Gun is fired
Friction-slick bullets heat the barrel shocking the shoulder finding a new place in its socket
Metal pellets rain like rain or hail
As opposed to paper pellets or those made of grain derivatives
How many glyphs exist?
Those recognized by some higher authority
And how many more are there that go unaccounted for?
I have a set of my own
It is smart to keep part of yourself unaccounted for
Keep it on pages buried in second-hand drawer chests
When does a spider's web become a cobweb?
How much dust has to fall?
How many days?
Can we quantify it?
Dusts rain like rain, not like hail
Or like bird feathers telling you something must've happened above
Something of note
I refuse to dust
To wipe away my calendar
Non-numerical calendar grids
Compress to fit into layers
Layers only distinguished by time of fall
Of rain
Of feather
Not by barrier, nor boundary, nor anything which can be marked
Only known
It is only known that upon waking from sleep or else what
That more dust is there
Or maybe that
The surface of my skin has changed
The fibers of my clothes are more worn
And gravity still complies with its law
Blind Justice of Quotas
The gavel falls by decimal,
The judgement by percent.
The individual decreased to small,
A fraction of intent.
The scales she holds no longer weigh
The implication of the crime; They total up
The data-set to clear the queue of time.
Injudicious eyes are bound
To grids of black and white
Where no extenuating ground can alter
Wrong to right.
We trade the law for calculators, Truth for
targeted numbers.
Escaping fair adjudicators for anything that
computes.
She stands in stone, a blind sum capture to
A pie-chart, crown- a goddess turned outdated,
While column weigh her down.
A ledger filled, a ratio net, The target achieved
And clear;
While justice weeps inside the trap of a
Mathematical World.
Ages of Time…
We split it into fragile parts,
Seconds, minutes, hours,
Measured life in numbered beats,
And called this structure “ours.”
Yet time won’t count what we keep,
It does not rush or wait,
It passes beyond our grids and lines,
Unaffected by our fate.
Time was never born of clocks,
Nor carved by ticking hands,
It stretched before the stars and earth,
Not ruled by human plans.
It runs its path, it never stops
Unbroken perfection, vast and free.
Yet never a glimpse has been seen by me.
Norman Van Etten
a pillar of light stands erect in form
rising from navel straight up to the crown
it’s the stillness zone centred in each storm
ocean of consciousness in which we drown
all other grids represent our playground
witness with clarity totality
singularity and duality
Free from cooking dinner and bathing kids
we've exchanged lipstick, off to jazzy jigs tried different costumes, with plaited wigs
let's wear false lashes attached to blue lids
we'll go for raw oysters, no-one forbids
then hurry to club where cool drummer skids
girls will sing in deep voices startling digs
nonchalant will we be, dismantling grids
Black Magic Women, nobody's spare ribs !
There were boxes of memories piled high
From the ground up to the sky
And in each one like cubes of solitary glass
Shinning in the sun
It seemed as if time were frozen in the past
Unrelieved by forward or backward reverberations
In this matrix of unending associations.
Recitations on these grids of spatial time
Were punctuated by equal strips of glowing
Equivalences of rhyme
And standing there between these strips
Of shimmering iridescences
I could look back over my shoulder and see
The future mirrored in the past of essences.
.
In our measure of the passing time,
Curious circles fill the counted days—
Numbered moments scarred by transiting light,
The heaven’s moguls bruise our joy and blight,
And give, and take, and measure what we mean.
Time, indifferent, measures us; it loops
Around the heaven’s span and grids the world.
Saturn still stutters—constant sorrow speaks—
Today recedes into tomorrow’s loss;
Yet clocks in circles go, and we pay cost.
O god of time, your circles go and go,
Returning slow, then turning wingèd, fast—
They come, they go—there’s time enough for love.
Meanwhile I scan the horizon with my mind,
And seek the curve of her Belt of Venus—fire—
A circumference of sunset reds that span
The sky; on sight she’s timeless, swaying slow,
A pendulum—its fixed foot steady—rings
My day; her pulse keeps measure as it swings.
And in night’s sanctuary, as we roll
On sweat-slippery fields of red-ochre bliss,
We kiss the kiss that turns and kisses back.
Then, as I watch her breathing come to rest,
Time stops—
and takes my breath away.
Ah ! Seven Sisters Wild
let your blueness flow in tides
for hot bread and blankets red cosy
loosen grids to free muddled minds rosy
so all may smell
nasturtiums tangling moist moss bells
Ah ! Seven Sisters Wild
slip here in solitary hours mild
to turn dial in cold of night
tuning to forgotten memories
of secret airy flights
where you taught mysteries
which I now remember as histories
Ah ! Seven Sisters Wild
are you chanting or baking chide
or decorating star garden walls
awaiting awakening calls
the dark silences of your eyes
embracing arums
we arise
I y e a r n for H O M E
~~~~~~~~~
A lightbulb conjures Edison
but shines on another,
relevant
in the war of currents, (1)
that another player sparked -
vastly intelligent.
