Best Contraptions Poems
“The Fixer”
While clearing gutters of the autumn leaves
I was pushed by a wintery stiff breeze
Falling from ladder, by freak circumstance
Crumpling into flatness by haphazard chance
I felt a beer can directly under me
Memory of him, forever would be
For my Grandfather had tossed it there last
Discovering it flat, from days past
From bikes and cars, to rusty door nobs
As to how to fix their thing-a-ma-bobs
All would come for his consultations
For he was the fixer, of all contraptions
While others would tinker for hours into night
Grandfather would always have the divine light
Scarcely even did anyone ever say
That Grandpa needed more time than a day
He was a helper, a handyman, a friend
Sadly he died of his drink, come the end
A world was created where every individual believed that being represented
was essential as religions require symbols
to be interpreted by the ordained,
meaning of things provided for us like fertilizer on furrowed fields,
law & tax codes, medical knowledge, emotional expressions governed by consensus,
a democracy of dellusions,
dissent is dangerous and humility heroic,
where surrender preserves and patriotism perverts,
clowns kings and criminals having wings,
Medeval Christianity mastered markmanship of community authority seizing
the sugar of inventive intuition,
terrorizing the truth of personal experience,
thrones were tailored temptations, temples entrapments of greater mystery,
cathedrals collossal contraptions for centralizing consciousness, books burned,
jewels for fools & the fooled manackled to the alter of passivity,
masses being timid tools concentrating their energies on empire expansion,
exiled from ego,
crusades to crush criticism, a monopoly of memory
and torture the text of theocracy,
Cathars killed for lessons become occult,
unlawful cognizance of God within,
authority addicts abandoning their oaths to protect people,
subjects countrymen become,
being pledges & collateral for debts incurred for imperial improvidence,
babies of the masses transformed into bankers' bounty via certificates,
maturing securities on malignant markets of merchantile magic,
digital slave trade,
self governance gainsaid as being a primitive pathology,
a symptom of paranoia or maybe xenophobia,
personally voting on taxation, education and wars apostacy,
J.A.B.
The soul’s quest is long and reaches deep
into the etheric abyss.
One cannot find God with machines;
God is within.
In the soul of the universe,
in planets; all life contains a piece of the
“God Particle”.
A fool searches with ego driven machines,
accelerating collisions will never
pinpoint Gods location.
Shuttles and ships will never take man,
to the heart of his creator.
Souls connection needs no space craft or contraptions.
No one needs to search for what exists inside.
Each atom, molecule, cell contains God-essence.
Those of wisdom and faith,
touch God each second, of every day.
No search is needed to find, the God within one’s self.
Within lies God, without lies ignorance.
Ignorance destroys what God creates;
wastes universes of life.
When all mortals embrace whom they really are inside;
the utopia of Eden will return.
It’s genesis will birth a new Heaven; a new Shambhala.
He saw it in my eye's,
a little sprinkle
from the pines-
little crinkles in the vines,
what a pencil
drawing up signs,
nobody else could see have seen me at that time.
It was time for revolution,
people acting so fine,
but they are only here for their crimes,
so what is all this?
A loop hole,
or an archaeological find?
In the trees-
there is terror of the season of the mind,
makes me prideful
to the resistant,
and the christened,
...but not to my sisters and brothers alike!
Jesus was right,
always-
just like your anger is fright,
always, its all fright,
spring loaded contraptions angled real sly,
shooting rocks and bribes,
squaring off the moon-
magnifying the sky...
Add two meteorites,
and a generation of the blind,
and you will have my mind,
flippant and fly,
you will carry the eye's,
welcome and kind,
dragging a bag full of wine,
wearing your check near your heart,
and walking with chime,
such a scene to be drawn by musical lines,
to refine that little unwind.
I waited too long
to mow my lawn
biopsy my lung
yet lived long enough, anon,
however long is long.
Whatever. It's not wrong
to count along
while busy living. Sing
and stay strong
absorb the sun's photons
and store them in your bones.
Those bones
outlast slights and spurns
are white as lightning and strong
as sticks and stones.
