I Am Known
Space:
endless expanse, eternal, inexorable.
Time:
Unknowable, from unbeginning befores, untill unending tomorrows.
An ache in my mind,
A weakness in my knees,
A dread in my bowels,
A tremor in my hand,
A widening of my eyes.
I move myself from point A……to point B.
Nothing else can I control but Me.
I draw a margin; fence in what I can...
THE CHALK OUTLINE OF EVERY MORTAL MAN.
Where I begin must be defined.
Where I end debated by the wise.
Utilized, understood, unknowable, unearthed.
Enter: ... examined, excepted, eulogized ... Exit.
Planted, placed, positioned, pushed, pulled, PUT.
A single grain of sand; one lonely star; a tiny blade of grass; who knows who you are?
One of the many billions of microscopic seeds sown,
But the planter is Great and I am...
...Known.
"Come forth into the light of things, let nature be your teacher"
William Wordsworth
With the rhythm of his passionate poetry,
rolled the silver-crested wave of romanticism,
inundating the shore of English literature,
where he emerged as the seminal figure.
The beauteous natural world
imparted didactic quality to his poems,
finding correspondence between nature and soul,
and between self and matchless imagination.
The color, fragrance and sounds of spring,
shine of autumn sky, sparkle of sun-soaked water,
made lasting romantic impression in his mind,
influencing the growth of his poetic genius.
He had firm faith in the magnificence of nature
as the prime source of true happiness and joy,
that could enlighten the kindheartedness,
and enhance the spiritual awareness.
A worshipper of nature, he eulogized its charm,
captured the flushing splendor of the landscape
when he felt he “wandered lonely as a cloud”,
to be aptly christened as the poet of nature.
______________
January 16, 2023
Contest : Beloved Poets
Sponsored by : Regina McIntosh
*VIDEO of Hawaii 2023
Hawaii Explodes
A calendar marking succeeds
Absence time textures
Epic life, episodic love, eulogized loss
Enigma nailed to vacancy
The urbane explodes
Hark ambitions, "Carpe Diem"
2023 January 01
Thinker, scholar, sophist; Duns was, yet, a humanist,
His thoughts actions exhibited him as true philanthropist…!
Constructing a metaphysical argument, he said,
Of the existence of God, that like rivers moves ahead…!
Aristotle or Aquinas need not be great masters,
When divine decree, like creation, does all things alters...!
A Franciscan priest and theologian, he explained,
The Immaculate Conception, with due coherence gained...!
Theology should be a sensible science of God,
Human beings should find love of Trinity never flawed...!
He differentiated faith of heart from thought of head,
Added tinges of humanity, and true love did spread...!
By John Paul II was John Scotus Duns canonized,
For metaphysics with Christian faith, he is eulogized...!
18 March 2022
John Duns Scotus Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Joe Maverick
Gloaming hast come to greet min once again
Thy scent must have faded in my mem’ry
Longin’ for the old days cloying-cold pain
A stolen gaze of serendipity
That one selcouth-soothing scent in my life
Wend extensively depth in my lone soul
Thy countenance set mine heart to ignite
This fate converged the dawn and eventide
Fugacious affection, short-lived romance
Eulogized the inscribed poems of the stars
But tree had to lose grip on foliage hand
To fall and kiss the ground and tree bear scar
The zephyr’s love turned to sourly-sweet breeze
Only thy morning dew scent sends me peace.
(Revised and changed)
O victim of time's rage,
Of today's ill times and age,
Victim of nurtured false image!
O ye much-eulogized Goddess,
Deemed powerful and loving no less,
Few care if ye do or not bless.
If ladles and the like ye wield,
Home-making thrusted as your field,
Ye know, as field it fails to yield.
What power can wield your pots and pans?
Still, ye wield ah what techno yen!
In varied fields ye vie with ken.
And yet, nor are ye much empowered,
Nor yet with due fair respect heard,
Society hast your equity soured.
With a million things to meddle,
Tireless upon a sad saddle,
With what vigour ye still juggle.
O ye Home-maker so handsome,
Look at still your hubby’s ho-hum:
He says: she! She just stays at home!
________________________________
This ode addresses the plight of women at large as so-called home-makers. The last line highlights this. A man, when asked as to what his wife was doing, says, 'she just stays at home! Alas, times change and still stay stagnant!
Ode | 19.12.2019 |
Let us not singular sinfiltrate our
over dosed mind measures
of all our predisposed socio-patterened
downfalls we have domesti-inherited
from our DNA dumb nulls un an
appreciated elders of **** ascent
beings of a post/past anointed anomalied
bereavements pushing presumptive
present tense postured atrocities
future follied fornitude frenzies to
cry contain those all ever after brazen
generations to live sideways in tune
to ever realize a coaxial junction
a dead conscience to staid to survive,
to sly to reveal and to nominal to be normal
to contain/re-contain those all ever after
gonad generations. Maybe a sideways pill pattern to
open me up before xmas, a corpse closed purpose
concentric of nerve present equal-eulogized
venture void with empty filled shakers of self.
TRIBUTARY according to Merriam-Webster:
1 : a stream feeding a larger stream or a lake
2 : a ruler or state that pays tribute to a conqueror
Revival under the big tent,
a paradigm of revelation,
a simple message:
death’s but an open eye for life.
