Long Diminishing Poems
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When asked what skill sets
I hoped to bring
Her local ecology of justice
for nurturing,
I was not prepared.
But,
one of two internal wisdom projects,
still in process,
I'm ego-working on,
eco-role playing with,
is non-violent communication,
so I mentioned this
to the Trees and other WiseElder
youth nutritional developers
Young,
poised and elegant,
soft-spoken yet articulate
and straightforward
and with integrity of authentic curiosity,
She asked me
"What do you mean
by non-violent communication skills?
Does that mean you invite,
rather than demand, responses
by mentoring them
while listening for co-present hiding Wins
then Both/And speaking
then WinWin listening again?"
"Or are you still working
on healing OldSchool communication issues,
dominating patriarchal Left
by diminishing ElderMatriarchal Right?"
"Are you still working on non-violently violating people
with your body aggressive hands
and patriarchally mendacious voice
and homophobic and xenophobic
marching against green ecofeminist sacred feet
and blatantly exhibiting LeftBrain rabid totalitarian deductive-reductive dominance
and Trumpian: I'm just a bad bully boy
with a redblooded colonizing heart
testosterone twittering?"
I wasn't expecting that line of questioning.
But I found it really interesting
that a freckled nose
brown-skinned
young and beautiful,
inside and outside
ego and eco-core centered investigative interviewer
would need to ask that
of a white U.S. male
at this critical moment
of last non-violent hope
breathlessly waiting
for a WinWin communicated response
inviting cooperative ego/ecological polypathic climates
reversing pathological monoculturing decades
of business as competing WinLose usual
Now post-millennially reborn
green inviting integrity
of PositivEnergy Democracy
non-violently inciting
restorations of multicultural EarthJustice
SpaceTime co-arising
further EgoLeft-EcoSacredRight
ripe for ZeroZone theological healing.
But,
that's the other skill set
I'm sacred ecological
RightBrain STEAM green
writing with--
much too revolutionary
for any first time
PositivEnergy impression.
Maybe we could go there
next 2020 Revolutionary time.
One bus sleeping in the valley
Deep night
Rescue team works
We get down from the bus
We are not strange but silence
Can't remove eyes
Clouds are moving like a cow
Moon stuck on hills
They are covered with dew and
-poor moonlight
In the narrow valley
A bed of white smoke
moving sheet
Raw cold
Rejoice my sleepy mind
I saw the sky too near to me
I wanted that
spread over the body with an array of clouds
Can touch extending hands
Time will pass right away
Dawn will rise passively
My stupid heart feels the climbs
-along the hills and slipped down from the top
-just before kissing the cow
Slowly the moon is diminishing
Another hill smiles having it,
Shadow of the moon on the hill
Rays through dark
Roaming of moon from one hill
to another ...I can't write!
But it stuck in my mind
Silence valley
Drizzling
Some faded sounds
Me and my friend enjoying
-the night from a small bridge
Sorrowfulness of hills flows through the small channel
-too far from joy.
Music of water at cold deep night
-from the channel cold my heart and mind
The happiness of a moment
Still, I can feel; Again want to be in it
When I think about that special night
my all frazzle subdued
Horn of BUS always breaks the silence.
" One man's junk is another man's treasure" - author unknown
To some, old collectables and antiques are nothing but junk,
even heirlooms kept safely in their grandmother’s old trunk.
They say antiques sales are diminishing and not as popular today,
but I believe antique collecting is still an interest and here to stay.
It’s fun to go antiquing on the weekends for old forgotten treasures,
buying trinkets to discover their provenances by researched measures.
Exciting to imagine the energy and stories the antiques may hold,
and delightful when finding collections of history so rare and old.
An old empty apothecary bottle that once held medicine to treat the flu,
or helped saved the life of a sick family's toddler when he was only two.
The old handmade quilts and lace doilies that are now dull and faded,
some kept as cherished family gifts and some bartered and traded.
The beautiful Currier and Ives fruit print I found today for sale,
with foxing and colors not as vibrant and some getting pale.
I wonder the story it holds, was it in a mansion or a small home,
displayed as a collection of art or in a shack on the wall alone?
Garage sales are popular places today to find antiques and old junk,
seeing the large number of people who stop can’t be debunked.
Antique collecting is here to stay and will regain popularity,
and still exciting when finding a treasure that is a known rarity!
