Long Conditioning Poems
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She said that this man, my grandfather,
held her head under the black pool water,
while up above, a German man leaned
out of his window, against the moss and brick
to scream violently: "Don't hurt that woman!
She is the most beautiful woman in the world!"
The tone of the man's voice, authoritative, cold
broke my grandfather's concentration and he
let her bob up to the surface, coughing, sputtering
in an almost drowned manner, while still maintaining a beauty uncommon to humans, as she stole a quick glance
to the heavens of heavens to acknowledge the saving
power of a stranger.
This is her story today, as she sits on three moth-eaten,
velvet pillows to make her tall enough to reach the kitchen table.
She has shrunk in her old age and is no longer "the most beautiful woman
in the world".
She sips her black coffee out of Russian demitasse cups with diamond emblems
until she reaches the grinds which have slept in warmth on the bottom,
to fool her, she thinks.
She nibbles her white toast with butter and honey and shivers in the air conditioning as royalty should.
When she has filled the remaining ten percent of her stomach (the other ninety percent was removed from the worry
of ulcers when technology was in it's infant stage), she continues her story.
It lasts all afternoon and twists and winds around the basic sub-plot that, somehow, her beauty and dignity was
acknowledged in the worst circumstances, and, with her infinite wisdom, the world was made a better place.
Her voice soaks into the wooden cabinets, and will remind me forever of strong, fresh-brewed coffee, and I think,
right at that moment as I look at my hands (which I know will resemble hers one day), that I miss my grandfather.
The most gentle man in the world, whose thoughts never amounted to more than wanting to garden well, or shape
the perfect pizza in his pizza shop.
This man, who set chairs on tables to clear the floor before he danced in pure Zorba the Greek manner, with a glint in
his innocent eyes.
This man, who looked at this woman, this fabricating, self-absorbed, once beautiful woman, with an adoration never
deserved.
I clean up the dishes, while still listening, and kiss her good bye on her forehead.
Jittery from stories caffeinated and old, I chose to walk the long way home, lightening my mood and shedding her
words along the way.
I’m just having a good laugh while I still can dude before life takes its heavy grip
Until the community of clowns in disguise tie my tongue to their altar of reason
You think of a genius in the making but I just blew bubbles from my backside
Need some counter balance as not to think I’m off parity before the next photo
For the record I’m a bit sick of all those Rolling Stones songs on your play list
I can get satisfaction and you will be dancing to my tune as long as I tell you
Not yet silenced I am and you can’t always get what you want but will receive
What you need and moss could grow fat on that stone if you tried hard enough
I am your American dream or just pie in the sky for pi is a resolute number
And while I look like a young Einstein I favour the arts and a poet I’ll be
‘Baby’s got blue eyes holding back the pain’ reflecting the glow on your face
Give me face paint and Munch’s scream will look like Monet’s water colours
And those cute little ears I hear you marvel such fine complete composition
Soon they will find an audition of rebellion ignoring trite shallow advice
Craft verses and rhythm deliver fine words you never dreamt of hearing
The comedy will be shattering with a bit of existential philosophy in the mix
You can project dadada’s and incy-wincy spiders as long as the cows mew
I drink from a fountain of pleasure and spill ink on your canvas of conditioning
Think that I am overanalysing but that is what you do when I smirk and giggle
Canned laughter comes in Campbell’s soup cans and better Warhol than wars
Innocent facial composure lies in the eye of beholders and dreams are for real
Let me play for that is the best I can do when drama and tragedy loom so soon
I’ll have my dreadlocks in plaits and you must not be scared of Sylvia’s mother
Van Gogh had one ear but a writer needs only one incisive tongue to critique
My stream will be subconscious when I write about the meaning of imagination
When naïve contortions depict a world with smiles laughter and freedom
I will not change much from when the photographer took this digital image
Blue eyes stuck out tongue two ears one voice whatever you make of it now
25th April 2019
Written for contest: Baby Face What's You Thinkin
Sponsored by James Edward Lee Sr
Photo 2
Early/mid afternoon May 22nd, 2020...