Inside is one's
spirit, soul, the nameless one
the one that's never known.
It has no cell phone
can't communicate or even moan.
Therefore. Why complain?
Have some fun.
Soon
I'll be undone
underground
my garden burned down.
So what. John Donne
died and so did Milton.
Emerson too, and Whitman.
Get over it. Vote. Love. When
the train comes in the station
whistle with it, wish on
stars with passion
or careful hesitation.
Anything's fine, within reason.
Season by season
things get done.
Algebra and calculus, Malcolm X, George Washington.
No taxation
without representation.
A gun
in every den.
People will be governed
one way or another, by a king
or trusted friend. Corporation.
Men
are more disposed to suffer, while Evils are sufferable, than
to right themselves by abolishing the Evils to which they are resigned.
I'm too young
to die! I cry. My generation
cannot outrun the sun
but I want to see what happens
next, a tsunami or tornado, rain
and wind beyond our comprehension
hit in the head by speeding debris, irony
of ironies! plastic contraptions,
rotting computers and yogurt cups, pain
in the baby! Moment's
notice. None,
I notice, live long
enough to see the end. Amen. A million
years hence
human sense
has so modified and mutated under
other moons
we share one mind
and everything's remembered by everyone.
Look it up. There is no death, just perfect rest. A perfect tan
is possible, and work is fun.
I'm going there when I pass on
because souls will travel at warp speeds, using nuclear fission.
About suffering, religion
was right (and wrong) all along.
Exercising belief about unknowns.
Makes sense to take your best guess.
Using history, numbers, extrapolation.
Getting the trajectory right for re-entry.
Few dissenters left for climate change, evolution.
Nuclear power brings a process to earth
that occurs only in space. Dangerous
but necessary? Not a risk-averse weasel.
One among many mammals is the weasel,
not known for its consideration of unknowns
but, for its extreme caloric needs, considered dangerous.
My wife says in England violent gusts
forced a locomotive off its tracks. One interpretation
might reasonably be that the mother, earth,
has stopped mothering man. We're entering
a period of unknowns and must evolve.
What might this involve
and what adjustments are possibly feasible?
Walking rather than riding to the subway entrance,
using less electricity until more is known,
preserving agricultural soils and forest land,
buying fewer plastic contraptions.
My brother's washing his pajamas less often.
None of this may make the slightest difference
in how the earth and the sun and universe revolve.
But we are human and addicted to action,
the probable less attractive than the possible.
Also, there's no percentage in respecting death
unless it's imminent. Better to remain centered,
focused on food, child-bearing, war and the poem.
All driveways plowed, all lawns mowed.
Just in time before the first snow, I raked our leaves.
Two eight hour days. What percent of all time is that?
Draw a ray with point A the first pile of leaves
extending to the extrapolating end of universe.
.01 of Aaron. Zero of Zach.
Hawks playing, hunting, mating, canaries in the mine.
Having been too many places to count.
Sex bars, infant formulas, fire crews, last rites, permanent jobs, traffic
tickets, judges' chambers, out houses, wedding banquets, boiling
teapots, frantic centuries, facial tissues, presumed innocent, clear
intentions, stainless steel.
Spiderweb glove. Deerfly earring. Daddylonglegs seeingeyedog.
Memorized songs. Privatized loans.
You cannot know what you're doing until you've done it.
Erudite sweep the floor. Articulate make the bed.
Infrared town hall. Crab nebula. Your last crap.
Eye of the tropical January sun. Slouching toward temperate zone.
Down here in the basement,
There no time for fun or games.
Down here in the basement,
Survival is the name of the game.
No time to ponder space or rhyme
Or any foolish contraptions of the mind.
For when the ganger shouts,
"Move your asses"
We have a ton of concrete to lay.
With broken backs,
We curse our fate
And pay our dues to the human race.
Ganger (Irish slang for foreman)
Leonardo da Vinci felt flying
was possible, sketching wings in detail.
And the fact that birds flew kept him trying,
even when all of his efforts would fail.
An artist and a brilliant engineer,
he designed dreams drawn by his gifted pen.
But his passion for flying was sincere,
although that goal eluded him back then.
