart get all the credit for love?
By so-called affairs of the heart,
that most storied of organs is not unduly inconvenienced.
It beats,
now faster, now slower,
that is all, its task ever unvaried.
But the brain.
The brain is swarmed
by a scream of consciousness,
the amount of work that lands on its desk
swollen by an epidemic of incoming data
as body-wide receptors caffeinated by intimations of love
report frequent sightings of
unexampled beauty followed by euphoric contacts.
Every signal, real or illusory, is taken into custody and interrogated
to determine its authenticity or duplicity.
Every word is a code that needs to be deciphered with a
clear-eyed detachment it can no longer muster.
Every look is transferred to the left side
for facial-contextual-inferential analysis but often hijacked by the right
for the purpose of aesthetic appreciation.
Every scent is identified and catalogued with
a perfumer's olfactory precision.
There are hints to catch,
spats to be postmortemed,
crucial dates to be inoculated against amnesia,
preferences to be recorded, compared, grafted,
model answers to catch-22 questions drafted,
declarations of adoring allegiance crafted.
The subject’s mind is apparently required to be read,
two sets of past, present, future to be crossbred,
blindness to other females pled.
There are virtues to exaggerate to divine proportions,
flaws to modify to virtues with willful distortions,
desires to mollify by counseling patience,
thoughts to be felt,
feelings to be thought,
vertigo to be fought.
Still the to-do list grows,
the repairing of an attention that no longer spans,
the mistaking of what happens to millions of others daily
as a unique personal miracle,
the confusing of being loved with being special,
the projecting of an untested passion into an eternity,
the steadying of feet that has taken to walking on air,
the murdering of ballads meant to be trilled,
and the admonishing
of that nonchalantly speeding heart
to be still.
and its the bing bang boing but not bong ok nor beng or bung
A chicken diner stream is a recipe of combined cream but crossing a work surface is often best using traffic lights, zebra crossings and highlighted roadway maps. It is imperative to firm a very tight organised congestion. With cups to the left and glasses to the right the secret glow of gravity gravy is smiling at the floor. Yet shudders at the arriving sponge. Nodding. Nimble are the beetle bugs. Ooh a ballroom dancing spectacle for earthworms writing in packeted slices. Wow. Earthly eradication ejecting evil evolutionary evidence. But it could be said that dressing very casually is not the same as dressing in a greasy tissue. Fabulous isn't it? Queen gong on a long skinny street picks up a steeple and canters away. A catalogued misted mispronounced misprint of a moonlit mortal. Brighter is the bay before beauty bathes. And a beating bear brings bassist and bongos. Fantastical notions of a citronella cube. Formations frown upon upside down house bricks. And hot housework in leopard attire.whirling. A bun in a jar is neither a jar a bar or a bream in a stream. Straightforward structure strengthened strategy. And a large-scale looking leaking leaning lover. Haha now bake. Hahaha and bring a small frog and a little linguistic fish. Giggle then. Hehe head hornets. Xxxx constitutionalism z that was p y Q reporting on the corner from the facts. X
Every year government allots humongous amount of money to schools for buying new books. Alas! bought, catalogued..library decorated with shiny books! End of the year, many of those books are not even touched! Keeps happening year after year! Are books being irrelevant in children's lives?!!!! What about tax-payers' money?
PERSONIFICATION PAINTING
Most of the day,
Alone on this wall we stay;
When the doors open wide
Shy colleagues ,behind curtains hide;
On view for all for free see
Our lives, on show for all to see;
On the seat ,over there,they sit
Often bored,only their kids will admit;
Silence is the rule in our home,
Our photos and bios well catalogued;
Up close into my face they peer
Often my expression can bring a tear;
Yes,admiration we do adore,
Silent hedonism,can be a bore;
At night with the alarm turned on
Some of us burst into song;
We long for freedom,to be alone,
In a family,not on our own
Listen to me read this poem on youtube under the name ichthyschiro
Be careful, Acirema
torrential are the rains
that befall your treeless soil.
Be careful, Acirema
denial is a river that runs deep
unfathomable the depths of your flooded streams.
Be careful, Acirema
what gloom, your squandered potential
retain from times wasted your dwindling remnants of era.
Be careful, Acirema
of your copious memorials, in their heaps
your decrepit utopia craves no more.
Be careful, Acirema
shelve your inner warrior
snarling and catalogued, let it collect dust.
Be careful, Acirema
your prized infinity may conclude
should your grudging manner made an infinite.
stacked certificates of printed births.
ink stamped little feet on four by eight cards.
such near relatives returning to
golden crayan bethel's.
exact paper portraits....
such exact paper portraits....
when exacting paper portraits...….
now they say god has hands so he too
i suppose can be forgiven at times.
they say a life can
be measured in judicial lengths.
tiny lives beginning at one end
catalogued at another.
corners glissening.....
in time there will be a coffee stain
and wrinkles along the edges.
all collected ornately and catalogued
by a very old god.
