Best Flatland Poems
You, a scientist
with a poet's heart,
and I a poet,
with a love of science,
approach the unknown
like blind men to
an elephant.
We both know it is there.
We've each touched it
briefly.
It teases and tantalizes,
as it did today,
when each called the other,
with the same insights,
and finished each others
thoughts.
Can we track it down
like dark matter?
This has no universal
boundaries from which
to gain a sum.
Can we analyze it's symptoms?
Rise above it
like Flatland.
Map it? Chart it's moves?
Explore it's topography
with insensitive hands?
Where's it's trunk?
Where's it's tale?
Are we idiots going over
old ground?
Are we touched?
We know it's out there
because we both rode
the beast when
we least expected it,
and backed away,
when it began to show
it's face.
Rolled about a bit I’d say
Since Nell and I first met
Denver down to Old Fort Lauderdale
Flatland fever hit one day and
Drowning in our sweat
Mountains pulled us up a dusty trail
Cut down trees and nested in
The Hills of Carolina
Dogs and cats and serendipity
People there talked funny and
We soon ran out of money
Greener pastures called from Tennessee
Love to gather Moss someday
Like other rocks we know but
Moss comes with a price it sure ain’t free
Far off places beckon
That’s when Nell and I must go
Life’s too short for stones like us you see
Too short for rolling stones like Nelly and me
Bogging down in Tennessee
The itch began returning
Folks stopped buying what I had to sell
Call from California came and
Set our hearts to burning
Westward roll might ease this itching spell
Packed it in and mapped our course
For warm Pacific shores
Winter snows brought some anxiety
Would be rough we knew it but
We’d plow our way right through it
Dreaming of the opportunity
Novato, Rohnert Park and then to
Morgan Hill down south
Loved it here we hate to have to roll
Push to shove you forfeit love
Living hand to mouth but
Leaving leaves within our heart a hole
This time we’ll keep in touch for sure
That’s what we always say
True love’s here our hearts must still entwine
Every new U-Hauler sees
This world a little smaller with
Email, faxing, texting folks online.
Love to gather moss someday like
Other rocks we know but
Moss comes with a price it sure ain’t free.
Far-off places beckon
That’s when Nell and I must go
Life’s too short for stones like us you see
Too short for rolling stones like Nelly and me.
Just another Warrenpiece
The Love Affair
The road that leads to a smallish agricultural flatland has
two walls. One wall was built by a slob, just throwing
one stone on top of another.
The other wall was built by a craftsman where stones
fitted and he had used decorative and white painted
cement between them.
Every Sunday the meticulous man walks to his wall
and find great satisfaction to see his work again and
wishes the slob would rebuild his wall.
Every Sunday the layabout goes for a walk to,
first to the bar for a few beers with his mates; he walks
to the good man’s house and have sex with his wife.
Flight of the Ptarmigan
By Reg Rhodes
The Ptarmigan emerges from his snow nest; and takes flight.
It's wings quietly fluttering; carrying him into the silent night.
He carries his message of inner peace on his angelic wings; shrouded in white.
Illuminated by the full moon; his flying form shines bright.
Only those who can relate to his plight;
will observe this awe inspiring sight.
I watched him appear from deep within the snow;
and followed the flight of the Ptarmigan; pondering where he would go.
Far, far from his mountain home he flew.
Only to seek answers to the questions that he already knew.
He couldn't adapt to the warm weather, noise or people; like the flatland brown Grouse.
Upon his return, he discovered that another white winged bird had come and stolen his snow covered house.
He took flight once more, to a different side of the mountain; to build a new and better high elevation nest.
Once again, comfortable in his familiar surroundings; the Ptarmigan was rewarded with a much needed rest.
The flight of the ptarmigan ended where it began;
and he returned back to his high alpine home, once again.
Where God intended him to be.
Where he can once again live happy, and be free.
Oh, beautiful ptarmigan; take me away.
And show me yet another wonderful day;
but, please never let me forget to seek Gods guidance whenever I pray.
Thankfully, my trip has ended; right where it began.
Like the Ptarmigan; I have returned home once again.
.
I'm back up in the mountains; where God intended for me to be.
Home; where my soul is complete, and once again free.
Above the roller-coaster rain clouds,
there's a moment when the wing tip of the plane
cuts seamlessly into serene blue as it banks
over Chicago. It's a layover in the sunlit limbo
of the hope island, its tranquil azure meadow afloat
with faux sheep, each one like 'ile flottante',
cotton candy, dessert of the day.