All his life, he invented contraptions
designed to unlock the secrets of flight.
And his alterations and adaptions
haunted his inquisitive dreams at night.
Yet, despite how much one may desire it,
some indulgences fate will not permit.
my love is like a pistol packed with petunias
spreading heads from small space like medusas
bedding laced lush velvet to seduce you
masseus and dr. seus abstract to move you
reduce, i let loose vamoose to the big time
purity assuredly my security for the incline
my pleasure with letters for sweet hearts
made of dream parts, the theme starts
with a stream of divinity infinitely writing be mine
on loops, repeat one swoop, in design
warm rituals listful like tea time
armistice tho all's fair, long hair i consign
appropriation heavens rations boulder dashing
lovers gasping fast reactions facilitating
strange contraptions, annihilating captives
in the trenches contemplating satisfaction
some emotions can be a lot more active
jumping before how high was a question
last resort always holding vacancy passive
the dogs pulled the sled with the medicine
My Response To Rumi
A composite man was this Rumi Mystic who penned ‘Spiritual Couplets’ thousands
of magical lines of Persian poetry deep he lives on in simple (?) bites of
three lines condensed confluent cracking proverbial nutshells soft in their core
He’s buried in the Konya of Anatolian wisdom a place I am seeking to visit
on my insider travels and have been compelled from into imagination and spirit of
mind where the tree of life throws seeds on the shadows of tumbling body and soul
~~ Rumi lives on once we destroy what destroys us tear down the partitions ~~
‘Healing by allowing to fall ill’ ‘searching for defenses within’ barriers fortresses
imposing enclosures self built contraptions that prevent love kindness compassion
Dysfunction and illness derive from inside thus we can either attempt to strive
against mere symptoms and torturous outcrops bandage the hurt on the
surface or take a good look at the messages crises fall together for a while reflect
with serene mirrors of honesty reject the temptation futile attempts of aligning
broken shards into yet another fragmentation sinking once more into darkness
Rummaging rumination and running head on into the same walls again and again
never achieved to manage my mangled madness into meaning and peace
but acceptance and searching inside with the purpose of healing following three
~~ simple lines brought Rumi to life and myself back into light and true love~~
27th November 2016
"If you desire healing,
let yourself fall ill
let yourself fall ill."
- Jalaluddin Rumi
In times of joy and in times of pain
words are the only elusive attempt at portrayal
Daunting Contraptions Contracted in a few fleshy pounds
hidden in a bloody swirling cesspool hiding in our skulls
Thoughtless explosions of verbiage fill the pages of
time & space in this place, feeble attempts at nothing
merely interjections of uselessness. We canter down
these halls of life opening doors & closing others,
doors hard to shut are better left open. To breath the
breath of life through these pounding heads of humanity.
Beating its burden of confusion & false hope straight to
the source ... producing order? What a concept in this place
as to say a controlled explosion our existence is
the oxymoron that is all. We live the days like
the pun of some joke that's been forgotten.
We soothe our souls with others expressions, broadcasting
feeling to the masses. Ideas thought for someone else
helpless sheep in this hillside pasture we're spinning on.
Songs of hope & joy inspire & drive others to the end. Confident
that more words will help in the future. Addicted to
others feelings & ideas to produce our own. Mindless bites
gurgle out real life for ratings while we all watch
ourselves and turn back to the box. The box should
falsify our existence but then the black emptiness that
has become our hard existence. Tired lonely
followers dancing till the end ....
Ah the end
Do you want to know What goes on inside my head…
It is a busy place and can be rather haunting at times.
No one understands, they think I am out of my mind.
They have no idea what happens inside.
When the weather is just right-- a huge Pressure builds.
Like a waterfall flowing over my head.
If only I could get that pressure out
There is no upgrade to update my head.
I asked and the doctor just laughed.
I thought of a drill --Nope--Better not do that.
Most of the time the right ear is pulsing and swishing,
Maybe that is where the seashell went--It is missing.
There is a bubble floating in the right side.
The left it is open and light—kind of calm most of the time.
