Best Modes Poems
Sacred Scripture is the speech of Eternal God
As it is put down in writing
Under the breath of the Eternal Holy Spirit
Holy tradition transmits in its entirety the Word of Eternal God
Entrusted to the apostles by Father Christ, the Lord
So that
Enlightened by the Spirit of truth
They may faithfully preserve
Expound
And spread it abroad by their preaching
Church, to whom the transmission
Interpretation of Revelation is entrusted
Does not derive her Both Scripture and Tradition
Must be accepted and honored
Equal sentiments of devotion
Reverence
01122015
(a silly series of Senryus)
It’s time to cram for
final exams, again, so
here we go, mug up.
My mind, coffee dark,
drifts in academic dreams,
—think roiling oceans.
A ‘mandatory’
society meeting? You’re
not the boss of me.
I’ll shun or eschew,
if I want too, sidestepping,
like a tap dancer.
I'm not lazy - I'm
high tech and in energy
saving mode now.
It’s a pointed and
conscious decision—I’ll do
me and you do you.
.
.
Songs for this:
Simply Couldn't Care by Tracey Thorn
Each and Every One by Everything But the Girl
Modes of thousand minglings
Modes of a thousand mingling
Distilled within itself
All forms within their structure
None equates without the other
All is one and of the other
Within it’s every things of nothings
Through progression evolved its being
Forms its flower in its becoming
Guided light throughout this life
Within its making makings
Seed and kernel in roughened stone
Tranquil stillness risings
Lifts itself within itself
Innate form extended in its
Endless freedoms coming
Force that shapes it shaping
Awakes to life’s that calling
Within the moral arcs that bends
Toward the justice needed
I find myself in full fantasy mode lately. I have a BF (who I saw a couple of weeks ago) and I’m not interrogating my romantic choices - but he’s not here.
Do I have an impulse to throw myself at that boundary? No, but I can steal a look, now and then, like a hotel souvenir - can’t I?
Yesterday morning, Lisa and I stopped at Steep, a coffee shop on science hill, to pick up something breakfasty. At one point the small shop filled with the aroma of apple pie and in my mind, I had a flash memory of this guy, Jordie, last fall, coming into this shop in his little Yale blue and white soccer shorts.
He’d looked fit. In memory, he seemed to move slowly, like individual video frames. There was an interesting, uncomplicated strength, something polished and fresh about him, like a shiny new phone.
“Here,” Lisa said, passing a coffee to me. Then she gave me a sly smile and a tilty-headed look, asking,
“Where’d you go? You looked like you were lost in some bliss.”
A guilt washed through me, as thin and unpleasant as cigarette smoke. The thought of telling her struck me like a slapping hand. Submitting this fantasy to a roommate focus-group seemed wrong.
The whole fantasy was bunkum, an unimportant memory, mapped to a fragrance, as if his taut, tanned, muscular legs had significance.
“I was daydreaming,” I said, with an ‘I don’t know’ shrug and grimace.
.
.
.
Webster: Bunkum: a foolish or insincere idea.
Matured's sweet silence
Crowds of children playing game
changing modes of life