Best Synaptic Poems
As my thoughts shrink my mind expands
Growing into the spaces between my words
The words of others
Refreshed within the pauses
Dancing inside possibilities
Filling in the blanks
Words suspended
Within time and space
Connecting the random with the infinite
Skipping along
Flowing through in whispers
The spaces
Reflecting eternal promises
Stepping stones along elastic highways
Breaths yet to be exhaled
Here I grasp for inked pleasure
My resting place
along inspiration's highway
My moments of calibration
Synaptic revelations
Hallways leading to ancient corridors
The place where all artist meet
Each space, appears the same
To those unable to see
They can't feel the symphony
Yet, we who live, within the spaces
Rise together
Give applause
A world expanded from the small
An opening within word walls
Rising to float, upon the breeze
They lift our mind with subtle ease
Come and join me please
I have space
I have room
Within my spaces
For you
In sleepy
synaptic
catacombs
theorems dream beneath calcified floors
neurons stretch filaments of light
paleontologists of lost certainty
tracing the memory of what
once
coruscated
alive
each recovered syllable rises in luminosity
trailing sediment from older visions
when knowing shifted
steering truth by
extinguished
stars
their light arriving as memory does
late and changed
waves breaking against my palms
sometimes a word returns
with
a
quiver
a neuron long faded suddenly firing
unmasking me
language has a pulse too
memory susurrates in its syllables
tissue pressed beneath the skin
a word returns and with it
a face
already
fading
In dementia's neural ossuaries
they slowly resurface
refracted through time's
fossilized
strata
what returns exceeds what departed
yet what returns also slices us
so softly
with its incompleteness
a small lance lodged behind
ribs and bone
each restoration births knowing
part excavation part genesis
claimed by no century
reshaping me in return
moth-wings brushing my cheek
We become the archaeology of ourselves
hands cupping reverberations
charting the contours of our hearts
hearing again in the filamented dark
the pulse of neurons stretching
filaments of light
spelling the names
we thought
we'd lost
A poet I am not
I woke up today to blue sapphire skies
with ribbons of fuchsia and crimson hues
Having my minds reveries realized
With mental imbroglios I'm imbued
I whiled away the day, in purple haze
entranced in cerebral meditations
Pondering the adjectives that portrays
awesome celestial revelations
I searched in vain for the words to describe
scenes of ethereal spectral visions
There was no way for my heart to transcribe
broken thoughts from synaptic collisions
I saw beauty that transcends conscious thought
Words fail me, so... a poet I am not
March 09,2017
For Brian Strands contest!
birds of a quill, or a feather
flock together at odd times
from all four corners
of thinking creative
to jostle with keyboards,
pens and sharp pencils
fingers fidget, tap-tapping
frantic scribbling down
in notebook's lined pages
screens and keyboards
prepare for posting
all that flutters in skulls
staring blank-eyed into spaces
behind temples hot throbbing
turns tensile to tactile
steely minds become strings
unhinged yet synaptic
as typists happily fly
out of the window
out doing much undoing
with words, concrete stacks
of thoughts buried in letters
homing in on ideas is noted
by fraught-filled grey matters
e-motions will ruffle, jostle, shuffle
trying to find their feet
on narrow high perches
no one cooped up again
in confounded wired places
safety in numbers protects
from eagle-eyed predation
teeming teams have no trepidation
preening each other
pecking order in order
while who's who is related
faithful fair friends love being updated
lovebirds are word-cooing
with beak-kissing nibbles
some of us like darkness
it brings poets together
winter hibernation in torpor
taking wing in springing up ether
fancy that take off?
it's what we are made of....
all that really matters
when feathers start flying
is the daylight between them
caused not by division
but the tight act of trying
to avoid mid-air collision!
13/10/2018
Poets need poets....enough "space" for all of us!
I so enjoyed my escape into your beautiful mind.
Traveling along synaptic highways,
moving at the speed of thought.
I journeyed to our yesterdays,
happy thoughts encased in light.
Your storehouse of hugs and kisses,
all those smiles that shone so bright.
I saw that look,
as you gazed in the mirror.
Head resting on my shoulder,
you feeling me near.
The taste of orange crush on your tongue.
Were we ever that young?
I could have stayed there forever,
yet your thoughts are your own.