This is lofty communion in the Archdiocese of the Sky,
superior to that of Holy Name Cathedral where you broke
bread with shades of 1870s parishioners, consigned
to the company of of North Side gangster Hymie Weiss,
and two luckless henchmen, whacked to a nonstop flight
across the street from, not the First, Second, or Third,
but the Fourth Presbyterian's Gothic gathering place
where a cornerstone inscription on the church still bears
bullet marks of the murders. Masses of flowers
sent to the grieving widows. Nothing
"personal', you understand--Just business! Ah Yes!
American Organized Crime and Charity!
Outside Fourth Presbyterian's Gothic facade, its carved
stone tympanum a legless man sits in his stations-
of-the cross wheelchair, dispensing Sunday cheer
and greetings, no Tommy gun in sight. So much the pity,
leaving Chicago without violence, just churches, lore
of gangsters, a riveting river, and speakeasies.
As the plane banks into the marshmallow topping
over Minnesota in its descent to the Janus Cities,
the bird-head jet pods still face Chicago. Wind flaps
gape wide in a noiseless scream, and across the sky's
white flatland, ice castles rise in which live
the frosty angels of Yes and No.
Clear blue bliss calmly gazing in tinted hazy summer charm,
Cars are moving, music playing.
Sudden dim, turns into shade the flatland horizon in fear I gaze
the wall of death that chaos unknown, mothers nature's touch
Well known.
The cold breeze shunt my view at hand
The recipe is right, when your in this land.
this honey-trap, this leap of faith has left these towns with much at stake
That twisted column of water and dust, of building, of people
Much loved in much trust.
these mobile beacons of unknown reason silhouette the sketch of death.
In it's path those temples of humanity, those monuments of duty passed,
sitting like a anchor of hope in the path of the giants choke.
The innocence of nature has executed it's instinct and shown reminder of
mankind's weakness.
And all is gone by a funnel of ash, siren ringing aloud in terror
Destruction ended....here comes another.
The Schooner
On the flatland between the vales I could see the sea, had been
walking uphill for a long time now, after the plain it was downhill
and the way to the coast was easy enough only it was getting
cold and I wore a light navy uniform. (had been on furlough)
Then I saw a protestant house of worship, but it was there on its
own no other houses to be seen not even a lone light from a farm.
A window was open and since it was also getting dark I was tired
I climbed in and rested on a pew.
Fell asleep, awoke and heard organ music the church was full of
matelotes singing psalms. The pastor spoke about sin, redemption
and god’s glory, then his flock silently left. Dawn, I saw a magnificent
sunrise, continued my walk to coast.
In a morning open café I told a girl behind the counter where I had
slept, she looked confused as far as she knew the church was
torn down years ago since it was haunted, as it was built of planks
of a schooner that ran aground with loss of all hands.
Attorney General William
Barr black marker in hand
kept promise to censor vital
details of Mueller Report
swift as Usain Bolt candidly,
grandly, lustrously, roundly
youthfully blocked out more
rapid than an elegant eland
vibrantly, regally, magically,
and gracefully skirts borderland
which favored topography
constitutes grassland or woodland,
far more pleasing to observe,
than reading adulterated brand
of aforementioned compilation,
distillation, edification, fortification
zeroing questionable activity
upon head of trumpeting brigand,
whose arrivistic, bombastic, caustic,
demonic, electric broadband
outsize ego still convinces
me, thee commander in chief
delegated one or more chargehand
perhaps while delighting as
gourmand savoring chateaubriand,
where his best buddies imagined
themselves in seventh heaven cloudland
every so often taking siesta sans repast
or golfing with grisly handicapped clubhand
non verbally communicating,
in viz sub bully taking a peas zing
cues from presidential high command,
which coterie (i.e. den of thieves)
manipulated social media with nefarious,
insidious, deleterious, et cetera
analogous to "FAKE" contraband,
maybe even milking innocent cowhand
unwittingly planting GMO electronic
bugs amidst future bovine fodder cropland
to allow, enable, and jackknife demand
that moost every eligible voter tricked
induced by virtual reality dreamland
with sinister motive for thee "Apprentice"
rule his kingdom, and expand,
realm asper Medieval days
declaring himself chieftain of fatherland
and/ or North American motherland
where naysayers guillotined
by uncontested firebrand,
who without provocation
very likely bomb into Stone Age
formerly edenic, lush, verdant
geography into flatland
rendered hostile, poisonous and uninhabitable
nonetheless radiating for miles with gangland
forced labor tilling barren, desolate, fissured
landscape erecting unsightly grand
standing room only (cause he know Shylock)
terrain (reign) vast highland
manor as poobah, and husband
to his only heiress, the former
a kooky monster from foggy bottom marshland.
SANCTUARY
THE POOL HAS
SURROUNDING GREAT BOULDERS ASSURING AND SECRETIVE,
CUPPING WIDE BUBBLING DEEP BAPTISMAL RUSHES OF AZURE WATER
RELEASES HOT FLASHING PENDANTS IN GLORIOUS JUNGLE REPRIEVE.
