Best Vaster Poems
"The Sleeping Man at the Picnic"
What dreams this man has
to escape a world
where his humanity
is a contagion
soldier ants swagger
holding gangster guns
he’s counting numbers
to avoid the dream
of the one he
shares with
the innocence
of children
Outside the turmoil
we are a pin prick
of light in the
eye of God’s needle
Inside us
the threads of
a road to an
interior universe
so much vaster
unexplored
Our lives
are optical
illusions
We are
all sleeping
at the Picnic
Lost
in the purpose of dreaming
Searching
for the rhetoric in meaning
(LadyLabyrinth / 2020)
My boyfriend (Peter) and I went down to New Haven Harbor today.
Let’s face it, we’re surrounded by oceans,
and most of them are downright inhospitable.
I live near the ocean, (pointing) it’s right over there.
I love the ocean, tripping over whenever I’ve time to spare.
The way I’m fawning over it, you’d think I know it well.
But I really only love its edges and undulating swells.
It’s like a book that I’ve judged by its cover,
a beautiful stranger taken as a lover,
or a pie when I’ve only tasted the crust.
I love something, I suppose, I’ve barely even touched.
Peter says that black, inky “outer-space” is a low-viscosity liquid,
another, even vaster ocean that’s more dangerous and rarely visited.
The air that we breathe is an ocean - our own, vast, atmosphere -
in it swim creatures too small to see, but to the naked eye it looks clear.
It flows, eddies and swells - birds swoop in it so you can tell.
Of course, the ocean has issues - it's hardly news - corrosion, erosion, sharks
and drowning - and the way the ocean lets the moon and air push it around.
What I love most is its motion, and how it reflects the sun and the moon.
Did I mention that hanging-out by the ocean makes for a pleasant afternoon?
Prisoners of Time
There is nothing secret
nothing sacred from man
He reaches beyond the
infinite to scatter dreams
He will employ
extraordinary means
Alone or in the company
of those with like heart
he can stream to
undiscovered places
Which brings, the opening
of a tale of how he
exploited the mighty whales
and in the process, cruelly
used, the giant turtles
of the Galapagos. Yes!
they were collateral damage
for the no less serious but
vaster sin of killing the
Leviathans.
Fresh food for the crew, they
endured layers of
imprisonment, stacked alive
on their backs in the holds of ships,
helpless in their giant shells for
a year at a time
Prisoners of the depths
of man's ignorance- such
sacrilege.
We can only pray, that
in that living death-
they entered a much
altered time state- that
became like fragrance;
an elusive, wafting
and that bliss flooded
their being
In praying this
we whisper an apology
Suzanne Delaney
Sunday, March 21, 2004
London rain and Texan skies
Warm my heart and thrill my eyes
Flooded streets and clouds for miles
Think I’ll stay here for a while
Bright red buses and trusty steeds
Carry my spirit wherever they lead
City bustling and cattle at graze
This is where I spend my days
Royal parks with Texas Rangers
Sounds of home could not be stranger
London Symphony plays Tex Ritter
Here is where you’ll see me linger
Buckingham Palace address Dealey Plaza
My horizon spans farther and vaster
Cockney slang welcomes y’all
To a place my happiness befalls
Union Jack flies Stars and Stripes
A family parted again unites
An English rose with roots state side
A love of each, to both I’m tied
The old Hittite came through the gate
Battle sharp and dripping
With the blackness of an Ethiopian night
The Kingdom of Zion to replicate
The compass star of David's sight
And through that gate walked with him
A destiny invisible of all the world
The crisis of a man by sin made grim
And vaster yet
A family's sun about to set
In immense sea, a national grief
Beyond mere historic proportions.
Raising Yahweh's standard the Hittite went
Sent by a virtue spent
With shadowless sword against masked Ammonites
And she the vessel of his heart
Dripping the sapphire of her African skies
Her purging task did initiate
Before the uncurtained eyes of Israel's prying king
How she daggered his faith
And staggered him like eddying dust
Crawling before the throne of savage lust
Her beauty and her will to yield -
This limping, shallow Vashti overthrown
Sealed Uriah's fate
Great warrior of the ancient clan of God
Yahweh's noble steward
Canaan's scion and stem of mystery
Conscripted to a Gentile race
Dravidian's doomed cornerstone
Summoned from the battle heat
Had no trumpet in his heart to blast retreat
And suffered where his soldiers like victors hold
Where Jacob slept without a sheet
The light from beauty's breast is cold
A common curse and old
And did not know
When sent away defied because he would not relent
That in his hands like in our genes
He carried that cold warrant of his own death
And the prophetic time
When Israel's sun would set
This planet whereon we reside
gave nature’s bounty far and wide.
We’ve seen our Mother Earth from space
who barely shows her fragile face
as Pale Blue Dot, sunbeam enshrined,
and still we humans are so blind.