Raindrops percolate Perkiomen Valley watershed
pleasant reprieve versus quite warm temperatures
yesterday found yours truly averse attempting re:
ding outside, the secluded alcove visible looking
thru single bedroom window here, once upon time
former Schwenksville Elementary School, now re:
purposed Highland Manor apartment alphanumeric
unit B44, 2day precipitation lightly palpitating terra
firma quenching thirsty flora and fauna donning viz
age fifty plus shades of lush green meteorological
regular phenomena offsets prospect where drought
would deprive biota requisite liquid nourishment
speculation June, July, and August promise triple
digits essentially forcing creature comfort ala air
conditioning as climate control to weather extreme
hot temperatures linkedin with global warming, a
grim prospect lately tempered courtesy coronavirus
COVID-19 inexplicably temporarily giving respite
the Earth atmosphere purportedly less toxic since
countless manifold modes of industrial production
lockdown subjected since employees in quarantine
to thwart contagion infecting adjacent areas, thus
impacting transportation hub, no substantial traffic
most rerouted thru information superhighway data
bits and bytes sent to and fro, hither and yon, until
"green light" signalled for businesses to reorient
themselves to alternate paradigm, hoop fully more
eco friendly less dependent upon fossil fuels, where
greenhouse gases deplete ozone layer compromising
delicate balance offset severely trending toward by
Yoda - star wars pitched battles witnessing galactic
empires armed 2 teeth with supersonic weapons mass
destruction spelling demise of human civilization
think brinkmanship whereby within eyeblink en-
tire realm encompassing eastern, western, northern
southern, brethren and cistern multifarious legacies
snuffed out without a trace extinguishing gamut of
living things great and small, perchance world wide
web overtaken with radiation resistant critters, an
unrecognizable changing of the guard when no pry
mates abled (Cain not) wrest control against giant
size carnivorous entities deliciously feast carrion
until nothing but lovely bleached (bomb shelled)
bones scattered across the pock marked terrestrial
landscape - mush room 4 opportunistic organisms.
Wake! and see the extent to which you’re still enslaved
enslaved by your own kind who hanker after conditioning platitudes
the clubby comfort of secretly oath-taking power cliques
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Remember! Remember Haidar Ali his son Tipu and Akbar
remember Sivaji and Chandra Bose and Kattapomman and Asoka
remember O! remember the one and only Mahatma
Wake India! O! Wake!
Wake! India! Wake! and see how your destitute generations are shunned aside
in infested villages sans drains sans potable water sans hope
see how they’re bound in mantric incantating castiron caste strictures
Wake! O! India! Wake!
No where else in the world are humans so in-humane-ly stratified
what proof have the Brahmins to issue forth from Brahma’s head
who proclaimed them the chosen elite on top of the Indian pile of castes
Wake! O! India! Wake!
Wake! and see how your northern brethren have cast off their spiritual shackles
even if they had abjured the path of the just to yoke their bodies
yet for each child a vaccine a soja-filled stomach to keep slavers away
Wake! O! India! Wake!
Wake! O! India! Wake before it’s too late!
for your own kind are about to enslave you once all over again
and the old master needs hardly despatch troops to proclaim his divine law
Wake! India! Wake!
Wake and watch how your elite ape and espouse the ways of the old master
how for an air-ticket a stipend per diem they would do you in without compunction
how for some lions memberships in select clubs they’d betray your own true kind
Wake! O! Asia! Wake!
Wake! O! Indonesia! Wake and see how the G.N.P. in Singapore
far outweighs that of the former papal Portugal now
how the four fiery Eastern Dragons no more parade in papier maché garb
Wake! Indonesia! Wake!
(Continued in Part One - 3)
My dear brother Butch,
Hair are the highlights of my week:
I got a job at the Hairway to Heaven salon!
Our motto: "We color your hair or dye trying"
When the interviewer said "I mustache you a question..."
I answered, "May I mullet over?"
Seriously, working there is a shear delight,
with some nice fringe benefits
They're a real cut above the rest
and I shave a lot of money on hair products...
I bought Dad a comb for Father's Day… I bet he'll never part with it
It is a long drive to the salon, but now I know all the short cuts
Oh hey, I know hair-growth seminars are not your style, but
call up your receding hairline buddies and comb on over!
It was great to see you last week, you are looking so trim!
I still feel terrible about the curling iron incident…
You can rest a-sheared I'll straighten it out
but I mussed warn you, you might get fro straighted
Just remember, $15 for a hairpiece is a small price toupée
You may not like short hair at first, but it will grow on you
...that's the mane thing
Did you hear Mom and Dad had a brush with death?
It was a very hairy situation with a real twist:
buzzing down the highway at a decent clip
someone tried to cut them off
Mom was ready to wig out, curl up and dye, but thankfully
Dad went to great lengths to avoid an accident
so there was no permanent damage
you had to see it to be-weave it
Ok, time for a couple of jokes to lighten the mood:
How does the man on the moon trim his hair?
Eclipse.
Why did Pavlov have such fabulous looking hair?
Conditioning.
Why do felines groom with their tongues?
They can't find their catacombs.
Why did the little girl watch "Black Stallion" more than "Babe"?
She liked pony tales more than pig tales.
What was the barber's sign before he went on vacation?
"Hair today, gone to Maui"
Did you hear about the novelty store selling fake piles of dung?
It was sham poo.
Just teasing!
Take hair,
Curly
Nestled high on a tree top..
Inside my tree house..
High upon a hill..
Away from civilization
Away from the restraints of society..
A society in which is corrupt at times..
A society in which life is only a matrix of robotic forms.