It would be the world's fate
to have its current alternate,
and, too, Tesla spared the elephant. (2)
(1) In the "War of the Currents" in the late 1880s and early 1890s, surrounding the introduction of competing electric power transmission systems, Thomas Edison promoted Direct Current (DC), and Nikola Tesla promoted Alternating Current (AC), which is now the standard for power grids around the world.
(2) Per Wikipedia, "In popular culture, Topsy [the elephant] is often portrayed as being electrocuted in a public demonstration organized by Thomas Edison during the war of the currents to show the dangers of alternating current." However, it goes on to reveal a more complex (but just as horrible) truth.
Turning over in a ruffled bed,
stark red numbers sear 4 a.m. into bloodshot corneas.
Nothing but darkness creeps through threadbare curtains, frozen in place.
A desolate silence becomes deafening, as birdsong no longer crescendos—
what would have been the breaking of dawn.
It's been six years now since our brightest star was thrown out of orbit,
exposing the frozen side of the sun.
No longer does our planet experience the warmth of its radiation,
nor the glow of its solar flares.
Within a fraction of a second, humanity was plunged into an everlasting night.
Temperatures plummeted; mass hysteria was at its peak.
Crops perished within hours to days,
as the new icy tundra eclipsed once-thriving farmlands.
The birth of a perpetual Ice Age was at hand.
Power grids crystallized and snapped.
Cities crumbled; small towns were blotted out,
disappearing off the map, never to be seen again.
Death's gelid hand spared but a few souls—
holed up in a scientific research bunker in the Arctic.
We are but the unlucky few who get to “live” in this glacial purgatory,
wandering aimlessly forevermore.
My both hands were tied
Unable to escape
I breathe tight
My heart fear
thinking it will be my last day in the universe
My pelvic grids produced crack sound
Both my mind and body became motionless
Oh god
I can't help myself as my whole body turns numb
Blood flow like a water
From various parts of my body
With all my strength
I screamed loudly
"Please somebody save my life"
My hands which helps to save
thousand of life
Was unable to save own
Crippled into the floor
I ask merciless people to leave me alone
Vivid image of my family
runs into my mind
their dream of enjoying my success
after becoming a successful doctor
Shattered like a broken glasses
All I can do is to see
Predators faces
With a rage of thirst and hunger
I question myself
How can god create such human beings ?
Who have no mercy towards innocent
My entire life was lie
We are taught to be afraid of ghost
rather we should be taught to be afraid of men
Whose intentions are disgusting more than a ghost
EMBROIISTA
multicoloured
fragmented
bits
&pieces
all
embracing
cutting
edge
arrazzi
agenda
of
mosaic
grids
of
sophistificaton
She sat alone
behind a closed window,
secured by iron grids,
on the top floor
of an ugly old black building
that some dared call
an orphanage.
Once she had hope,
Once she had dreams
that some kindly couple
might perceive,
wish her for themselves,
take her to a cosy house,
where food was savoury to taste.
She dreamt she would
achieve normality,
attend a proper school,
read books and play
with happy children,
receive toys occasionally,
and live in harmony.
The dream remained a dream.
days turned forlorn.
All hope was lost.
She was too old now.
Couples wanted small children,
Unsuitable ones came for her
but were refused.
Little did she know
that soon she would
develop another dream,
that someone would finally notice her,
and carry her off
on a romantic spree.
From the closed barred window
She looked at the moon.
Will she find happiness?
Illustration Caption: Frederick Law Olmsted,
father of American Landscape Architecture,
at "El Capitan" iconic summit, Yosemite, CA,
in 1865.
Olmsted saw verdant paths of our core.
Urban sprawl separated at a cost
that let us know nature and adore.
Those who wander find awe is not lost.
Wilderness lands surely shape our view,
songs of soil, stone 'n star, none too far.
See what we, as humankind, dare do -
conquer the inner self where we are.
Landscape concerts to which all can go
futures for youth lie beyond the grids;
where one can become their own maestro,
raise up nature's promise for the kids.
Parks and places for all of our people
spaces for worship without a steeple.
14 Lines Sonnet 99 Words
Pen Illustration by G. Gaul
10/1/2022
Roman
empire reigns,
military
exercise game,
children
imitate soldiers,
mark
chalk grids ~
cast
tiny boulders
ancient
British pastime
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