ILLUSIONS
perspectives
energised
fragments
absorbed
silotary
intermission
of
pleasures
suggestively
frozen
in
different
&deliberate
vertical
dramatic
divisions
&demarcations
implicit
&
unsettling
mysterious
&unreal
distinctive
articulate
of
conscious
reality
encounters
of
emblematic
compositions
in
shadows
subverted
with menace
in
vestiges
of tranquillity
It has been said that pain is
a conversation waiting to be had.
If that is so, there’s so much to share:
Today, the term the United States
is on the road to becoming less and less
an applicable synonym for America.
Reigning division and separatism
seem to be the new twin watch-words
describing this discordant nation.
Today, the old Mason-Dixon Line
has been replaced; yet of the tri-color
flag, white remains supreme; red and blue
identifying her divisive demarcations.
Black, brown and yellow sprinkle
in the circles thereof and polarization
of color again sums up the political times.
That all men are created equal
was a worthy pen; such words, however,
have yet to become a living reality.
It has been held that what goes around
soon comes back around—if the circle
is not broken. Yet it is also held true
that a bubble blown beyond its limits
will surely burst and dissipate into vapor.
Along the stretch of an alley etched in cracked cobblestone,
Walks a conquered weary swain besides his penumbral casted clone.
Onwards he treads towards the recycled mill of a matted ride,
As calcitrated gravel pebbles are tumbled by his stride.
Beneath his feet the floor is flattened by concrete consecrations,
Created by the curse of a society deified by Earth’s castration.
Sky-scraping towers cloud the city’s canopy with sedentary cement,
Carving corporate demarcations along the trickling trick of rent.
As above the breath is bleached by blotted crumbles of pitiless guilt,
So below the belly balloons with bloated hubris on which its built.
‘Tis but a chore of the harvest’s chattel to maintain the flock with traffic,
Churned in the choking oil slick of a city fracked from finite fabric.
And so the folly of the fickle fellow who fights for matter and finance,
Shall adjourn the chance to find delight in the trance of song and dance.
The question itself begs interpretation,
The word 'where' concealing so many implications
Is this 'where' a physical place, or state of mind?
Perhaps it's with a higher consciousness aligned?
Boston, London, Paris, or Rome? Cairo, Lisbon, Moscow, or Gnome?
Were you abroad? Were you at sea? Were you in space? --Or just at home?
Perhaps you were in Timbuktu, or basking in the ambience of Xanadu,
Sailing away on pink Chablis, sipping winter-blossom chartreuse tea.
The word itself is a siren, inviting by utterance unimaginable peregrinations
Of connotations, demarcations, gesticulations, imprecations--divinations!
Fathomless depths, layers of meaning, shells of encasement, particulars
beaming:
'Here' is in 'where,' and so is 'were.' Were you here? Where? Posibilities
teeming..
Not to mention 'Ere' and 'Rhee:' Ere you were here, where were you, Rhee?
Ah, Rhee, my bold, my courageous, my daring--yet compassionate Draupadi.
Now ere I bid this poem adieu: Where were you in the 70s is the question.
Hmmm. I can't really say. Forgive me, please, this slight indiscretion.
Year's end.
The calendar expires
in time's continuum.
Arbitrary demarcations
shift and fade.
Locations change; faces age.
Everything, though different,
remains the same.
Plus ca change, plus ca meme.
The stars are ruled by cycles
that the year produces.
Time decides the issues.
Our lives are nursery songs
in minor keys and
everything's been said.
imagine yourself from where you stand
to vanishing point in all directions
out in the midst of no man's land
nothing but grid and introspections
it's quiet out here, with nary a breeze
shells quietly exploding now in your head
lost in your thoughts, quick as you please
thinking, of all the things that you said
out here past any nation's demarcations
i wish you were here to share my company
life may only be our mind's aberration
but we could dream, of all that could be
touch and talk as stars arced the sky
far from this grids greyed hue and cry
© Goode Guy 2011-11-15
Paired, With Reservations
The soft curve of her spirit-
Her true shape only emergent after countless
Half-glances in the half-light of morning’s edge.
What line is drawn by the knife-edge of the sun’s first rays?
Who is slain in that prime, resplendent arrival?
Regardless it is a shiny death: an incidental manslaughter
Making new cuts and reshaping the structure of our shared constitution:
Reforming the meaning of our togetherness.
Her form, her movement, creates contrast.
Motion is wonder’s conciliator, unearthing profundities and
Burying banalities under underfoot miles and myriad beads of perspiration;
Forging ahead together through the nascent day. To what end?
Running lines: some arbitrary and intangible, others geometrically
Pronounced in yellow and white, dotted and solid, faded and new.
Drawing new lines: making demarcations- parameters implicitly set-
So close yet never intersecting: paired, with reservations.
When you lost your kidneys, you can replace.
Who cares that will donate or having human lace.
When you become healthy you prefer to see face,
You turn kind and never run a discrimination race,
A religion, colour or caste never opens a case.
When a person has sound health he counts only wealth,
Introduces demarcations and degrading for self stealth.