Robotics exist as such..
As do humans that function in their own reality matrix as machine..
Men and women believe they must contribute to this society ..
Only as a business transaction..
A business transaction in the reality matrix ..
That one's life is only based on survival mode..
One must switch a lever to always remain in survival mode..
One's life isn't for living..
One's life is for survival..
An intertia of survival mode..
Maintains a narrow view of the matrix on the whole..
Narrow version of robotic forms it is..
Men, women, and machines..
Humans behaving as robotics.
Robotics behaving as humans..
A society in which conditions one's mind..
A conditioning of a mind..
In which will allow one to believe, we are a mere tiny speck of dust..
That lies in this massive universe..
Just a meaningless speck of dust..
A speck of dust in the wind..
Wind blows..
A speck of dust evaporates
slowly but surely..
No longer in existence
A meaningless life..
Filled with only a value of what one can donate to the society..
With much blood, sweat and tears..
We pay dearly for contributing to the society..
The reality matrix of robotic forms..
One cannot hear
One cannot listen..
One can only do..
As society instructs..
On the whole..
The reality matrix is extremely meaningful..
One's life is indeed worth living..
One's life isn't based only on survival mode..
So here I am nestled high on a tree top..
As I enjoy my lovely tree house..
High upon a hill..
Peaceful in every which way..
Serenty is priceless..
Joy is priceless..
Love is priceless..
As I breathe the fresh air of life..
As I glance at my luscious sorroundings..
Consisted of nature and greenery..
A greenery that seems velvet..
Velvet greenery by day..
Shimmering moon by night..
A glistening starry night..
Only the illumination of the moon and the stars..
I feel gratitude..
Gracious I feel..
As i am divine..
Divinity speaks to me..
And I hear..
And I listen..
Here high upon a hill..
In my lovely tree house..
Away from the matrix of robotic forms..
("Pema", 2017, original pen and ink)
The Journey of Souls
Dogs make the ultimate example
Of a conditionable being,
And my deaf-dog buddy
Old Pema the Pug is no exception.
Meanwhile Buddhists of all faiths
Believe reincarnation effects us all
And involves the journey
Of a soul through countless lives,
The idea of improving our lot
Being central to life’s meaning,
Improvement which comes from the habit
Of accentuating the positive and eliminating
The negative, combined with deep insight
Into our true nature.
One way to do this is through meditation
And contemplation in a mindful way,
But the point is, it’s up to each of us to do.
So back to my pug.
Like I said he’s getting old,
But he’s still a best friend
And I’m sure I mean the world to him too
At least in the basic fact of how he’s bonded to me
In a way that’s sweet but
Also unfathomable.
This morning as I worked on a project
Building some closet shelves in my study
He came to hang out with me
And of all the soft spots available
Chose to take his place
On my meditation cushion
A spot he has over the years grown familiar with.
And it strikes me as a profound
Yet obvious fact that his conditioning
Is leading him to not only follow me
In this life,
But to set a course for his future lives
To improve his lot
Whether he knows it or not.
Maybe at some point I had a similar mentor.
I did flash once on seeing the dark soothing inside
Of an ancient Tibetan temple
From the edge of a wide open windowsill
High above the valley below,
And in the moment recognized
Something of the heart, something familiar
A point of some significance
Now matured in time
To something vastly different.
And the thought occurred to me
Perhaps I was a small bird then
Attracted to the place, perhaps simply
By a morsel of food,
But in the moment heard and felt
Something much more significant
Much more substantial and transformative.
Maybe it was a million years ago
In a different galaxy,
Maybe it was just a lifetime or two ago.
What does it matter
To the dreamer dreaming this now?
Like for my pug
Pursuing his own self interest life after life,
It makes all the difference,
And eventually becomes self evident
To mean everything.
(2/21/24)
I am twenty-one.
It’s a hot, summer day in 1963.
I’m in Lubbock, Texas, at Reese Air Force Base
And I’m climbing the ladder into a supersonic T-38 jet.
The parachute strapped to my back is cumbersome.
I can feel the sweat running down my legs.
Settling into the ejection seat, I strap myself in,
Attach my G-suit to its umbilical cord,
Connect my oxygen mask, microphone and headphones
To their nearby connections.
I am exhilarated as the plane and I are becoming one.
Yet, I am the master and it will faithfully follow my commands.
I start through my lengthy checklist,
And as I power up each engine,
I feel my supersonic rocket ship coming to life.
The engines’ whine reverberates through my headphones
As the instrument panel comes alive
And the myriad of needles jump and stabilize in unison.
I signal the plane captain to remove the chocks.
He salutes me and I smartly respond.
A gentle nudge of the two throttles starts us on our way.
I close the canopy and turn on the air conditioning.
A cold mist blows out of the vents.
I take my mask off and smell it to make sure it’s not smoke.