3/4/23
Contest: Writing Challenge -" J " words Poetry Contest
Sponsor: Constance La France
11/11/2020
Unlike most, just speaking facts
At times I met my match
And had to start over from scratch
Wasn't out to put others on blast
I'm just not one to hide behind a mask
Focused on the task
A helping hand was lent, regardless of if asked
This life moves oh so fast
I ended up in first, and I ended up in last
A cave filled with life, including bats
A diminishing forest :( , with a colony of rats
A neighborhood with sick or healthy dogs and cats
You're more than quite the catch
Excuse me Ma'am you caught my eye from first glance
While I got the chance
I'd like to ask
If you'd like to go out eat and maybe dance
Before such an opportunity has passed
Perhaps, I can take you out to a fine restaurant with class
Or if you'd prefer, we can have a picnic on the grass
My goal is toward a successful path
I have no feelings of wrath
To me life is not just about cash
I'm looking for my other half
Other than that
I've always got you and your back
If you want it, just ask
Toward each other, fixing any gap
Not talking any cap (lies) or crap
If we want to, traveling around the globe, with or w/o a map
You make me feel so good, and you make me laugh
I wouldn't take a single thing back
Just staying on track
And making a pact
Doing well at saving cash
In a world so vast
Moving forward, not staying in the past
Alas
No longer aghast
Was able to Avast
“Even my natural self appears to me as non-distinct from the supreme Self; it appears to be one and like space. How can there be meditator and meditation?”
beginning at the end of our understanding
globe of love and light of God is all that is
without diminishing Himself, He creates all
felt in the manifest universe as a bliss fizz
have ye not seen the truth as yet oh hermit
know the seeker who seeks does not exist
if we be still judging neither fault nor merit
our pristine presence is by bliss mists kissed
acknowledging form as also boundless space
we imprint our unique emotes in the vast void
as both this here now and the absolute totality
effervescence of our love is pure and unalloyed
We struggled along damp, smoke-filled streets;
leaves still summer green,
a chilly breeze rustling some, turned golden early
in anticipation of the fall.
Neil at one end of the log;
me at the other.
Occasionally we paused our journey, rested;
took turns with the diminishing gobstopper;
and backward walking with the heavy branch.
Early October, our collecting started;
we had first-dibs on Ethel Jones' old settee,
two shabby chests of drawers,
about a mile of rotten fence,
branches collected from the woods,
assorted liberated shrubs,
and now, of course, a giant log.
We were to build
the most monumental funeral pyre;
the street had ever seen,
topped with fabricated Guy,
long-wheeled from door to door
for a penny here or there.
It would be the biggest and the best,
standing proud in the bombed-out lot,
that was our playground,
but once home to family and friends.
November fifth would come,
the bonfire built, would fiercely burn;
cracking windows with the blistering heat
scorching paint on faded doors.
Part-cooked potatoes
thrown in the embers;
would later, held in hands
be greedily eaten with a spoon;
steam rising from damp, woollen gloves.
Red noses, rosy fire burned cheeks,
sparklers waving patterns in the dark;
oohs, aahs; and gasps at fiery rockets,
whirling Catherine wheels and jumping jacks.
Then time for bed
Our grubby faces,
smoked stenched hair and clothes
would last a week
'till bathday.
October Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Regina McIntosh
Date wrote: 03-October-2021
Abhorrent those phizog few,
At times they flood his mind.
He did not even know why them his mind drew,
He has got to get down, reasons to find.
His mindly nib, she oozes memories,
Of old and new… far but few,but many ,that he knows not.
On papyrus his mind scribbles and carries,
And then drains encapsulated emotions that afore are now brought.
His heart bleeds of porous feelings,
Bleached and dried by furious despotism.
Of people he knew real close in life’s dealings,
Of the ones he had no knowledge of their absolutism.
Blood flows from his weary eyes,
Tears flow from his broken heart.
But he has not yet learnt life’s game of dice.
All he has borne is the fury of the tyranny’s dart.
My thoughts like his lie chained ,
My mindly nib brings afore,
Glued stuck and stained.
Memories of the past eon all sore.
Get up my Goa…..
Can one dare to hope…
Instead of all in this darkness grope
All he can hear is Empty voices….. cold… dark and sterile,
Shapless dreams , but sought in the midst of peril
Black mirrored roads and murky simmering waters,
Is no place for perfect reflections, but for our dream slaughters
Leaving behind a land adorned by hungry eyes…
Its beauty diminishing like wisps of smoke amidst populous cries……
Get up stand up….
ElseWe will run blinded in the dark,
And meet the hard embrace
Of whispered truth and scolding truth without a scenario of a worser case
You are watched and inspected,
Governed , directed , censored and corrected.