Too much happens on the Right…
Like Borgs in Star Trek do do—It Feels like I have
One of those contraptions on my head.
Gripping to my skull and maneuvering in.
Squeezing…Pulling and twisting…
Like rubber bands stretching and breaking--
Snapping and stinging with pain---hurting my brain.
That is what it is like in my head…
I am sorry I forgot my manners…
Do you want to come in…
Copyright © fonda anne….mooreofme....mamao
Now I'm not the kind of guy
used to luxury or wealth
fancy "cribs" as they now
call them (ain't that ridiculous?)
the only luxury I've tasted
is on TV with Robin Bleach...
or in brief stays on vacation
where I liveed nicely for a bit
but these were all illusions
and life is really here
no champagne in my 'frig
I can hardly afford beer...
my trailer is a place,
I don't quite yet feel at ease with
got its good points and its bad
the skylight options,
put in kitchen and bathroom
they're really pretty cool
especially when it rains
the built in cd/radio with
4 speakers in the ceiling
a must for a musician
the kitchen okay too
But, the bathroom............
like it came from
a different factory....
$2 cheap plastic toilet
seat covers...
you dare not sit on
or even place
a small box of tissues
and a bathtub which even
the munchkins would
feel crowded in
in fact, no non-anorectic
human should even try
I know I didn't
appreciate 42 hours
butt-wedged between
the sides...
good only as a footbath...
and getting out of
the shower is a life
threatening risk
so slippery, with
nothing to grab hold to
I guess in time
I'll get used to it
maybe rig
ingenious contraptions
to help one
exit the tub, etc.
who knows...
people can get use to almost
anything.....
I mean... they get
married, don't they?
i spit fire like a torcher/
i grew up into a Mc schorcher/
vile dialect wreck you to the corner/
world leaders band together border/
me from me showing im a performer/
is sick ritualistic Horror/
i mutilate anyone who is poorer/
upside down youll never been soorer/
find your wife cut her up and store her/
ammoniun nitrate makes a nice forcer/
hello the dr is here time for toutura/
ill find out right now if your a morna/
i was having fun till i accidently tore ya/
oh u see me? did you see my paw?/
im a monster and i love my meat bloody and raw/
with contraptions right out of saw ill show you habitual law/
notification of fire evacuation
slated to occur
April 12th, 2018 (between the hours
of 9:00 am and 12 pm) did spur
me to validate Google asper,
that direct object heave ving,
pro noun sub bull, verb bose,
ingenious American historical figure
attired in tailored clothes
careful sans his just keen
liberal mien pro
claiming necessity to doze
when body politik
didst need restorative source
analogous to drained battery expose
zing lack of electricity
mechanisms need did tubby supplied
(in one direction) flows
accorded stealing thunder and lightening
from Zeus where prominence glows
vis a vis via leaving
his tell tale fingerprints
upon flame inextinguishable hose
imprimatur of renown Founding Father,
a one man gifted born
improved quality of life
during Colonial American stage
buttressing forlorn
during his deux score and four years
fledgling United States heed add horn
bequeathing blueprints
(functional contraptions,
posthumous patents procured
after populace did mourn
gadgets kickstarting leveraging more novel
Ongepatshket prescience,
quietly revolutionary,
strikingly timesaving),
utilitarian value shorn
tattered stitched timeless totemic tenets torn
unimagined visionary watershed worn,
where underworld webbed wide world burned
with thermal coupling that churned
ferocious infernos
describing how Hades learned
tubby managed
to maximize efficiency
zealousness zeroed Zyder Zee
in said Netherlands
and hellish hot house turned
into a near utopia (More
or less nsync) with Doubting Thomas's,
where many mortals yearned
to escape corrupt fat cats, sans
those condemned to mortality
found minimally a mew
zing, and doggedly trudged 10,000 leagues
under the sea, entombing
jewels for vernacular speaking Josephine shew
wing scars from fire
that threatened Philadelphians thorough
lee hence, forcing many civilians
to dive vining Davy Jones's locker pre view
in 1736 after swallowing embalming fluid
ha I did "FAKE" you
tubal heave poetic pablum from human zoo!