I
The form we take
In the shape of a life
From trumpet birth blasts
To the final shadow sighs
The faithful leap
From a Dayton hill
To silver supersonic flight
A mountain of yellowing
Paper words and work
Of worn shoes
Discarded styles
An inland lake of soapy water
A dark, cool mystery mine of sleep
A warehouse of frozen glimpses
Catalogued and filed
A hurricane of curses
Sneer-spital and hot tears
The back country
Mood changed
From bright desert
To dank moor
All and all wiped kitchen clean
A few dark drops and fingerprints
Remain of this victimless
Crime scene
II
Every valid morning
The escape committee
Meets in the yard
To talk about
Terms & conditions
Cooking up plans
Set to fail
Next week
We will turn
Into smoke
& float
Through the ventilation
Or maybe become
Water, no wait..
Tears
Yes tears
Used to seal
Weekly envelopes
Sent back home
III
No fuss
No movement
No heat
No perspiration
No credit
No charge
No shame
No refund
No record
No scar
No signal
No breeze
No traffic
No morning
No bed
No room
No sheets
No clothes
No water
No ceiling
No air
No doubt
No blinking
No past
No night
No sound
No return
IV
Something seen once
At the roadside
Shining like a lost jewel
Amid the rusted out
Beer cans
Greasy fast food wrappers
Could´ve been a
Lost crown
Or a busted hubcap
That was so long ago
But not forgotten
Like a comet
Coming back around
You should´ve stopped
But what would have
Happened
One less mystery
The world was
Expanding then
Outwards & out
Few of us notice
The point when it starts
To shrink back
The tide turning
At some atomic level
But it does
And here you are
On this life raft
So, so much ocean
And so little left
Of you
V
And suddenly
Some movement
Thinner than paper
The void
At first
Abstract & Foreign
Takes on some form
A voice you always knew
A blood voice
Begins it´s
Forever song
I just wanted to leave a footprint. Proof we existed.
There will come a moment where you close your eyes for the final time and I don't want you to question what we had. I only ever wanted to be the last person you see.
All the breaths I inhaled where solely for you. I lived, not to follow you, or give you direction, but to be right at your side, needed or not.
I felt for you. I felt love. I felt happy. And I felt sad.
I wrote a million words in poem and prose to certify all you are to me. I catalogued every moment we shared, all the things I never got to say.
I was hopeful. That you'd break from your chains and fly to me. I've learnt my words won't set you free. My actions should've been enough.
We're as paper thin as the pages we now live on
I was afraid.
That you didn't trust or understand the devotion.
I felt I had to document every silly thing you said. I've kept away everytime you broke me, everytime I was made to feel stupid or worthless. All the hurt and I didnt turn away once. I'm still here. Don't doubt the devotion.
I locked away all the times you held me high to grasp at the stars.
Seems I was too late. The stars we see are already dead.
I just wanted to leave a footprint. Proof we existed.
Sometimes it's hard.
Seven minutes lingered, an interim of residue,
a trembling partition between continuance and conclusion.
The body rehearsed survival, a theatre of reflex and delay.
Then the stage went silent,
a horizon drawn flat, an axis without a pulse,
and the world sank into a white silence.
Afterward, an emergence.
Not awakening, but reclassification.
not darkness, but a chamber of neutrality,
where remnants of existence drifted in an ordered abyss.
No faces, only the abstraction of record:
gestures catalogued, errors weighed beside their opposites,
the arithmetic of a lifetime balanced without judgment.
No weeping, no pleading, just the hollow patience of cattle.
An attendant present neither stern nor merciful, only procedural,
spoke as if reading an inventory.
Then a designation was issued.
At first numerical, then nominal.
Identification persisted, even as the self no longer did.
The chamber resembled judgment,
yet nothing of judgment occurred.
Records lay in sequence: notations, erasures, marginalia.
"An account, not a verdict." The clerk read,
Errors and kindnesses balanced in two columns.
The result: Passable.
A new dossier appeared.
Families arranged in archival order,
faces attached for reference.
Instruction: Choose.
The choice was not preference, but compliance
the necessity of continuation.
From abstraction into assignment,
from absence into recurrence.
Thus the cycle proceeds:
not reward, not punishment, but iteration.
Existence drafted again,
not as consequence but as mechanism.
The soul does not inherit.
The soul does not stumble.
The soul is allocated, reinserted,
until the ledger of moral requires no more.
(Written at 3:00 am on a motorcycle between Sedona and Flagstaff)
I want to write dirty and convoluted,
connected and wet
And in the mess of my words
Feel the stain run down
Over the nice clean ordered objective, detached
From the structure you claim to know about
I want to write congested
And ingested,
Not divested of that
Which causes me to feel and to think
The outpouring of what will not stop
And does not want to change, as you
Try to sever my relationship with
All the things that allow me to dwell inside
What I write about
Not often objective
But captive and subjected to
And part of the unholy unwashed
I want to sleep with the dogs of night
And if fleas are the only price I pay
I welcome them home
A gracious host that they may feed off
As the wounds stay open
Bleeding with all that is still unknown
Those things that I mention
Giving birth to what was not there before
And if death is the one that truly calls
I hear her voice
But she must wait
Until I make the translation of her words sacred
And of my own resolve
And if she takes me sudden
She risks my anger
As I will drag all new beginnings
Into what she seeks to end
Pushing her further from that monocled eye
And with one foot frozen
In the world behind
Refusing to leave
I curse the new regions with my words
Knowing that death, like life
Is to be passed beyond
Not staged or romanced
But catalogued once felt as
Forgotten turnstile
As her soulless call becomes
Mere lighthouse
For those places
—I refuse to go
(Oak Creek Canyon: November, 2011)