You are told what to do,
You are told how far to go.
Where is that haloed glow?
No more a part of your grand show,
Have they driven your thoughts to a tangent,
Oh then even your smile could shortly become pungent.
Your sanity unseen
Your senses now dumb that were earlier keen.
I still cannot reconcile as to why?
Why why and why?
You still walk in sheathed in tatters of pride….
Lips closed but open eyed…..
How long……..
Do we have to be forlorn
How long……..
Do we have to be forlorn
I wrestle with against vulnerable boundaries
to invasive intimacy,
left unlanguaged yet right felt dismay
could not sustainably remain
without being said outloudlyish
in some bicameral bilateral bipolar balancing brainiac
polypathically left merely cooperationalizing,
creolizing Sacred Elders feeling self-righteous
matriarchal nutritionisms,
spiritual and diminished secular scientissues
falling failing OtherWise,
hypothetical proofs of co-incidence.
Knock knock.
Who's there?
Not not here.
I wish.
Go notnot away.
Where dissonance grows troubling
such dismay's source is left label searched for
within economic causes
producing secular with sacred ecological effects
to become biologically expected
in and through bilateral regenerational returns,
depending on the faith systemic word choices preferred
by All EarthLives Matter
sacred ecosystemic recoverers,
co-listening
deep mutual learners
comfortable in tranquil ponds
of lucid equal harmonies
ringing double-boundaries
singing
winging
flinging not here not now
invisible hypotheses
of Zero-Core bicameral bilaterality.
Rich loving mentors,
teachers,
but please,
not another preacher
of cognitive patriotism
against affective ecofeminist intuitive self-defense
begun against
lunar-scheduled matriotism,
offense against solar Yanger
wanger
bangers,
Pi to pay
the multiculturing pipers,
ecofitters,
multiculturing quilters
and organic happy, sometimes a little high,
farmers
of antiquity,
herstoric myth tellers
and legend gossips
and polypathic paradigming architects
exforming evolutionary incarnations
as revolutionary reverse-notnot
evolutionary
yet as now appositionally bilateral
absence of cognitive-affective dissonant
boundaries
of vulnerably echoing reiterative transparency,
both ego threat of rightwing dominant terrorism
and eco-opportunity,
left with right wing ego/eco-dominance
as positive psychology
and EarthTribe EcoJustice
complicated redisunprecovery
of often deep dense politics.
All about atomizing power
both/and wavey-linear flow.
Wherein we wrestle with,
but preferably not against,
vulnerable boundaries
about too invasive double-binding intimacy
left unlanguaged
yet right felt dismay,
sung in
and through thin
diminishing dissonance.
This house has been set ablaze; ashes rain like snow,
covering what has become my deathbed.
A weighted blanket of ruins lies heavy upon my chest.
Laboured breaths and the taste of soot coat the back of my throat,
stifling oxygen from reaching the whites of enervated eyes.
Blue-tinted lips incoherently whisper, flirting with my demons,
living in purgatorial gloaming
whilst my spirit hovers between diminishing light and shadows.
Reality blurs, amalgamating with hallucinations
where demons dance in a macabre ballet,
reenacting repressed sorrows,
torturing an undead heart to the brink of insanity.
With each twirl, each act, tales of desperation are etched onto flesh.
Riverlets of blood stain the sheets bright red,
as tourniquets are nowhere to be found.
There is no way to halt the flow;
emotional instability will be my bloodletting.
Every second ticks by a little quicker
until each heartbeat grows fainter.
A clenched jaw relents,
eyes roll backwards,
and a damaged soul is severed from its mortal coil,
yet its fate is left undetermined,
flailing in the in-between forevermore.
Upon the promenade, the path is twisted and turned,
each footfall is set to an unknowable rhythm.
Before thee runs the righteous coil
or is it a brilliant path of glory?
I see no solution to my turmoil
I travel this labyrinth alone...
It is spiraling down deep like a nautilus coil.
A dangerous and dark mystery
for each footfall has found
a different path upon a different world.
Traveling the unlit promenade
a path to purgatory
that twists turns and spiraling
along the way, I find no sanctuary.
Each footfall set to an unknown rhythm...
The lights are diminishing and flickering into death!
Time has moved along this promenade,
The stone crumbling to dust
The labyrinth is vast as it is winding.
I feel it unreel before me...
Upon the promenade,
the path is twisted, turned,
always dark along the promenade
a path to purgatory...