So happy for that slice of time.
Even now we are connected, intertwined.
Come escape into my mind.
Travel along synaptic highways.
Come travel at the speed of thought!
she had lost the plot long before in an insane labyrinth of her mind
trapped in the rat race of high speed and the volume on full blast
incarcerated shackled and straight jacketed thumb screws and all
contorting denial delusion and psychedelic support to no valid avail
and the wall of her self-imposed prison was barbed with wire of pain
the maze of synaptic connections discharged commands of unreason
torturous wheels of cognition failed to balance fierce contradictions
twisting and hurting she succumbed to a myriad of fake solutions
turning the tourniquet tight to receive the message of brown sugar
winding serpentine paths misconstrued from temptation and promise
and still the garden remained a wasteland of intemperate indignation
she had fallen off the wagon so many times that the engine had stalled
sinews lay bare under a sinuous array of purulent scars and punctures
a tattered puzzle of perplexed bewilderment awaiting the ultimate shot
the heroine submerged in near namesake poison in face of the needle
as the epitaph neared completion and the funeral cortege proceeded
she prayed and surrendered to a white knuckling ride of withdrawal
dragons danced with cold turkeys on her tomb stone but they refused
to relinquish hope for affronted vultures puked at sight of her ghost and
she recalls near death experiences and abstinence as a miraculous gift
25th June 2020
An evanescent bouquet of skewed briars,
is how a tinsel laden tawdry essence wickedly unfolds ,
scuppered signpost to a fetid human compost,
faint light pendant on soul crushed quantum migrant,
who might chortle at vivid veil flimsy vacuum,
skirt recklessly around bogus symbols,
peer behind the squalid limp sodden hedge,
mock myopic moribund mist upon boundary busting dawn chimera,
sneer at synthetic spectrum elastic in its irritating tidal wave surfeit,
cerulean fabric‘s milky way escape plot,
in a perilous quest for that eternal tape loop mantra,
the synaptic heart of that vainglorious horizon,
self-knowledge under charcoal moon and silver cloud veneer,
or feral waste rapid fire contagion,
the indecisive day glow dither on the margins ,
of fly weight feeble frantic dash,
that velvet shadow treason daubed pettifog,
known as tangential wanton cobweb fester creed,
the mind a bloated ripple vortex numbing in its scope,
golden mirage but faux fur real concoction,
against the banal backdrop of complex-ridden superficial eddy,
from floral garland poseur stricken en train,
some vox pop indignation mere shrinking violet showcase waver,
the gleam-hued truth has this dastardly demonic derailment,
that I brush aside as spiteful oxalic sting repost,
that deceptive mint green forest of chameleon cant,
sly nuanced molten maple syrup hint,
from out of kilter tree pierce otherworld,
unseen yet bliss-edged virtual garden of firm conviction,
not just from isolated enigmatic individual script,
such as torrid turbulence or mindless scattered rim shot,
when conventions can be altered in exotic prose,
human zeitgeist has this far too often penchant,
for silkworm rapt effervescent double speak,
whilst plain unvarnished uplifting utterance,
resides within the deep crystal spring well,
of us torch aloft emerald earthling sages,
please augment the rock buttress stark phrase,
whose bluntness is a carrier pigeon of candor,
devoid of muted gray cloud blind waffle,
aromatic sprig to giant spasm of bold pluck,
quandary of human race at hearth,
frightened cliques, hidebound yes men who yen,
to swim the azure gulf of august freedom,
to the Eden where lucid tongues herald pristine witness.
where values at the centre of our being should blossom
It’s there
Y’know
Like the aftermath of pop corn
Stuck
Irretrievably
Ensconced
Imbedded
In the grinding mechanism
Dodging the gnash
Of frustration need
Y’know
That pesky poetic seed
Tormenting synaptic calm
Buzzing like a 2AM mosquito
Humming an unheard song
Dancing on the edge of a thought
Whispering in the silence
Of poetic lethargy
Arise, oh muted muse,
Grasp the trembling gauntlet
Lend it purpose
Suit it in poetic armor
Mount your steed
LET THE JOUSTING BEGIN
Harvest of Mind
by Odin Roark
Acres of mirrors
Reflecting yesterdays upon today
Refracting wisdom’s tundra of experience
Into regret's abstract lessons.