A candlelight service
that goes on and on with friends,
new ones made unto the great by and by.
Burning bright ever bright!
Billy Graham sees God’s work
that was placed in his hands
for a very long season, in mortal years.
Many young now learn his name.
Who now shall race the eternal flame?
God looks upon earth
for a willing soul —
a jewel in the making,
to toil in this tattered tapestry,
spurring on its loveliness.
Billy Graham must be eulogized,
but not for his name’s sake,
but for the kingdom to come —
the one of His Father.
Ears open wide for a snuff?
Or will the ears of your heart ring
in anticipation, remain
in the open arms of love?
3/2/2018
John 3:16 NIV — For God so loved the world that He gave His one and only Son, that whoever believes in Him shall not perish but have eternal life.
Invitation To A Funeral
The night cold with it's sharp corners
Cutting comfort through my skin
With drunken footsteps of a soldier
I'm a tourist at your door again
My knock is full of empty
A vacant echo its reply
Consequence provides the answer
Circumstance the reason why.
Can't mend my bleeding ego.
Pieces of me cupped in the hands of my mind
Memories dripping through my fingers
A painful pleasure suicide
Your broken promise castaway upon the waters
Now washed up on desolate shores.
I've become the company
That misery enjoys
My imagination without wonder
Muffled thunder in broken skies
Love is an invitation to a funeral
A memorial service where death is eulogized.
I allude subjects dressed as
black memorials. I hate attending
gray eulogized gatherings filled
with stereotypical colloquialisms
dressed in puke hued green.
Why? As a prose freak of lines,
I engender christianese choking
the very life out of hope. There aren’t
any reliable daydreams charismatically
afloat, just biding time until the next
dark cycle. I did however attend a
meeting of the minds as the sun rose
unimpressed with the vintage of earth.
Let me defer to yesteryears when
love was tender and life was aghast
with yucky booger eating boys and
their ghastly bugs and critters. And
dark thirty was the right time to steal
kisses, just inches shy of streetlight
shadows of the opera.
While harmless caveats of thick skinned
and doting elders dressed in shades of
white buckled shining armour, riddle us
life’s never promised thorn-free, hybrid,
organic food for thought.
Experience, however, promises fields
of sown seeds ripe with a harvest of
our good, bad and ugly. Look past gone,
accept now, and race to tomorrow.
Here in this wrecked house
passion's corrupted
and there’s molded love
in the cracks of the threshold...
tragic are the echoes within.
The air is infected with the stench
of rotting hope...rotting dreams...
Scents suffocate and I am apt to scream...
but the silence is just too loud...
time is stressing with its second guessing
Yet, when I close my eyes,
these dire walls are dressed in lights,
teasing with glimpses of familiar eyes…
recalling love... that holds no reflection in the mirror.
I once dared to walk in love's parallel world
and the ache in each step weakened the whole of my heart...
yet, there were times I would have lain with death
as it’s shameful concubine.
Now I live each day…going in circles...
wearing this mask of nonsense
fooling many...only love and I know the truth...
I am wounded and all within has been broken…
just waiting to be eulogized
Why,
while we struggle on this earth
Not a word of praise is said
But,
we so lovingly are eulogized
After, we are dead
WIZDUMBs BY JA 166
Was Praised and Eulogized
When I had awakened and did yawn
Dream that existed was now gone
And it contained my desire to be
President of America home of the free.
If President what would I do first
Make acceptance speech well rehearsed
Present to people each goal I had
Make happy and ensure none were sad.
After I spoke my much anxiety grew
Prayed to God who made sure I knew
Must be prepared to fulfil each need
Protect them and not into danger lead.
Met my goals and God was sure to thank
And back into another sleep I soon sank
Died and went to heaven when I realized
People had praised me and was eulogized.
James Serious Mysterious Horn
Retired Veteran and Poet
Sometimes when I write, I tend to stretch the truth.
Same as when I gossip; I've done that since my youth.
It's not so much deliberate, but to tell a story well,
Folks tend to stray from tedious facts to magnify the tale.
This habit's often utilized a bit, I have surmised,
In speeches heard at funerals for loved ones eulogized.
By writers of the news I'd say it ought not be employed.
But “doozies” can be found inside almost any tabloid.
I think, for my defense, especially writing nonsense,
I need to find the place to get my own poetic license.
I pose to you this question- In my practice as a poet,
If I get myself a license then, to whom should I then show it?
for Let 'er rip (the mention of poetic license made me want to do this one!)
Captive damsel of creative-writing programs,
Personalized, eulogized job of small groups,
Quo Vadis poetry, a damsel in distress?
The frenetic activities handy to very few,
Poetry now belongs to a subculture hew.
We have accredited professional poets,
Creative writing teachers at all levels,
Composing computer- created poetry,
Creating illusion of the Golden Age artistry.
These professional poets have secured
Their own niches in the academic world,
They cry over the spilt milk like jackals
Snarling over a dried-up well with no aims.
Quantitative work is guaranteed success,
Accuracy, meaning, technique matters less.
+++
December 16, 2014
Form: (Contemporary Sonnet)
Sub Categories
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