In science, we observe.
All only exist when and after they are
observed.
I, an explorer, lean in with a lens
to catch the scent of rained soil,
the mist above the lake before sunrise—
trying to defy
the myth of love, with my
list of what I’m meant to find:
- light feathery kisses in spring breeze’s tickle
- smiling to smiling eyes in a pavement puddle
- shared silence after a midnight rain
- a cocoa cuddle while the world melts away
Footnote: Data inconclusive
Jesus; he is Christ and he’s what Christmas is about
Jests and silly little jokes, some atheists will tout
Tests on shrouds would later prove a little inconclusive.
Tents would be too public for an imminent exclusive
Rents agreed for stabling when the virgin birth was due
Rants from Joseph, “Who’s this man who laid his hands on you?”
Mants inflict the Scot as statue’s eyes in blood do run
Manta rays glide ’neath the waves, where all life had begun
Santa, flies the skies above till Christmas Eve is done
[Mants = Stammers (primarily Scots)]
Melted in the background of the forefront of my mind
Thinking about all of the thoughts I've left far behind
Now everything within my head seems so very intertwined
The asterisk by the questions of answers I'll never find
Interference is what confuses my once solid mental state
Fear is the illusion that my enemies illustrate
Unbalanced in tortured abuses that echo and reverberate
Evidence seems inconclusive but not open for debate
Inhumane acts to humanity just a subject to be tested
Mind raped in profanity every part they have molested
Actions of complete insanity why was I even selected
The power of my anatomy has been tortured and arrested
V2K, silent sound, no touch torture, gang stalked target
How to fight those who always walk on Blood Red Carpet
bmdavey@10/6/24
Crystal waters plumping the honeydews
and cascading through amusement park ride.
As tourists engage in espionage
in Duckburg at Knottsbury farms.
As graves of self sufficiency,
Communes of bagged embalm.
"Do What Thou Wilt","Do No Harm".
Spirit cooking, charms I"m sure.
Missing and exploited children bearing no arms.
Foreigners get precedence over
the Citizenry collage for the sake
of stirring the melting plot.
The coffers brim
and Scrooge McF swims past inflation,
reaps the rewards of child labor
at camp Whinnie the Pooh with pedophiles and containment lasers,
adds a zero and then again, while CBDC
cabalist coup hides the genesis
of their new technology,
obfuscates the code in block-chain,
snart contract chaser-
in lock-step
and unlocked surveillance,
laser focused,
poker face,
tazered for inconclusive shadow, ban.
As we sell our Sons and Daughters
to a not so brave New World.
Sold at half price for reverse mortgage
and a haptic iPhone holographic massage.
OnlyFans and Tic Tok trends.
Where does it end?
Where the SoyLent is green.
Where the Red Firm Grows.
In between the lightning
the rain plays tricks
and my judgment is inconclusive
a stranger's face becomes blurred
the rain pours in sheets
the silence of the night is broken
It's something inconclusive
This feeling that I'm not
A perfect human specimen
Lukewarm compared to hot
I scrutinise the mirror
That I carry in my phone
It tells me of belonging
Yet I feel so far from home
I probably need rebuilding
Like a human Lego set
A different type of perfect
Is the answer I detect
A voice within me cries out
Don't change a single part
I love you as imperfect
'Cos you're perfect for my heart
Let's work on your perspective
Stand right here just next to me
Now tell yourself through my eyes
Not more perfect could you be
My best guess is that it was some 20 years ago that
the number 100 represented years I wanted to live.
This was my request to The Lord, adding that I would
like to revisit the matter then to see if I wanted to
live beyond 100. It was a prayer of simplicity without
conditions, declarations, decrees, or qualifications.
It was all about longevity, legacy, serving God and
humanity. At that point, the matter was closed.
A few years ago, as I was sharing my longevity dream
with a friend, he countered with the fact that he'd
rather not live that long. For Bob, about 85 years
would suffice.
So, I concluded that I needed to revisit The Lord with
an amendment granting me 'a healthy 100 years'. Having
included that caveat, I then felt much better about 100.
I must say that my friend's comment about being both
aged and healthy was a sobering one of which I took
serious note.
When I look across the horizon of our shattered world
and the challenges to be faced, issues personal, foreign,
and domestic that refuse to be silenced, there is a toss
and turn in my spirit. Although inconclusive with second
thoughts, I'm still inclined toward a climb to 100.
062023PS.
This was once a sea of mud
Where thousands bled!
Before it reverted to!
A field of Flanders Poppy Red.
Do lines of ghostly squaddies!
Plough through ethereal mire!
In an endless quest to!
Charge the enemy barbed wire.
Do Mill Bombs explode!
As machine guns bark!
Sending many of the brave!
Into death's final dark.
How many bodies sank
Into that glutinous paste
Just futile victims of
A futile war's waste.
Do those shades fight bravely
Or do they fight with despair
Knowing it was sheer folly
That they were ever there.
The Flanders Poppy thrives
It's vivid scarlet red
An enduring tribute to those
Many brave but wasted dead.
And the massed white tombstones
In their precise lines and ranks
Are tended with love and care
In sincere but inadequate thanks
17 October 1916 the Battle of The Somme enterd its 109th day and had 32 more to run. It lasted 141 day in total. It saw the first use of the tank in battle, and extensive use of air power.