THE POOL HAS
MUFFLED SOUNDS FROM NIGHT ANIMALS CALLING GUESTS’ REST RULES,
THE AQUIFER FLOWS UP STRONG, SPRINGS OUT WHITE FOAMING RIPPLES.
SUPREME GREEN WATERCRESS REINS IN DRIPPING OVERHANGS AND COOLS.
THE POOL HAS
A PLACE FOR CONTINUOUS QUIETUDE FOR MEMORIES SWEET AND SOUR,
THAT LACKS POUNDING REMMNANTS FROM OLD HUMAN CRITIQUES RINSED
AWAY IN DEEP DIPS REFRESHING THE MIND WITH A SOFT CLEANSING POWER.
THE POOL HAS
MAGNIFICENT WATERFALLS OF TREMENDOUS HEIGHT AGAISNT GLISTENING SUNRAYS,
SPINNING CRISP REFLECTIONS INTO A TUMBLING CHURNING BOTTOM WHERE YOU STAND.
SWIMMING IN THESE SPECIAL WATERS NEW SOUL AND REJUVENATED BODY, YOU IT PAYS.
THE POOL HAS
THE MASTER’S UNIQUE CIRCUMFUGAL TOUCH OF BEAUTY IN EERY MOSS COVERED STONES,
SLEEPING LEOPARD, RED PARROT, ELEPHANT EARS AND CAMILLA FLOWERS ALONG AND NEARBY,
RESOLVES EVERY COURAGEOUS THOUGHT FOR A SATISFIED FLATLAND RETURN OF NEW OLD BONES.
BY JEAN A. WILSON, SEPTEMBER 1, 2011
To resist the op(press)ion
of the two (dement)sional flatland world of glossy magazines,
I have (ob)seen women
Mutilate their forearms with deep(er) strokes of a razor
So that they may prove with their b(lo)ody
To themselves and their (conf)users
That their image (has depth)
Has depth (their image
Has depth)
On the bleak street
not a blade of grass,
only dust
from the lorries,
the cement mixers.
A year later
I see a bud appearing,
by Autumn
this one golden blade
has grown tall.
The sound of a swishing oat seed
cheers me up
in grubby flatland.
Vanishing Line
In the two dimensional world of flatland life is a line
Distinguishing up from down is not the design of nature
Maneuvering left and right is possible
But not this time
Existence is of the straight and narrow realm
Excellence is defined in moving forward
Objects come and go without discernment
Vision of life is purely a blur of what is and what might become
As elements appear within that moment
Things pop in and out of sight from other world’s dimensions
Diagonalizing the matrix is not part of this equation or this discussion
Needs no explanation
It’s staying in this matter as a diversion just for reading pleasure
And because I said so and it sounds kinda cool
Someone from flat-land supports that view and said as much
Needs no permit from you
Who are from another dimension
The point is mute
So moving on
There is no sun and too few rules
In the dominion of two dimensions
Opinions vary on that point
There is no day
Things simply get in the way of understanding there
When going one way, which defines life in general
There is no light at the end of the tunnel
There is no tunnel
There is only straight ahead
Where abruptly all things end
Mean Machine
The locomotive was an old mean machine
only used for carrying gods at local stations along
boring flatland. Once it had been a young and
the President of Portugal rode on it, not only him
but many other high up all the way to Lisbon.
And now? It wanted to go hiding somewhere dark,
but where does one conceal an iron horse?
The train passed near the parking lot in Faro
I was out with my dog, and there I could let her
run free. There was a hole in the fence were
the tracks. Naturally, she jumped through.
She saw the train that seemed to speed up
with murderous intent when she jumped clear it
was too late. I had her buried and the following
days were long and full of sadness.
Bloodthirstiness of ink's wickedness,
ruthlessly dripped upon parchment
blistering an already screeching sun,
no footprints apparently left in sand as
oceans's bluffs turned oases to flatland,
there was no urgency for brutal honesty
aside factually, it unquestionably delivers
Straight moves the locomotive train miles
Traveling over desert flatland forging ahead,
Coal steam engine Number 9 chug, chug, chug,
Sound waves rolls through, satisfying sensation is said.
Locomotive whistle sounds station steam rolling in,
Little one hears repeats ‘choo-choo’ rolls to stop,
All aboard! Rolls locomotion moving, snack on tasty
Peanut brittle, readying for dining car delicious hop.
Mom holds little son on her lap, with sounds
Cowboys and Indians along the train,
Surprise action wonder, heard of Hereford
Beef cattle is west trademark railroad vein.
Character western attitude locomotive fun
How the west was won whistle-stop rustic town,
Gold payload brought on of family and cousin
Forge ahead, chug along, Heaven brings us together joyous sound.