The cosmic reaches hugely grand
are vaster than we understand.
We know not of a single place
where kindred creatures would be graced
with crucial features so combined.
But oh we humans are so blind.
We’ve self-importance off the scale,
self-interest beyond the pale,
yet if our sweep of self were more
than just what enters through our door
it could be good for all Mankind.
How can we humans be so blind?
If only we’d be even wise
enough to open tight shut eyes
and seek reality’s true guise
from whence awareness dawns arise,
a search within would surely find
that humans need not be so blind.
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * * *
“The Earth is a very small stage in a vast cosmic arena… Our posturings, our imagined self-importance, the delusion that we have some privileged position in the Universe, are challenged by this point of pale light. Our planet is a lonely speck in the great enveloping cosmic dark. In our obscurity, in all this vastness, there is no hint that help will come from elsewhere to save us from ourselves… It has been said that astronomy is a humbling and character-building experience. There is perhaps no better demonstration of the folly of human conceits than this distant image of our tiny world… To me, it underscores our responsibility to deal more kindly with one another, and to preserve and cherish the pale blue dot, the only home we’ve ever known.”
From comments by Carl Sagan in his 1994 book, ‘Pale Blue Dot’…
They couldn't have chosen a nest-bed more complex, or vaster.
I lauded their industry (toiling through Sunday, no qualms!),
and almost felt guilty for loitering by their pilaster.
My wife was the hold-up. Those scanty straps were a disaster,
her shoulders cold-shouldered! Here, there's no right to bare arms.
Basilicas don't come mightier, or more splendid, than this one:
Saint Peter's in Rome, High Renaissance, wide-fabled by poets.
The great Michelangelo crafted this Christian Aswan:
they've gathered its glories in guidebooks, so no-one need miss one.
Those frantic ants scampered on legend, but they didn't know it.
And isn't that rather like us? As we hurry and scurry,
accomplishing little, accounting ourselves oh so clever,
ignoring the story (except our immediate worries),
deploring as boring whatever creates no quick flurry,
we miss the magnificence dwarfing our petty endeavours.
The Poet's Words
The words came, and he wrote. In dreams by night
Labor and deep grief that ages gone were dead
Stole from the past, and stood about his bed;
He sought no words; they came; he did but write.
When day was round him too, some vision bright
Or spark of glowing truth would glide between
The busy voices in a bustling scene,
Turning his heavy heart unto the light.
Whence came they? Were they gifts of long ago,
Like pansies growing on a pilgrim way?
Or but dim echoes of a vaster day
Whose harmony the happy dead may know?
That song eternal, that unwearied chime
Of seas that break around Isles of Time?
Sonnet (Classicism)
R. J. Lindley, written decades ago,
edited and presented today- 11-27-2016
Poem Syllable Counter Results
Syllables Per Line:10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10 10
Total # Syllables: 140
Total # Lines: 16 (Including empty lines)
Words with (syllables) counted programmatically: N/A
Total # Words: 118
I wandered in blissful darkness;
My arm outstretched,
Hanging in limbo.
The hardwood floors creaked beneath me.
The rain pattered patiently on the glass
As though asking to be let in
To make acquaintance with my sodden breath.
So dark the woes of man are laid!
Arranged in a social hierarchy,
And in alphabetical order!
I glance around (a useless gesture)
Examining the room
In search of light
(The dimmest glimmer of hope would suffice)
Aimlessly;
Thirsty (despite the wetness in the air)
For lustrous knowledge.
Directed only by minor gusts of wind
Blowing me hither and thither,
I wander in blissful darkness;
My arm outstretched
Cluelessly.
And whilst the serenity of the unknown
Pacifies my mind in the midst
Of this hypnotic eve,
My Thirst re-emerges
And rapidly drives me to lunacy.
Yea, the midnight siren
Renders this illusion vaster—
Far beyond its substantial boundaries.
For in reality the Room is small,
Cramped,
And teeming with conflict—
A conflict of beliefs;
Until all truths are lost
And the surreal is re-inhabited.
The dark Room we wander in
(The reality of the blissful darkness)
With ours arms outstretched,
Bumping into furniture.
Within the mind we are confined;
the body shuts us in.
And sadly sometimes humankind
throughout its thick and thin
has suffered serious disease
that tests our mortal grip
on evolution’s risky seas
to keep afloat our ship.
These illnesses that sweep the sphere,
pandemics they are called,
can cause our lives to seem austere
with daily doings stalled
when staying home becomes the norm
while ‘sheltering in place’,
and time is spent in altered form,
which some find hard to face.
Yet if our point of view we change
to vaster span beyond,
confinement needn’t be close range.
With fancy’s magic wand
we see we’re quarantined as well
inside the Milky Way,
confined in solar system’s shell
by Goldilocks’s sway.
The universe can furthermore
be added to the scope
with stellar regions by the score,
in cosmic envelope.