How flexible
This mind of bendable energy,
Linking limbotic senses
Into a synaptic playground
Where one’s child-like recess plays perpetual.
Discovery beckons,
Hoeing brain’s porous marl
Bearing not the sweat of work,
Rather seedling’s preparation,
The cultivation of pain and sorrow’s rich compost,
The irrigation of past years’ yield,
That foundation of trial and error’s natural reward.
As each day's light finds horizon’s solace,
We slumber into mind’s picturesque growth,
Participating in collage-dreams,
Challenging synaptic connections
Smiling or crying,
Winning or losing,
We either concede as spectator
Or become a player,
A harvester of continuance,
The perpetuation of cognition’s daily bread.
Yes
‘Tis wondrous property we carry about.
Respected, it thrives.
Neglected, it weeds.
Rejected…
But a fossil-in-the-making.
How scenic is phrenetic fantasy
Which fulminates within the manic mind
Yet hides inside synaptic revelry,
Articulated, yes, but hard to find?
The minor absolution one demands
From higher born authority than self
Is often found in foreign sounding lands
Or back of boxes hiding on the shelf.
The madness of the mad though sad is not
Without a nod transcendent, in a way;
Which forces Joyce to ponder over plot
And not which punctuation to display.
Now take your time and read Ulysses first,
Before the Wake of Finnegan is shown;
For Finnegan becomes eternal thirst
Where cognitive resolve remains unknown.
Now bitter battles still are fought with fire
In hallowed halls of higher learning fame
Where academic's fight against desire
To elevate James Joyce's brilliant name.
Finnegan's Wake can make a man go mad;
Incomprehensible at best, some say.
Such genius has a way of causing sad
Reverberations all along the way.
So read a Portrait of the Artist first
Then add Ulysses if you have the need;
But Finnegan's Wake - unquenchable thirst
A book to blow your brain and make it bleed.
My little Mustang Girl
Lost am I, in this gray wilderness.
A beautiful place, but what a mess.
An exotic vision, riding your Mustang.
A heard, the head of this wild gang
of experiences roaming this wilderness,
electrical impulses, I must confess
permeate every, neural pathway,
every synaptic cleft willing to fray
within this old brain, this fragile heart,
yet never to know the joy of a new start.
I see you upon your Mustang, sitting erect,
sun in your lovely face, hair streaming, what effect.
A vision of a wild and beautiful Mustang, free,
mane and tale floating upon memories, for me.
Galloping down the hallways of my memories hoard
where all the beauty, I experienced with you, is stored.
Leading this heard further and further into the universe
you’ve run me to the edge, leaving little more for this verse,
except to wonder, why ?, do I still hang on so
to this love for you that I came to know.
B. J. “A” 2
January 11 2015
Dear EcoYin,
did Freud know you as SuperEgo,
while others have know you as Mythic Wisdom
Holy Spirit of Sacred Synergy,
elationally TransParent
PresentPresence?
Dear EgoYang,
are you the dipolar co-arising side of
unitarian intuition
with all the language skills?
Would that not leave you
reductive dominant focus
on Left's deductive resolutions?
Blindly angry past synaptic feelings
fueling fear of future death
as (-,-) polyvagal
LoseLose neurosystemic scenarios?
Well yes Dear Yang/Yin exponential wisdom.
Together we regenerate confluency, resonance
and cognitive-affective dissonance
through our co-arising bicameral mindbody
co-mentoring communications.
We so love to grow our mutuality.
This co-passionate pleasure
going back through iconic uracil with cytosine
toward time function as spacetime's 4D emergence
from timeless elational
dialectical eco-gravitating eternity
toward which each Loving PresentPresence
co-arisingly (0)-soul resonates
EgoYang with EcoYin
Left/Right MindBody
Love as positive sponge
absorbing angry fears of ego's
environmental dissonance
negative despairing conclusions
as not-yet-fully comprehensive ego/ecoconsciousness
of Present-CoPresence.
YangYin temporal spacetime balance
researching deductively-informing mindbody neurosystems
to regenerate our inductive bodymind ego/eco-binomial
universally interdependent PresentPresence CoMemory
of SpaceTime's ReVolutionary Great UnFolding Moments
dancing humane egostar
creation divine story songs,
each a holonic piece of time's polycultural
polypathic
polyvagal
polytheistic
great Pre/Post
Crown through Root
UnFolding Story.