Casualties: British and Empire: 420,000, French: 200,000, German: between 434,000 and 500,000.
It was classed as “inconclusive.”
100 Years On I feel like crying/
Stay in rhythm, little buddy;
don't need that report to muddy
what has been a peaceful, quiet,
restful phase, so skip the riot.
Couple that were inconclusive;
fine by me - remain elusive.
I'd rather not be sliding back;
let's get the rhythm back on track.
VIEWPOINT
acquired
discovered
&
conceived
so personalised
alongside
an
edge
a layer
& the flavour
& the
character
of
destiny
of the
fragile
&vulnerable
to bear
in mind
identified
the
inconclusive
displayed
alongside
the luminous
so
recently
discovered
an
emphasis
on the
novel
niche
&otherwise
familiar
the
ultra-contemporary
a showcase
emerging
as a
restorative
to
overwhelm
NOTE:THIS IS AN OPEN(organic) FORM VERSE using spaces&breaks without grammatical symbols ,the ' open' relies upon 'the one breath limitation' & so inherently requires the 'reader' (reciter) to input and responds thus making this enigmatic form a two way interplay & interpretatIon unique to the moment& changing according to mood is inherently variable.
Copyright © Brian Strand
There is a squat/stout duffer in a windbreaker and a Mets cap on the outskirts of the park
playing a rickety 5 string and hoot'in and holler'in.
I have no idea what he is singing.
There is no discernible melody.
Every now and then he stops/ freezes/ puts his forefinger in the air
to take some sort of measure
before plunging back into his flailing guitar.
After another stuttering burst he will stop/
then let loose with an elongated cry to the sky/
punk operatic/ style
nobody seems to stop/and listen/he does not have a container for contributions and probably would not get much trade/
he is playing/for his own/self/and that is / enough
It's/utterly senseless/ wholly out of key.
Beyond the realm of anything/
resembling cohesive musicality
/rambunctiously obtuse
yet imbued with an innocence that casts proficient excellence into a pallid light.
His songs/ performance/ like life/ a messy and inconclusive/ thing/
You can have/ your polished practice and Carnegie aspirations/
and make of that an evening/ with class
but I like the way this codger lets her rip/
this ragged chanteur/
airs it out/ no class/ no talent/ but lotsa / style
When I die
I give the Pulitzer Board
Permission
To exhume my lyrics
And some overweight ME
Will put my verses on a slab
Going thru my stanzas for tone
looking for assonance and
Consonance in my bones
As my family waits around to see
If i really was a great poet
And they will probe my lines
for cadence
Meter and Trochee
Taking notes
As they dissect
My poetry
They will say I was anemic
On my tercets
And many of my quatrains were forced
As they search for the source
One of the examiners
will write on his tablet
That I never wrote
A Sestina or villanelle
They will note, He was good.
But his books didn't really sell.
The NAACP will close that he didn’t
Represent the Black community
Like King or Rosa Parks
Leaving my legacy a question mark
And no one will be specifically sure
If I advanced the Black Race
Leaving the matter a Cold Case
My kids will ask
But what does all this mean?
Was he really a great poet?
Was he as good as Frost or Hughes
The examiner will stare confused
The autopsy will be intrusive
And they will say:
REPORT INCONCLUSIVE!!
A car passing
Slowly
Maybe finding an address
Gray sky
Snow on the road
Sleet falling
Untidy garbage cans
Observations
The driver sees me
Watching from a high window
Who is she in the car
That drives so slowly
Who looks at me here
Question mark
We watch each other for a pause
I point ahead
She drives that way
I don’t know who she is
I don’t know why
I sent her that way
Rhetorical posits
My pointing was a thought
My watching was a thought
And she - just a thought
Enigmatic asides
The street is empty now
The window empty
Both gone
Wind plowing drifts
Into darkness
Inconclusive resolution
A circle almost completed
I am being told to let go
By almost everyone I know
Release, let it out, let it be
Plunge into passivity
While I cling to bitter beauty
My bruises bloom a thorny tree
Guarding roses of agony
This pain is mine, it belongs to me
My torment is my blood, it breathes
with every breath, it beats with my heartbeats
Within my tears, it weeps
It shrieks, uncoiled, beneath my skin
Where the sin of suffering begins
It is my fertile fury, my hellish choir
My savage soul, my cathartic fire
It is large and lush and livid
Conquering and vivid
It is too precious, too valuable, to trade away or wallow
in trinkets, or flimsy platitudes, or empty cliches, or hollow
promises of unfulfilling fortresses to follow
Their learned words I dare spurn
For to recover, I must burn
So I will keep it, for I know its worth,
even if their unsolicited, unwarranted, intrusive,
Questioning and questionable, inconclusive
Unadvised advisors do not grant it girth
It is here I find
What I want most
Where rage of kindness blinds
My grieving ghosts.
06/06/20
Entered in 'N/A Rerun 7'
1st Place
In a moment of rapture I still could not capture all that lies "in between"
I was able to gather all the pieces that fractured, but not the one I had seen
I only saw it once, a singular occurrence, and now it is so elusive
My hunt became hunts, I looked back to the front; the results are inconclusive
Don't think for a second that I have abandoned my mission
I know that relentless pursuit will produce fruition
I don't ponder for one moment that I will tire or collapse
I will wait for the bestowment after enough time has elapsed
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