And lest we limit our own role
within a greater plot
to play a part of nature’s whole
on pale blue earthly dot,
neuronal networks of our brains
have quite a kindred look
to grand stelliferous domains,
galactic paths they took.
So, though confined the present seems,
still myriad may be
our future starry-visioned dreams
come true we’ve yet to see…
~ Harley White
* * * * * * * *
Inspiration was derived from the COVID-19 pandemic…
A further inspiration derived from the article in Science Alert titled “Study Maps The Odd Structural Similarities Between The Human Brain And The Universe”…
My love,
My dove,
My beautiful Nicky
Shining before me.
I love you with all my heart and soul.
You came into my life and stole
My heart from me.
Without you
I would die.
I never want to say good-bye.
Please never leave me.
You are the key
To my happiness my sweet.
All the others are full of deceit,
But you love me
And I am no fool, I can see
That your love is true.
Others say we are going too fast,
But they don’t listen to their heart whose knowledge is vaster
Than that of the brain.
I listen to my heart and know
That you are the one meant to show
Me the ways of love,
My beautiful dove.
Paint and Plaster
So what, in essence, is this thing called paint?
A coloured liquid which, applied to plaster,
will fuse and forge a thing securer, faster,
and far more comely than before. How quaint!
Attaching thought to walls is not restraint,
not loss. It dries, and then the thought feels vaster!
And plaster’s porous, not like alabaster,
and so it’s fixed. The link twixt tint and taint!
It’s nice to think that Piccolomini fought
back tears of pride, the frescoes having stirred
sublime emotions: positively purred
to see his forebear honoured in this sort.
Alas, too soon he was, himself, interred.
And thus our high ambitions come to nought.
Robert browning and Me (2)
Where was I with that book on Artemisia?
No Internet or Amazon back then,
So I got busy trudging round – then busier.
No joy. “American? We’ll call you when …”
“Import it from the States, you say? (sigh) “Sorry …”
That book to me was life-blood. From dry fact,
I knew I could carve angels. It was packed
with pure potential. It would be my quarry,
I, Michelangelo. But Florence called
(the city, not the girl). My summer break.
I’d soon be very happily installed
in Art’s sweet Heart. That book would have to take
a rain check. There were Browning things to see,
check out the places that the poet knew,
and stand where he stood (absolutely true!)
the day he found the Yellow Book. For me,
this part would be the climax. One fine day
in June of eighteen-sixty, Browning strolled
(the gods of poetry pointing out the way)
the Square of San Lorenzo – and struck gold!
He found a worn old book, and made the sale.
The record of a legal case with pleas,
submissions – this could be his masterpiece!
(A bit like mine, but on a vaster scale.)
So, there I was in San Lorenzo. If
my Artemisia project was on stall,
at least now I could breathe vicarious whiff
of Browning’s triumph. Oh, I was enthralled!
He read the lawyer’s brief as he walked home.
I traced his steps – down Giglio, Panzani, then
across the Arno at the bridge again –
(I caught a glimpse of Brunelleschi’s Dome)
and then it happened. Those poetic gods!
A bookstore on the Tornabuoni. (Time allows.
But what of Browning? Even Homer nods!
What harm, if I just sidle in and browse …?)
The book on Artemisia! Divine!
How many thousand lire? Hey, who cares?
So, I and Browning had our talents (tares?)
He used his well enough. Now I’ll try mine!
As sun is about to wake
I set my eye on a great lake
As I breathe in the cool breeze of that lake
Small piece of its soul with me I take
Beyond the lake hills roll
There is a filing of majesty in my soul
The hills seems enchanted as castles and forests there lye
Covered by the endless azure sky
The mountains tower with rugged beauty
And fearsome majesty
The sky stretches for infinity
Vaster than the vastest sea
The area is natural but seems by God send
However past the mountains this area will end
However my mind sees depth beyond that unfold
And imagination is the wonder to behold
In there the infinity of the skies
Is grander because its reference point is not localized
The beauty mesmerizing surreal bliss
Stretches through entire abyss
But what is beyond that is a soul
And it is that that is in control
As span of entire abyss is balance
I wish to be the divine the counterbalance
Teachers and students bond
In the classroom, in the lecture room
To ensure the teaching and learning process doesn’t abscond
As teachers their students’ future groom
In bonds that over time tie tighter
As the loco parentis role teachers pursue
To mould character, attitude, knowledge and skill in better and vaster
Quality, quantity and sanctity that ensue
When ignorance hitherto entrenched
Dies and lies in a cognitive intensive care unit
While cultures of best practice and best performance grow enmeshed
In society whose prosperity teachers and students knit
To man vital sectors of national economies
Although teachers sentimentally suffer when upon course completion students depart
After scaling with flying colours cognitive, affective and psycho motor taxonomies
When from teachers’ company beloved students part.