There is something about DNA syntaxed regenerative memory
that is Earth-erotic/exotic,
not in a nasty incestuous way
but more of a warm bicameral baptismal
health and safe wealth
mindbody nondualistic
present/Mind/presenceBody wu-way
of co-passionately pleasured
EarthTribe Win/Win Peace.
Cerebral magnetic attraction,
our minds are drawn to one another
I love the way your mind works,
as do you love mine
Mental synchronicity
is a beautiful thing to achieve
Blissful harmony
Our minds meld as one
when you merge with me
It feels good to think your thoughts,
things you desire of me
Then I reflexively know what to do,
how to completely satisfy you
With never a word spoken between us two
Let us touch telepathically,
look into my mind,
and tell me you love what you see
We are two corporeal bodies
Neural synaptic integration is how
foreplay to our lovemaking is done
Pure telepathy
You want me to caress your thoughts,
embrace the electrical energy
that your mind produce
I feel your theta waves
rise to the apex excitation phase
Orgasmic serotonin release
Pleasurable sensations
explode in our minds simultaneously
So in tune with each other empathically,
we stoke fires of desire with pure telepathy
This is how we make love in the 24th century
Unless…
by Odin Roark
Seems just yesterday the sun arced
Over precarious ice
The street’s one elm
Leaned its naked branches with the wind Bringing winter’s announcement
A Coney Island cat crouched puzzled
Gradual crusting snow layering
The boardwalk a ribbon of white awaiting the gray
Mister Cat sprung back into dumpster heaven
Closed his eyes
And returned to his lone-bird dream
The one always disappearing
Over horizon’s edge
A few blocks away
Anxious hormones kept rebellious teens
Of mere rip-torn jeans and NFL jerseys
Rubbing their friction memories
Into goose-bumped skin
Frozen leaves scurried left and right
Separated from their bark insulated origin
The once virile tree sap
Now but a cryonic life flow
Awaiting spring’s resurrection
Somewhere
A corner-park’s snowman
Bowed forgiveness to the stinging wind
Its shivering cold prepared girth and pride
For tomorrow’s collapse
Beneath Time’s Square lights
Heavy metal leapt from SUV windows
Igniting crystal air
Into a vortex of tribal dance sensations
Vibrations warming all in its path
Yesterday’s season-change
Like a surprise party
Thrown on a whim
Roared through the city’s trenches
Beneath skyscraper walls of protection
As if birthing another Also Sprach Zarathustra
Daring frozen tears to fall
Central Park’s tree branches
Clustered and embraced each other
Like mouths searching for lips of warmth
While a lone photographer
Adorned in raccoon coat
Pointed her camera at breathing drifts
Becoming icing for fantasy’s deep freeze cake
At city’s center
Twisting cables of struggling semaphores
Blinked for mercy
As the insistent primal howl echoed
Across pot holed roadways
And iron slabs of street repair
Above underground steel tracks
Awaiting metro’s ignited contact
As dawn broke
Veined tunnels continued swallowing
The rushing energy astride quickened steps
Running feet
Shoving elbows and shoulders
City dweller anxiety
Cascaded down entrance stairwells
Boarded subway cars
Merged into the city’s synaptic darkness
And awaited their stop
Most likely yet another insulated destination
Where nature happening
Might once again go unnoticed
Never to be recalled
Unless…
MuddyFingers
I shall write in catchy thoughts
encased in phrases
lead you through a maze
of pussywillowedhazes,
in search of ducks that bark
and dogs that croak.
Snippets of mind strings
all cut too short
braided into knotted
terse retort
leaping the synaptic
sentence gap
two footed landing in
apresprungtrap.
Stream of consciousness
or babbling brook
searching for the stones
already took
seeping through the dams
of mud’s dismay
children in the midst
ofmudpieplay.
Sloppily creating
works of art
eager hands at work
in willowed haze
ducks that bark
in sunshine left to glaze
thoughts allowed to wander
through the maze.
Cats with wings
on tree limbs with the crows
childrensmuddyfingers
up their nose.
John G. Lawless
1/13/2016