It never is.
I pull down my helmet’s visor
And tune the radio to the ground control channel.
My headphones come alive with air traffic chatter.
I can see other T-38’s in the distance taking off and landing,
Gracefully, like giant storks swooping down to earth
And then back up again.
I eagerly await my chance to join the flock
As I feel in complete synergy with my exquisite flying machine.
Now it’s my turn as I pull onto the runway.
I press down hard on the brakes
As I push the throttles forward
And check my engines’ instruments
For the thousandth time.
I focus on the centerline ahead of me
As I release the brakes
And push the throttles into full afterburner.
I feel them rather than hear them
As they explode behind me
Leaving a trail of angry, red hot flames.
Their force pushes me back into my seat
As I accelerate down the runway like a dragster.
I pull back on the stick and feel the wheels leave the ground.
We’re airborne!
Gear up, flaps up, as the ground quickly recedes beneath us.
I point the nose upwards and we head to thirty-thousand feet.
My rocket ship and I are happy.
I am smiling.
Life is good.
I guess I don't write how other people do. I don't post pictures of myself and update on how my life is going... I don't have an audience for that. Honestly, I write whatever comes to my mind because it gives the illusion that I'm telling people how I feel. I'm never good at that. I have so many opportunities, but its always the same thing that gets me. How much do they really want to know? When they ask if I am okay, do they want an answer, or is it because it's common courtesy.. I don't get myself, so how am I supposed to get other people? A teacher told me today, after assigning an essay, "It's easy, it's all about you!" ...... How little she knows that I can't write about me. When people say, "Tell me about yourself," the initial reaction I have is always the same. I say that I love writing and reading, and that I love kids and want to be an elementary school teacher. That's it. I'm done then. When I write, my thoughts are incomplete, and I don't write for any other reason than to satisfy all these raging thoughts that will not leave me alone. It's worse at night. Lying awake while the house is silent, all except for the air conditioning that makes a whistle and my ceiling fan on high that clicks because the high setting makes it shake. I count shadows that the trees cast through my window, but it can't push away the onslaught of emotions and wave of loneliness. I have tried many things: music, scriptures, novels, conference talks, silence, writing.. but nothing compares to the feeling I used to get when I would lay on my roof in Maryland and look up at the stars. I felt closer to Heaven somehow, and yet at that time in my life I knew I was very far from it. I'm not there and I won't ever be again, but the loneliness remains. Some people can make me laugh and smile no matter how horrible I feel. It's ironic that I feel alone when I have a best friend like Emma to cheer me every day, but I do. I'm glad I always have people around me during the day. There, I said it. I like people. But I hate them too. I like being alone, but during insomnia periods, awake voices are so very welcome. Sometimes I wish I could tell people things again, but my trust is gone. I cannot lean on others, no matter how alone and lost I feel.
Here are some questions, dear poets on Poetry Soup. As we look in within, we may find answers we have been looking for, beyond narrow conditioning and dogmatic beliefs. There can be more than one ‘right answer’ and of course, we can always silently choose the invisible fifth option ‘none of the above’. Be that as it may, it suffices that we’re peeping into our soul.
Ramana had queried ‘Who am I?’
a) we are this body identity
b) we are the thoughts streaming through us
c) we are a subset of a race or religious order
d) we are eternal living light, encased in five sheaths
What is the noumena wherefrom arises phenomena?
a) an unknown God said to be omnipresent
b) the word, as said in John 1.1
c) the cosmic egg, Hirayangarbha
d) there are no ‘others’; we are in a lucid dream
Given that God is omnipresent, He must be within. Where is He hiding?
a) in the cave of our heart as love
b) within the region of head as awareness
c) at our navel, radiating power
d) as our breath, heartbeat and magnetism enabling life
What does God look like?
a) Jesus. He must be Jesus only and no other
b) The holy trinity representing love, wisdom and power
c) Space and time entwined ~ the eternal witness
d) Soft white, all pervading living light
What lies beyond death?
a) the heavens we have been told about
b) nothing. We are extinguished.
c) the astral and casual realms
d) there is no death. Body dies, we, as soul, live on
What is Turiya, the fourth state?
a) we know only of waking, dreaming and deep sleep
b) it is the unchanging screen of awareness
c) a singularity defying delineation
d) silence and stillness ~ eye of the hurricane
What is the Kundalini or Chi or Holy Spirit?
a) there is no such thing
b) it is the Divine Mother, kinetic aspect of God’s energy
c) don’t ask please. This question offends my beliefs
d) the three terms of the question are not interchangeable
If all be one, why does everything seem dualistic?
a) dance of polarities in the womb of existence
b) veil of maya
c) creation of thought
d) well, it is dual. We are each a separate entity.
Hope you enjoyed!
27-January-2023
The Multiple Choice Poem Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Suzanne Delaney